Dogwood Days

(You should know I struggled to push publish on this. They come here for sass, not sentimentality I told myself. I said the story wasn't good enough, wasn't big enough, wasn't worthy enough. It was trivial and childlike and meaningless, I argued. So here's me, pushing publish anyways.)

We're gettin' sentimental up in this joint today. 

It's springtime. It's sunny. The trees are in full bloom. And here's what I'm thinking of. 

The dogwood trees of Hillsdale College.

When I see a dogwood, I think of you. And you. I think of a spring haze leading to a summer daze. I think of finding you, of losing you, of first meeting you. I think of the early days when everything was happy and bright and our story was just beginning. I think of how those dogwoods looked like relief. Sweet, sweet relief. They looked like a hurdle overcome, a past left behind, a future open before me. I think of sending you away in front of those dogwood trees to war, to deserts, to people who wanted to hurt you. I think of being renewed. I think of the college that shaped us, the times that tried us and the love that relieved us. They've always been kind to me, the dogwood days.

**

The scent of the dogwood trees was a drug to their senses, guiding them, goading them. In the bright clean heat of a springtime afternoon, when the world was tinted pink and lovely underneath the loaded branches of the dogwood trees, they had made such a tiny bet. One buckeye bite per every flower. She, a part-time feminist who stood unnecessarily tall in her desire to never reduce herself to a baking, cooking, husband-hunting girl. He, an overly large, bulging, heavy football player who preferred the little moments to grand gestures. She wanted a grand gesture. 

But somewhere in the middle of finals, summer plans, interviews, offers, acceptances, graduation goodbyes and sentimental sisterhood moments she snapped. She didn't want flowers because they were part of a bet. She wanted flowers because he wanted to give them to her, not because she had made him something. She told him as much on the phone in a 30-second tirade  to which he promptly responded "take a nap and call me back in an hour." 

But she didn't take a nap. Her Catholic guilt washed over her in an instant, and she huffed and puffed her way into the kitchen. She dropped the four ingredients--powdered sugar, peanut butter, butter and chocolate chips--onto the counter with a loud bang and got to work. She would be the bigger person here. She would make them because she cared, not because anything was coming from it. 

That night was harder than she imagined. They said a terse and strained goodbye for the summer. Neither one of them wanted to budge, neither one give the first inch. She pulled back from his arms and propped herself up on his chest. 

"New bet," she said.

"What?" He didn't know where this was going.

"In the next 5 minutes, I bet I can surprise you more than you can surprise me."

"What?"

"I'm going to surprise you."

"I don't believe you."

"Wait here."

She scrambled off the bed, down the stairs and into her car. Back at the house, she threw the buckeyes into any container she could find, and drove back there in a flash. He was half asleep when she popped his door open and she sat down softly on the edge of the bed. 

"Close your eyes."

"They are closed, I'm sleeping."

She punched him. Softly, of course. "Close them. Open your mouth."

He obediently did as he was told. She popped a buckeye into his mouth, and watched as his face lit up. He grabbed her in a bear hug and threw her on the bed, showering her in kisses and compliments. 

"I thought the bet was off?" He grinned mischievously. 

"It was. I just did it because I care." He smiled in response, and rolled her back on top of him. 

After a few more minutes, it was time for the next goodbye. The real goodbye, this time. She gathered her things, and was surprised when he got up too. He grabbed his car keys. "You don't have to, I drove here." 

"Well I can at least walk you to your car."

"It's fine. You have an exam at 8 am, get in bed."

"No, I'm going to walk you to your car."

She would have been happy with just that. They walked in silence, hand in hand, down the stairs, their arms pulling apart as she veered right to her parked car. He let their arms extend fully before pulling her back into his side, wrapping his arm around her waist. "I told you, I drove here! What are you doing?" He pulled her along with him towards his car."What--"

"Shhh."

"I--"

He clicked his key fob twice, and the back gate of his car lifted up, triggering the overhead light to shine down. 

Dogwoods.

Everywhere.

Back seat laid down, dogwoods stretching as far as the eye could see. Bathed in the overhead light, the beautiful pink petals shown brighter than any star in the sky. Branches and branches of dogwoods. There must of been hundreds of flowers on those branches, and they were beautiful and bright and light and sweet smelling and simple and grand and perfect and all hers. It was a carpet of dogwood flowers and it was for her.

"I thought the bet was over," she whispered.

He nuzzled the top of her head. "I think I won."

Somwhere between that setting sun
I'm on fire and born to run
You looked at me and I was done
Well, we're just getting started

Bandwagon Weekend Recap #392843

"On Mondays we talk about our weekends" whisper all the bloggers over their keyboards this morning. So lets get to it!

WHAT I ATE 

Fish sticks and mac and cheese. Literally. All weekend. Went through a whole box of fish sticks. I just couldn't stop. It was like greasy bar food...in the comfort of my own home. 

WHAT I DID 

Absolutely nothing. It was so good. After these busy past three weekends (getting stuck in airports, catching taxis and trains and my weekend-long booze fest at the gay bar), I needed some down time. I turned off my phone. I put it in a place I couldn't see it. And then I just had me time (read: consumed fish sticks by the dozens). 

I had a Netflix binge on a new show that did not disappoint:

Anyone else watch it? Anyone else find the president like a creepy version of Christian Grey? So many one-word orders. Also, I don't like the pathetic doe eyes Olivia gets every time he talks to her. She's a powerhouse...until a married man talks to her and then she's like "womp womp can't breathe can't talk must do what you say." I'm not sure that there relationship was ever shown enough for me to buy into the way she just completely lays down for him whenever he comes around buuuuuuuut...I'm still going to finish it =)

I celebrated my sorority's Founders' Day with brunch at a club that "does not permit the use of name tags." Okaaaaay. Ohhhh St. Louis. You constantly surprise me with your hidden love of pompous richness, and this club showed that to a tee. Besides the chandeliers and antler-decor, I loved all the old women. It's so inspiring and encouraging to see these women who show up event after event, and have truly found comfort and friendship in this alumnae club. We had a panel of women, one woman for each decade going all the way back to the 40s, talk about what Pi Phi was like in their day. It was beautiful. 

I went to the gym TWICE. Hollaaaaah. Nothing like a good Sunday afternoon when NO ONE is there to test out all the weight machines and look like a fool pump iron.

WHAT I READ

The main part of "me time"? Reading. I forget how much I love to read until I get into a book and the familiar feeling of not wanting to take over until you finish takes over. I finished two books this weekend:

Absolutely perfect beach/summer read.  

The book I am literally texting all of my friends and family about. If you follow me on Twitter, sorry I'm not sorry for the excessive shout outs about this book. I want everyone to at least have the option to know it's name and read it. 

Before foster homes, before child services, there were orphan trains. From 1850-1929, over 200,000 American orphans were put on orphan trains and paraded through the Midwest. They would make stops at stations along the way, giving the children away to whatever family showed up. Sometimes it ended well, sometimes it ended horribly. Often, it was less of 'we want a child' and more of 'we want an indentured servant.' I had never heard of this part of American history before, and now I'm hooked. I want to read more memoirs and accounts from people who were on these trains. Did you know there are whole reunions and support groups for these people?!?! There are about 100 original "riders" still living today.

This novel has two plot lines that intersect: the story of a girl on the orphan train, and the modern day story of a girl in the foster system. While telling their individual stories, it also brings the two women together so they can learn from each other. 

Phew, longest recap. Off I go! Must make it through the work day so I can get to my HOT DOGS later =)

Chinese with a 6 year old

Since the last video of the love of my life brought so much joy, I decided to do another one.

This video was taken shortly after she asked me if the Chinese waiters stayed here for the night or went home to China.

Like I said, love of my life =) She did in fact succeed and I have five subsequent videos showing all the things she discovered she could eat with chopsticks. I'm off to celebrate my sorority's founding with (hopefully) cute old ladies, new friends and mimosas! Hopefully my niece's giggles have made your Saturday morning start off on the right foot.

XOXO.

Really? Really.

Things that normal give people a rush of endorphins but for some reason just make me angry: Working out and Fridays. That's right. I said it. I don't know why, but for some reason on Friday I am just irrationally annoyed by EVERYTHING. I know. I'm a hater. And since I am filled with angst and annoyances, I'm going to blog about them. Because I can. Here are some people I am not so silently judging today, and to all of you I say:

People who sit on checks and don't immediately cash them. You have money in your hand!!! Why not get those dollas?!?!? Also, I dislike the fact that they give me a false sense of security in my bank account. I don't actually have that amount, you're just SITTING ON IT. Also, if you are going to send me passive-aggressive emails about how you 'don't have that check yet', but when I write it you proceed to sit on it for OVER  A WEEK...I DOUBLE JUDGE YOU. Why were you so eager to get it, if you're not going to CASH IT????????

People who wear unnecessarily tight button-up cardigans with hoods (what) and cowboy boots. I'm sorry, but if you want to strut around and feel manly and Southern with your cowboy boots...then don't wear a cardigan a 12-year-old girl would.

People who are overly nice to everyone. All the time. No matter how much they actually hate them.

People who use sugary-sweet nicknames in a work environment. 

She's referring to me. I flipped out.

Bloggers who write a whole post declaring they "don't care about the drama." If you take the time to write a whole post declaring how much you don't care, you care. And that's fine. We don't care if you care. We care if you pretend to not care. Be real.

BUT

There was a silver-lining on this dim morning. A GROUPON for BASEBALL. I've never been to a baseball game, but since it's STL's city-wide obsession I have to go. A few of my girlfriends and I are going on Monday night. You know what makes baseball games so perfect (in my mind)? 

Hot dogs.

Single dads.

I'm dreaming of a plethora of single dads, just looking for an attractive, child-loving woman who doesn't shy away from a hot dog. That's right, single dads, I'm here for you. And if you're not there for me...well, there's always the baseball players to fall back on. 

HAPPY FRIDAY. 

Link up your twitter accounts this week to share some blogger love!

Where it all began

40 year old men love me. And strangers. Strangers love me.

Examples:

• 40 year old single dad who followed me around in the grocery store
• 40 year old man who came up to me at Starbucks and asked if I wanted to get coffee
• Homeless man who offered me his phone number because he "thought everyone could use a friend"
• Stranger who let me eat their hamburger
• Stranger who offered me a ride home from the Megabus
• 40 year old man in airport who told me I looked beautiful that day
• Three 40 year old men who came to my rescue that moment and helped me find a cab
• 40 year old man at Chicago Union Station bar who told me he "wouldn't creep on me too much"
• Stranger who tried to hook me up with his son at a bar
• Strange taxi cab driver who gave me a kiss on the cheek

And the list goes on and on. While I can't seem to find any men my own age to hit on me, never fear...a 40 year old is near. Sometimes I ask myself, why? Why me? Is it my baby pudge cheeks? My lack of makeup? My split ends? Do I look young enough to be a prize, but just hot mess enough to be attainable? When did this start?

Answer: 2006. Junior year of HIGH SCHOOL. And the proof is in this photo. 

My friends and I went to France on a school trip, and my friend Cade and I shared a camera. Flipping through our photos a few weeks later, we found this gem (ignore my model half-smile). 

WHO IS THIS MAN?!?!?!

I'll tell you who...my first-ever creeper.

The Unreal Life: attracting strangers and old men since 2006. A legacy of creepers. 

That Time I Went to the Gospel Church

I like adventures. Do I like big adventures? Yes. Am I a broke postgrad? Yes. That means that even when I can't have big adventures, I try to make little adventures. Adventures out of exploring new things, new places and new people. Anything can be an adventure, if you put your mind to it.

Once upon a time, I lived in a magical place. Called Grand Rapids, MI. I'm obsessed. I have zero shame about admitting this. Once a week, I would go to my favorite bakery (conveniently located on the edge of the ghetto, so as a teen it was really win-win for my parents and I. I felt rebellious by going to the location, while my parents were satisfied by the fact that their daughter thought going to a bakery was rebellious). Every time, I drove past the same church and saw the same sign "PRAYER TIME. TUESDAYS. 10 AM." So finally, one day, I was like, why not?

Keep in mind, I'm Catholic. My idea of prayer time is that we would enter the sanctuary quietly, kneel, pray as long as needed and then leave. I thought it would just be an excuse to go see the inside of another of Grand Rapids' beautiful, over-looked churches. Boy was I surprised.

It was everything you would imagine an African-American Baptist church prayer circle to be. They raised their hands. Interjected whenever their heart moved them to. And they called me "Sister H***." They were some of the nicest, genuine people I've ever met. And their sincere prayers opened my eyes to the types of things going on in Grand Rapids that I had no idea about.

It made me want to learn more. To dig deeper, and go deeper. I've always had a struggle with that. I want to go to the ghetto, I want to go to the poor, I want to go in the middle of it all. I want to observe and watch and see what their life is like. See how their kids grow up. See success stories. See failures. And in that way, be moved to action. But...then reality hits. I am a SWF. In reality, I shouldn't do any of those things because it is literally not safe. I need to find the balance...

Tips? Thoughts, comments, suggestions? How do you live the big life you always dreamed of as a teenager, once you enter the reality of a post-grad?

I was a weird kid

Hiiii Friends! I'm back! I missed you while I was off chasing cancelled planes and trains, gawking at the flooding and otherwise gallivanting through Michigan, my great love. I know on Mondays we talk about our weekend, but I'm not quite ready to. This weekend embodied the proverbial phrase, "a lot to chew on." I was hoping the weekend would give me a sense of clarity, a "yes, you belong here, proceed with Plan A" feeling, but somewhere between three missed planes, a train, and two cab rides to the middle of nowhere...I think I lost any ability I would have had to hear that message in my exhaustion and impatience.

So. New topic for today. I was a weird kid.

1. I ate butter. By the spoonful. 

2. I was obsessed with all miniature food. My father, loving, loving man that he was would make miniature pancakes. I was also obsessed with miniature toys. My friends and I spent hours and hours and hours of our life trying to craft miniature beds and clothes and accessories for our miniature stuffed animals.

3. Whenever the phone rang, I would drop whatever I was holding and scream "AH BYE YI YI" until someone picked it up.

4. I don't count like a normal human. Originally, I think I developed my countdown system so that it would make every exciting event seem like it was closer. But then...no one ever corrected me. Here's the "Autumn System" as my family still calls it today. In my countdown system, you can't count the day of and you can't count the day before. Because by the time you're at the day before, your event is practically already there. Plus, logically, if you count by "days" then at the day before, at no point are you 24 hours away from your event--it will always be less than 24 hours away and therefor you can't say you have a day left.

Example.

 If today is Monday, how many days until Friday? 2. That's right. Two. Because you can't count Friday and you can't count Thursday. 

Want an instant way to increase your optimism and joy? Employ the Autumn Method, where there are only two days to Friday.

5. I was every parent's nightmare. I got suspended once in kindergarten for making out with a cute little black boy in the sand box. I remember being incredibly turned off, however, when a few days later we planned a 'play date' and he wrote his address on a PURPLE piece of construction paper with PENCIL. Can you read PENCIL on PURPLE? No. I remember literally thinking "he is so STUPID" and never talking to him again.

6. I was a "pint of sass"...and I never grew out of it. That's right. To this day, I continue to be the sassiest person my family has ever had the misfortune of being related to met.My figure skating coach coined the phrase when I was a mere seven years old. Really, it's his fault. I hated it when he first said it, and the more he said it, the more determined I was to be as sassy as possible just to piss him off. Catch-22?

7. I was a klepto. When I was five, we moved from Detroit to Grand Rapids. I was pretty sad about it, but the part that made me saddest was moving away from my neighbor friend who had the world's cutest shirt that I was obsessed with borrowing. It had pink and black stripes and three pink heart buttons at the neck. I borrowed it at least once a week. I remember, very intentionally, the day before we moved asking to borrow it. She said, "aren't you moving?" and I said "Oh, not for like another week or two." Twelve hours later, the bitterness of moving was soothed by the sweet success of having my favorite shirt safely packed away.

I'll look for a better baby picture when I get home, but for now...enjoy this awful, awkward high school photo of myself. Why I thought this was a hawt pose, I'll never know. And yes, I used to dye my hair red.

The Day No One Travelled

Plane cancelled. Plane delayed. Plane cancelled. Train booked. Train delayed. When life gives you lemons, make lemonade. With vodka.

Hey, Chiiiicago.

Anyone want to go on a blate? I'm hurr.

Modern Love and the Death of the Joint Bank Account

Joint bank accounts have gone the way of the wind...or at least, they have in Missouri (or have they just not made it here yet...? Sorry, lame Missouri-is-Misery joke). The common trend here is that couples do not have a joint bank account. A 2005 study by Radon Financial Group, reported in the Wall Street Journal, found that 48% of married couples have separate accounts. So I have a hard time believing this is just a Missouri practice. 

Case Study A: I was at lunch with some of my female coworkers, and the topic of budgets, boyfriends, and bills came up. Coworker A mentioned that her boyfriend 'generously' paid the rent, and they split the utilities. Did I mention that they've been living together for 7 years? 7 years and you still split utilities? Coworker B agreed that her and her HUSBAND did the same thing, and thus began a long discussion of the intimate details of their financial arrangements. Essentially, the majority of the table (and the people they knew) all had separate bank accounts from their spouses (or long term boyfriends, I'm talkin...civil marriage long term...) and that they all split the bills. When the one person at the table fessed up to the fact that her and her husband did have a joint bank account, it was met with rapid silence and a chorus of "oh. how does that work"'s. She blushed. 

Case Study B: Another female coworker of mine keeps her paycheck as her "fun money." Now I've heard of this before, women working part-time jobs just to get out of the house and have some extra fun money. That's normal. Until she starts complaining about how she has to use her paycheck for her speeding ticket, which may be over the amount of her paycheck (umm, slow down) and she (direct quote) "doesn't want to have to ask [her husband] for extra money." I'm sorry...what? And then she goes "I don't want to have to take money from him. Plus, he has to pay for his dental surgery this week." Hold the phone (the rotary phone, in Missouri's case...wink wink). Isn't it your money too? I mean you are...married. For twenty years. And your husband has to pay his own dental bills? Do you pay your own dental bills? What if your car breaks, do you pay that too? What do you guys pay for together? How much time and anxiety do you add to your life by having this separate system that requires you talk over who will be paying for what before every decision? Do you split dinners, groceries, and vacation prices? What if you pick up a razor for him on the way home, or a pack of socks? Do you turn in a reimbursement slip? You've been married 20 years! What happened to "what's mine is yours to have and hold" and "two becoming one." Is it now in sickness and health, but not in my wallet? 

Plus, how do these separate bank accounts work once they have children? Does one cover the medical, and the other the clothes? 

If my fiance asked me to have separate bank accounts, my first question would be "And just where do you plan on going?" and then I would promptly hand the ring back. Marriage should be entered into with the idea that it is forever (obviously, shit happens, I get it, and plans might change). But you shouldn't go into a lifelong commitment with an escape plan on the ready. Plus, once even the idea of separation comes up, think how much easier separate accounts would make it. Done. 

Besides my obvious issue with this in regards to how very un-marriage-y it is, I also have a problem with the way it pertains to female empowerment. These women talked about separate bank accounts as their source of empowerment  equality, and independence. Having control of their own money made them feel empowered, they cited it as a huge step forward for women. I cite that as a huge step backward. For explanation, let's just go back to Case Study B. She had to ask her husband for help to pay her ticket. And right there women, we are right back to where we started. Right back to sitting below them and asking for their assistance and benevolence. They can say yes, or no...and we are dependent on their answer. They grant us permission. Isn't escaping that what feminism was all about? You shouldn't have to ask your husband for extra money to pay your parking ticket or your dentist bill or your groceries. Your husband should trust you to use the money in a responsible, mature way for what you need. You shouldn't need his permission. And, shouldn't your husband be putting you above his money? Shouldn't he love you enough that money is not an issue and that if you need it, it's yours to have? 

So no, ladies, separate bank accounts are not empowerment. In my opinion, they are the exact opposite. Your husband should be your number one partner. You greatest support emotionally, physically, mentally, and financially. 

And of course...I want to hear your opinions. Is this a common practice outside of Missouri? Do you think it's a good idea? Am I just crazy?

That time I told my niece Mary was an attention-whore

I didn't hear the tornado sirens, but I did see the pack of five moms running in unison and that's kind of the same thing, right? That's right. I survived my first Missourah tornado.

Consequentially (not really, the storm has nothing to do with it) I am having immense writer's block. I read a blog today that really struck a chord with me when the writer said that blogging forces her to be more present in the moment and drag things out. Because really, our life is funny and it is adventurous, but so often we're waiting for "the next big thing" that we miss it. So, while I'm here, I want to remember being here. And a huge part of my life here in good ol' Missourah has been the kids I get to work with in the nursery. I recently realized that perhaps my sass has gone a little too far, especially when it comes to children. I imagine their not listening...but they could be...So for now, until my writer's block heals, enjoy the following sample of my sassy-child interactions.

12-year-old: hey! hey! hey! 

me: WHAT

12-year-old: i got a lunchbox (he has been repeating this for about 30 minutes, 

and I finally catch on)

me: yeah? did you get the velcro too? 

*12-year-old's mouth drops open in utter horror*: how do YOU know that song???

*church choir singing*

6-year-old girl: this music SUCKS

me: HEY. That is the music of the LORD. 

Israel (the special needs boy I watch, who has absolutely no sensory perception) has developed a new habit of whenever he's in a crowd, just putting his arm straight out (Hitler style, no joke) and pushing through into anyone in his way until they move. So of course, he does this to a 60 year old woman, and of course, his hand comes to the height of her butt. Which he proceeds to push on. For a few too many seconds. 

Me: Israel! If you're gonna touch her butt, you could at least say hello!

Creepy 70 year old man behind me: Heh heh, he's just starting early. 

And now...the grand finale. Throwback Thursday...to Christmas...me...and the love of my life...re-enacting the Christmas nativity story. Please enjoy the key parts where I teach her that:

 +Mary was "big and fat and pregnant and this made her very tired"  

+Jesus's "first friends were other animals in the manger, who he sometimes slept with but surprisingly never crushed him" 

+Mary loved all the attention she got when the three kings came bearing gifts

And yes, she does jump in shock when I sneeze at the end. Seriously. Best 5 minutes you'll ever spend.
(Also, sorry I'm not sorry I'm not a professional videographer and at one point my fat fingers cover the mic for like...a minute. But just turn your sound up, it's still gold!)

Like I said...I should watch what I say more...

Day made? You're welcome.

There's a Job for That?

Remember when you were a little kid and you would hear a really cool job title or description and just be in awe. I can do that? I can get paid to do that??? However, some jobs...I'm still not certain why/how they exist. Some jobs just make me laugh. And I don't understand them.

Example A: that awkward podium man on Jimmy Fallon
You know, that guy who just stands/leans on the podium and occasionally laughs into the microphone or repeats a word that Jimmy has said, and then Jimmy turns to him and stares and half-laughs as if podium-man's repeated word just made the joke 80 times more awkward funnier. WHO IS THIS MAN?!?!?! AND WHAT IS HIS PURPOSE???

Extensive Internet research reveals he is Steve Higgins, "Announcer." Really? His bio is pretty impressive. Former writer for SNL and The John Stewart Show. And now he leans against a podium.

Example B: the person who films intro/mood scenes
Ok, this one is hard to name. I'm talking about at the beginning of a reality television show (think Kardashians), where they just show a random conglomeration of people laying on the beach, walking in the street, or drinking a soda on a corner. Or on Oprah's Master Class we're their filming rain while having an emotional voice over from someone talking about their life lessons. I imagine their biggest concern being whether the story calls for pounding rain, torrential rain, spring rain, thunderstorm rain, or just a light drizzle. Will it be hitting a window, or a puddle? Will a random foot walk through it? If so, who is the random foot??? Also, for every one person who picks the type of rain to show there is also one "rain expert" if you will -- their boss who approves it and says "yes, that is the right rain!" Do you think they get really embarrassed if their boss is like "mmm I think this calls for rain on an umbrella, but good try."

Example C: Reality TV Reinactor-Actors
I'm talking about the people who fill in for "I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant." Talk about an awkward casting call. "We'd like you to be eating pizza and then suddenly give birth."

What jobs do you find insanely weird? 

Choices Were Made

...that included: gorging myself on every single thing from Hillsdale that I missed the most. Conversation. Chocolate Chips in boxes. Sorority house couches. Hugs. BBQ. Dancing. Drinking. Dancing. Repeat.

Highlights:
+umm...re-read the list from above.
+getting two emails about a missing dog from our college president in my inbox
+reading blogs that specialize in un-artistic artistic photographs and one word descriptors

Lowlights:
+taxi drivers who ask ME how to get somewhere
+taxi drivers who give me grandpa(hopefully)-style cheek kisses when I'm trying to get out

Lessons learned:

+Strangers love me. Still.

+I love the midwest. Still.

+Shots will catch up with you, so don't catch up to them. 

+I really don't envy what these girls will face in 5 weeks when they suddenly move away from home.

+Real life has a shortage of hugs, naps and chocolate chips.

+Nothing makes awkward prom more awkward than taking two alumnae.

+People are nicer to you when you wear coral.

And now I'm exhausted. So that's really all I can manage for today. In the past 48 hours, I have been on every major form of transportation possible except boat (read: planes, trains, automobiles and les pieds!). Peace out, kiddos!


Linkin' up with Lisette and Sami!

First Impressions are Golden

It's no secret here that I like to endlessly mock my ex-boyfriends. But, I'm also good at poking fun at myself. It's important to have balance. So, today, I'd like to share Monogamous Mono Man's first impressions of me. First-meeting and first-impression stories are my favorite topics to ask of anyone. So, without further ado...

First Impression #1
MMM and I first met before we were even officially enrolled in the same college. We were both invited to compete in a 'Distinct Scholars' Scholarship Weekend' (Spoiler alert: when not perusing the Internet for the perfect GIF I am actually quite smart. MMM and I bonded over three things: vodka and nerdiness. Shoot. We don't have a third thing. Womp womp.). So anyways, here we are. Me, a terrified, anxious ball of nerves who couldn't remember the essay prompt and was scared shitless from an interview panel with six professors who asked me what I would say to an Arabian man who thought stoning his wife was morally acceptable. And MMM, a quiet, nervous white boy from an all-boys Lutheran school. We had to take a group picture, but the group was too wide for one shot. So naturally, all the girls had to sorority squat (foreshadowing of our bright future) in front of the boys. I was in front of MMM and accidentally hit with my boot-ay. Feeling quite sassy I turned around and said "I better not feel anything hard back there." Winner, winner chicken dinner. He confessed later that it was the dirtiest thing anyone ever said to him and the first thing he told all his friends about when he got home.

His reaction:

My reaction:

First Impression #2
MMM and I lost each other in the great sea of people that is a 1,000 person school and didn't run into each other until 3 years later, when we were juniors. We had traveled far from our nerd-days and entered into our frat-tastic days of drinking and partying. We all have that 'one spot' we went to in college, and mine was the Sigma Chi house. In Sigmachi, there were two bathrooms for parties: the first floor, dirty, sticky, smelly gross one or the basement, single one that was kept clean by a devoted group of three who kept it spotless for their shack-attacks (that's another word for sleepover partners, kids). Anyways. First impression #2: I kicked in (literally) the door to the nice bathroom downstairs and demanded MMM (halfway done peeing) get out because I had to go. He was very obliging.

His reaction:

My response:

The Final Rose First Impression #3
After yet another year, we found each other again. This time, relatively sober and fully clothed. I was at a 'Zookeeper and the Animals' party, fighting adamantly with one of his brothers over whether the feathers in my hair made me a turkey or a jungle bird. I voted jungle bird. MMM tried to come up the staircase and I blocked his way until he would vote. And that, friends, was our last first impression.

His reaction:

My reaction:

His mom's first impression
I made a holocaust joke. Which she didn't get. Womp womp. And hey--no judgies! My last French class was reading holocaust literature, in french, for four months straight. Dying babies and children and women and starvation and burning EVERY DAY. It was AWFUL. And sometimes tasteless things happen in the privacy of my sorority basement. Also, pre-gaming holocaust literature class does not make it any better. FYI. Take it from an expert.

___

God bless his little heart for making it through all those wildly awkward first encounters. Happy Friday, y'all. I'm off to make some bad choices and hopefully some more golden first impressions that I can blog about come Monday =)

Oh, and in honor of Back that Azz Up Friday (which has really boosted my day), I give you:

What crazy first encounters have you had?

Good Try

Good try, Missouri, for being almost classy till the end...

Good try, Taylor Swift, on trying to reach a new age demographic with your song "22" only to remind us you have the mental capacity of a 15 year old with the lyric line "you look like bad news i gotta have you oo ooo." Oh Tay Tay, stop being so predictable.

Good try, Facebook, on trying to influence Supreme Court decisions through your profile picture trends.

Good try, Wednesday, on trying to dampen my spirits. But I got a hot date and a cool drink waiting for me at the end of the week, and I'm feeling fine. 

Happy Wednesassyday, lovelies. What do you want to give a 'good try!' shout out to?

Catching Up: Brunches, Weekends, Tricks and More

Oh heyyy. Wanted to share a little love and a little update of what's been going on. I know...weekend updates take place on Mondays, not Tuesdays, so..eh, I'll do it when I get to it.

Last weekend was a grand ol' time. I volunteered for my alum club's Fraternity Day of Service. Our fraternity's philanthropic focus (or "thrust" as the 80-year-old woman volunteering with me kept saying) is literacy. This year, we set up in a local Barnes and Noble and handed out stickers, bookmarks, Dr. Seuss hats and activity and coloring sheets to kids in their children's section. I forgot how much I love their kids' section. The other volunteers and I spent a solid four hours reminiscing about our favorite kid's books, coloring with kids and scoping out single dads (well, that might have just been me).

Sunday, my boss invited me and my fellow orphan-coworkers to Easter dinner at his apartment. I promptly freaked out and threw the contents of my closet on the floor. I told my roommate "Two gay men are throwing a brunch. I am not fashionable enough for this." True life. If I spent half as much time getting ready for work/daily shtuff as I did getting ready to go to dinner with two gay men, I might have a boyfriend. #whitegirlproblemzzz for dayzzz.

But the weekend didn't end there. No, no it did not. The glorious April Fool's Day kept the party going in full force on Monday. Here is a little summary of my awesome shennanigans:

-Joined forces with Miguel's, the bachelor who sometimes cooks, little brother who I affectionately call "Jail Bate." Convinced Miguel I sent Jail Bate a box of condoms signed with a note from Michael that they should probably have the sex talk soon.

-Told my Dad that I had gone up to my apartment and someone was waiting for me (WRONG choice of words. He had a heart attack and thought I got robbed/attacked). Continued poor prank by telling him RRR, of Bass Pro Shop and speed dating fame, got back together and were planning on moving in together. Father told me I was a little shit, but that he still loved me.

-But the trick to top all tricks was the brainchild of me and my lovely roommate, Alex. Alex and I decided to tell our boss that she was moving to New Mexico to be with her boyfriend, and that since I couldn't afford to live here on my own I would have to quit . She went on and on about how she would like to remote in and needed to be there to support her man during his residency. Much to our surprise, he simply pulled out this notepad and was like "Ok. Uh huh. And what's your timeline?"

We had more elaborate things planned, but he took it so seriously that we were completely thrown off. Like, really? We can just walk in and say we want to move and remote in and all you do is ask us what our timeline is? Can I remote in too?

We were thrown, to say the least.

What did you do for April Fool's? Any tricks and giggles?