beer makes you smarter

...and here's proof.

This past weekend we had a family BBQ. Brothers, sister-in-laws, niece and nephew, parents. Lots o' food, lots o' booze, lots o' things to explode when the sun went to bed; basically it was a typical get-together. Something happened with my step-sister (idiot) and my mom (wonderful) so she (idiot) and step-brother (okay) left with his wife (super-duper idiot) before the night really got going. (I was fine with this. When idiot and super-duper idiot aren't there, the night it usually more enjoyable.) Anyway. So we (brothers, sister-in-law (cool) and niece (teenager) and nephew (looks like Mac from the cartoon "Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends") along with myself are shooting off water balloons, water rockets, and all things that go- Boom! and are followed by-"Pretty."

The water rocket lodged itself in a tree (as it does every year.) So we did what any family would do (who has been drinking) we proceed to throw things at the rocket (in the tree) to try and dislodge it. (What could go wrong?) We start by throwing water balloons. When I say "throwing" I mean we are professional water balloon launchers so we are using a water balloon launching slingshot (of course) to aid in our aim and projectile force at the rocket (we.are.geniuses.) This goes on for several hours. (No, really. Several hours) all the while the cars going down the street are slowing down to see why two teenagers (niece and her friend) one child (Mac) and four adults (two brothers,(one older, one younger) sister-in-law, (the cool one) and myself) (awesomeness) are staring up at a tree and throwing things at it. So to aid in our amusement- whoever isn't throwing an object at the top of the (extremely tall tree)(because we all took turns to aid in the hilarity) (I throw like a girl) stands and stares straight-up and points (ala it's a bird, it's a plane, it's Superman) this slows the motorists even more, they point, and we laugh hysterically at our wit and charm.

So, we spend about three hours amusing ourselves (we're simple folk. And just in case it hasn't been assumed by now, we had beer in our hands and we had been drinking for awhile.) I felt my IQ drop significantly throughout the day and I was taking bets on how long it would take before the football became lodged in the tree along with the rocket. (About an hour.)

Crap! Now what can we throw?

Why, a plastic bucket of course! The one that had all of the (now gone) water balloons in it. (Your IQ may be low if...) Yep. That lasted until the handle wouldn't stay on the bucket any longer and we now had an audience of neighbor kids sitting in their yards staring at the adults (they, and we, we're amused by this.) Once the bucket broke we were about to end the night when I suggested we break out the potato gun. (It's just what it sounds like. Tubing that launches potatoes.) It was pointed out that the potato would cause a hole in the rocket. (Excellent observation.) Cow pies? (No cows. No pies.) Hmmm. I notice the neighbor has landscaping rocks in her yard. I also noticed that the neighbors front blinds are now open, when three hours ago they were closed. (Foiled!) I know! I'll see if mom has any vegetables I can throw.

She does!
I gather a sack of onions, potatoes, and limes (oh my!) and we proceed to throw these at the rocket. We had a few cars stop. We even had a few that did a U-turn to see what we were up to. We did not have any cars that offered to help us. (Shocking!) When night fell and we still hadn't managed to dislodge the rocket (or the football) (Stuck on the same branch, by the way) we called it a night. Well, then we decided to change our course and we started to blow things up. The night lasted well past two a.m. and there is a lot more to the story, however, it's about other IQ's that were lowered so that's for another day.

When I went over to my 'rents house on Sunday mom pointed out that the carnage of onions, potatoes, and limes (oh my!) that were left in the yard really didn't smell so good. (something about heat and humidity, I'm sure) but the rocket fell out of the tree.(all by itself!) The football has not. Eh, it just leaves us something to amuse ourselves with at the next family gathering.

Free boob job! Get your free boob job here!

Flipping through the local paper the other day I saw an add promoting the wonderfully educational program known as "Girls Gone Wild." A premise that is missed on me. Lots and lots of girls who are, I am assuming, wishful, and hopeful, that they are drunk thus they can't control their urge to flash their breaststeses at the camera and a guy has made gazillions from it, once again showing how wonderfully smart, and bright our young ladies are shown to be. Alrighty. Opps, soapbox moment.

Anyway, half of the ad was a huge promo stating that some lucky lady could win a free boob job! Now. "Free" and "Boob job" are two words (or three words. I guess it depends on how you take the word "job") that I think belong together. I'm also sure some lucky (or unlucky) lady will walk away with silicone disks in her chest (hopefully they will end up straight, pointy and perky) and she will call herself happy. (Or Bunny. Or Crystal Chandelier. Or Champagne Showers.)
But, this got me wondering what I would be willing to do to fix myself and then it go me to wonder what you all would do to fix yourselves.

Me, first.

The thought of sticking something unnatural, ala silicon, in my body isn't a pleasant thought. After watching several boob jobs being performed on health and science shows, Yawza! I don't really want my areola cut off and then stuffed like a Thanksgiving day turkey, but that's me. Doesn't mean I never would if the need so arises, just not my first choice. Maybe having the procedure through my belly button, but not stuffed like a bird.
Liposuction. Yeah. That looks painful. An instrument being jabbed and stabbed into my flesh. Hmm. I'll pass.
Basically I'm all for the non-evasive, non-pain filled procedures that won't cause me pain or any recovery time.

Here's my list:
Professional teeth whitening. I love those little stripes. I'm a big fan of my whitening toothpaste, all for the tarter control (which how much tarter does the mass public have on their teeth? I mean they are always improving the tarter control. Sheesh. Brush, people, brush.) but I would love to go and have it professionally done.

Lasik eye surgery. The thought of having a razor blade coming at my eyeball is a bit disconcerting. The fact that I would have to be awake during it makes me shake. The fact that I would be awake and thus would see the razor blade coming at my eyeball? That freaks me out. However, being able to see first thing in the morning is definitely something I didn't fully appreciate when it was possible to do so; you know, before Corporate America and the computer robbed me of that simple joy and pleasure. So if I have to endure a razor blade coming at my open eyeball so I can see when I stumble out of bed, then so be it.

Permanent hair removal. Everywhere but my head (the big one, not the little one) and my eyebrows. Why? I hate hair and I would like that five minutes back in the morning.

Yeah. That's pretty much it. I know, boring. But with my luck I would do something crazy and not look like myself or I would cause permanent damage to myself in some horrible and horrific way and be stuck with my vanity mistake forever. So, I'll stick with boring. How about you all?

inner dork: all things food-ish

Yah! Yippee! Yah-who! Gather round boys and girls, it's time for another interesting edition of useless information! (...and the crowd goes wild!)

Did you know...

Carbonated water, with nothing else in it, can disolsve limestone, talc, and many other hard minerals. Coincidentally, carbonated water is the main ingredient in soda pop.
(Or just pop.)
(Or just soda.)
(Are you a pop, or a soda person?)

Coca-cola was originally green.
(Yeah, and it also cured headaches and tiredness in a most peculiar way.)

Seven percent of Americans eat McDonald's everyday.
(Burp.)
(That's just icky.)

McDonald's in New Zealand serves apricot pies instead of cherry pies.
(What? No kiwi?)

Astronauts are not allowed to eat beans before they go into space because passing wind in a space suit damages it.
(Just take Bean-o and there will be no gas.)
(...and if a fart will damage a space suit I really have to question the integrity of the space suit.)

A full 7% of the entire Irish barley crop goes to the production of Guinness beer.
(And God bless.)

The liquid inside young coconuts can be used as a substitute for blood plasma in an emergency.
(I hear the vampires like the change in taste as well.)

Beer foam will go down if you lick your finger and then stick it in the beer.
(So will wiping sweat from your brow. I'm not saying this trick was used when I was first learning the waitressing biz, I'm just sayin' that's where I first heard about it.)

Nutmeg is extremely poisonous if injected intravenously.
(Other than a member of Motley Crue, who would do that?)
(Or know that?)

Chewing gum while peeling onions will keep you from crying.
(No it won't.)
(Neither will holding an unlit match in your mouth)
(A piece of bread in your mouth)
(Or anything else in your mouth.)
(If the onion is powerful, the tears will be plentiful.)
(Speaking of tears and onions: When I was in the restaurant biz I once chopped an onion that was so powerful I couldn't open my eyes for several minutes. The tears were just a streamin' down my face.)

Vikings used the skulls of their enemies as drinking vessels.
(Cheers to Erik!)
(And Lief!)
(And Thore!)
(And! I'm out of Viking names, so anyone Viking-ish, cheers to them!)

Until next week boys and girls!

the lobster song

It's an early inner dork.

No fear. There will be another one tomorrow. I know. You're all tingly with anticpation. Yes. That is what that tingle is.

The info is good and fun, but listen to the song. That's just pure, good, wholesome, uselessness info.

avoid the bisque

The power of words

Karl asked me to guest blog over at his place, so I did. (And I did feel special for being asked.) This is the post I wrote. I thought I would share.

We all know words have power. They invoke feelings, memories, images, thoughts. It can be everything from:

I love you. I like you. You disgust me. I hate you. A New York City taxi cab. Fenway Park. Hello. Ugh! I hate math! Strawberry Fields. Greece. Spaghetti sauce. Jelly Beans. Vagina. Penis. Fun parts. Condom.

Every single one of those can be connected to something and invoke a reaction from someone, somewhere. But what I have been finding more and more interesting is the power of words and how, we as a society are changing them and how we are making words more powerful or less powerful by the way we are changing them. I've thought about this for a long time and I've had numerous conversations with people about the topic, but when I really noticed a change within society was during the whole Imus hub-bub. (And no. This isn't going to be about him or what he said.) After he made his comment, and we know all to well what it was, society suddenly started referring to words such as "bitch" as "the b-word." Faggot became "the f-word." Slut became "the s-word." And of course the n-word has been around for sometime. But, by changing something and referring to a word by a letter and then adding "word" to it, are we making it more or less powerful? Are we adding to it or taking the power away from it? Most importantly, do we just look like idiots when we say it?

Words change and evolve over time. Fact of language. Faggot used to refer to fire kindling and later referred to the butt of a cigarette, it has evolved to mean homosexual. How a word goes from one to other, who knows. Slang, maybe? Bitch referred to a female dog, now it means an aggressive or bad-ass female, and it has a typically negative connotation. (Interesting.) I also can't help but wonder what other societies and countries must think of us, but that's a side note. Personally I have a very difficult time saying, nigger. Even during my African-American classes when it was appropriate to say during a discussion I had difficulty. Why? It's just one word. One simple word. What is the big deal? Well, society and my upbringing has taught me it is wrong and hurtful to use that word, therefore I don't. I don't say, bitch around those who I know would find it offensive and the same for the word, fuck. I don't call my gay friends, faggot. I refer to them as "my gays." But even gay has taken on a new meaning. Gay now refers to things that are queer. Queer now means: stupid, lame, dumb, idiotic. Remember when gay used to just mean, happy? And is the "f-word" now going to mean faggot and no longer mean, fuck? And is faggot going to be more offensive to say than the word fuck? Will "fuck" be all over TV and radio, but faggot will go back in the closet?

So, if I have a problem saying, "nigger" and I find saying "the n-word" to be ridiculous I guess I simply have to say, African-American, which perhaps is the point. But, to say "b-word," "s-word," and "f-word?" It just seems idiotic, stupid, and lame. In other words, it just seems queer.

always the safety girl

Last night I had an econ test.
A very icky econ test.
During the test it was apparent I needed a calculator.
Into my purse I go to fish out the digital-do-dad to help me complete my task.
Finding my calculator I pull it from my purse and place it on the table in front of me. I look down and discover that along with my digital do-hickey I also managed to pull out a condom. (Non-used.)
Yep.
Always the safety girl.
Because everything is about economics when you come right down to it.
Even safe sex.


This public service announcement brought to you by the Federal Reserve and Trojan latex condoms with lubrication.

inner dork: things that make you go, huh?

All things odd, fascinating, interesting, and that make you tilt your head to the side like my dog does when she is puzzled and cornfused.

Did you know...

Mosquito repellents do not repel. They hide you. (Na-na-na-na. You can't see me.) The spray blocks the mosquito's sensors so they do not know you are there.
(Bzz. Bzz. I can smell the blood, but I cannot see the blood. Bzz. I am so confused.)
(Side note: if you don't like spraying chemicals on you, such as OFF! attach a dryer sheet to a fan (using a clothespin and attaching the sheet to the outer plastic covering) and it naturally repels flys and all things which suck blood (or just suck) Honest. It totally works. Plus, no deadly chemicals on you. Ah. Nice.)

The holes in flyswatters are used to lower air resistance.
(...and that's why I prefer a rolled up newspaper.)

Scotch tape has been used as an anti-corrosive shield on the Goodyear Blimp.
(Wow. Don't know about you, but boy I feel safe knowing that. I mean Scotch tape holds all things that are strong and durable, like paper, so a flying object just makes sense.)

The side of a hammer is called a cheek.
(Which makes sense because it is next to the nose.)

The average woman consumes six pounds of lipstick in her lifetime.
(Burp. I wonder how much Lipsmacker the average women consumes?)
(And how much men consume)

Mixing Sani-Flush and Comet cleaners has been known to cause explosions.
(Raise your hand if you're thinking of testing this one out. C'mon. Limpy, Phollower I see the wheels a turnin'.)

People in China (So, Chinese people) sometimes use firecrackers around their homes as fire alarms.
(*Turns head to the side and says, "huh?"* Can someone explain that one to me?) Oooooooohhhhhhhhhhh. Duh. I was totally thinking burglar alarm. Duh. Okay. I got it. Fire would make it go Boom!) (Thanks) (Did I mention I just gradumated?) (And I'm off to grad school?) (Wish me luck.)

Some Eskimos have been known to use refrigerators to keep their food from freezing.
(Okay. Who is picturing a Frigidaire in a ice hut? Uh, who?)

A typical double mattress contains as many as two million house dust mites.
(So how many are in a non-typical mattress?)
(Oh. And ew.)

where all my brain cells went

The other day (actually about 9 months ago, but that's not the point of the story and I am feeling all comedian-like) I was listening to the radio and the DJ was talking about the Ramones and seeing them in concert. At the mention of "Ramones" and "concert" my mind wandered off, as it tends to do, and I got to thinking about how cool it would have been to see them in concert. (For those of you who don't know, a few of the Ramones are d-e-a-d. Some of you may argue that they were d-e-a-d to begin with, but keep it to yourself.) Okay. So, I was thinking, "Man. That would have been an awesome concert. Oh well." (I didn't say it was a deep thought I had. It was on the way to work, so it was a early, pre-morning-coffee thought.) Then the DJ mentioned Rage Against the Machine. Again, my mind wanders to, "Wow. Cool. Wish I would-have..." and it goes from there. Then the DJ mentioned Lollapalooza. Then he mentions 1996. Then my mind wanders back to 1996, (Not hard since in my head, for what ever reason, I believe it to be perpetually 1996.) and I realized I was there. Naw. Couldn't have been. Surely I would remember seeing The Ramones and Rage. Naw. That thought process continued for a few minutes. It continued until I remember what 1996 was like for me. It continues until I realize who I was dating and what 1996 was and what all of the Lollapalooza concerts were like for me.

Lollapalooza 1996 consisted of: My boyfriend who is now affectionately known as, Dip Shit, and he sold pot. Lots of pot. Lots and lots and lots of pot. Bricks. Bricks of pot. Pounds. Lots 'o pot. So I was stoned a lot. A LOT. If I wasn't at work or needing to do something productive there was a bowl in my hand and it wasn't of cereal. Well, maybe later in the day it contained cereal. Or brownie batter. Or ice cream. Or spaghetti sauce. Cheese. Something good that triggered the taste buds and never tasted so gooooooood. OKay, so that day (Lollapalooza) consisted of: he and I driving to the concert. Me, tucking an 1/8, it might have even been a 1/4, along the underwire of one boob and the pipe along the underwire of my other boob and then having him feel me up to see if he could feel or detect it. Nope.) (Good boobage.) I also remember making the comment that if they felt me up that good then they owed me something more than a beer. (Much like the airport security guard in Frankfurt). Into the concert we go. Smoke all of the pot and drink beer all day while sitting in a dirt-filled arena all while sitting in the hot, hot sun. Share and pass pot amongst the other concert goers, therefore smoking even more pot. Make numerous trips to the bathroom to pee. Have mad wild dirty (literally) drunken high sex at some point during the afternoon. Return home to take a shower. Go out later that night, and repeat all of the above.

...drift back to present day. Hmmm. Yep. Don't remember any of the bands that played that day, but it was an awesome concert.

Sometime I'll post about the many other concert going experiences. All good. I saw a bunch of up and coming bands when they truly rocked and were actually affordable to see.

just askin'

Does anyone else think, the new reality TV series, "Pirate Master" just sounds like a cheesy porno?

..Or just a porno?

my big, big day

Friday was my big, big day. My interview for grad school, duh. Don't you guys pay attention? Sheesh.
Anywho.
So, I took the day off work, something I never do, had a leisurely morning (what's that?) and then drove up to Medium State U (whoo-hoo!) Stopped at my friend's house (So cool. So married.) and then he went with me to show me where the office and buildings were located.
My big, big interview consisted of: "You have really impressive credentials and we are very happy to have you in our program. We look forward to you joining us in the fall." (Camera turns to focus on me looking like a drunk girl caught in the headlights of an oncoming car and suddenly realizes my mouth is agape. Shut mouth. Say, thank you and I'm looking forward to it as well.)
Jenkies.
Twenty minutes later and I am told what classes I need to take (!) and that I need to talk to the Political Science department to register for two of them because pre-reqs are required, but they are waiving those for me. (Yippee!)
I walk over, register for my classes (13 credits this fall. Eck! Four grad and one undergrad (pre-req, not waived. Poop stain.) my friend gives me a tour of campus and I am off to look at housing.

The grad housing left me feeling dirty and needing a shower in a most desperate and not in a good fun way. More in a, holy hell! They expect me to live in this?!?!?! Type of way. One is about 460 sq ft (for a two-bedroom) and the entire thing is made from cement block (inside and out. Think GI Bill, post WWII, housing.) One is affectionately referred to as "the ant farm" cause that is what it resembles and pretty much how I felt after being inside. (Dirty and crawly.) After being really disappointed with all I decided to look at one that I had no desire to see. Of course. It is awesome. The biggest, cleanest, and when I saw the walk in closet in the master bedroom and I heard the angles sing. (Okay, the angels were me, but still.)

After walking around perusing the town and looking at places I could apply for employment come August, (bars, resturants, art stores, coffee shops, bars, bars, bars, coffee shops) I was feeling pretty good. A night of sitting on the porch drinking beer and talking about all things interesting, political, sexual, asinine, and worldly with my friend; I decided life is pretty good. (Then he told me his wife (who is in China) didn't know I would be staying the night and that he lied to her about me leaving and I was feeling awkward.) Several comments about getting naked and that I should stay in his bed because my room may be too hot, and I wasn't happy with the awkwardness.) (When I told him about my female lovin'- that probably didn't help the situation.)

I came home late Saturday afternoon and went to a family BBQ where no one asked me anything about my big, big weekend. (Whoo.) Wait, my sister-in-law asked me about the housing.(!) Yep. That was it. My mom asked me about my trip literally as I was leaving. (Special.) Not a word was asked until Monday afternoon when my mom called me at work. Aaaand I told her I felt about the lack of asking. She apologized and then asked me all kinds of things. Needless to say, (Why do we say that? If it's needless to say, then just leave it out of the sentence. Note to self.) I have gotten more kudos of awesomeness from all of you and from the people I work with than I have my family. (love, you) But, so it goes.
I go back up this Friday to look at a couple of apartments (hope, hope that they are awesome and what I want.) (Oh, because I am on the wait list for the grad housing where I heard the angels and the chances of me getting into them by August is slim to none.)
So, I have school all lined-up; now I just need shelter and a way to pay for the shelter and all the bills that come with the shelter and it will be all good. Between now and August 11th. That would be awesome.

inner dork: lame duck

Whoo-hoo! Is it really time for another inner dork? You bet our lame duck president, it is!

Speaking of lame ducks, let me tell you how that phrase came about. (I know you're just dying to find out and be able to use it in a sentence later today.)

Did you know...

The term is used to describe an elected official who has been defeated, or by law cannot run again, or plans to retire thus their power has been diminished. The phrase apparently originated as slang on the London stock exchange, where it was used to describe a stock jobber or broker who could not make good on his losses and would "waddle out of the alley like a lame duck." (Those Brits, so clever!)

Abe Lincoln is sometimes credited with introducing the phrase to America. (Oh, good 'ol Abe. He was so honest.) When a defeated senator called on Lincoln and asked for a job s commissioner of Indian affairs, Lincoln was quoted as saying afterward, "I usually find that a Senator or Representative out of business is sort of a lame duck." (And sometimes to those who are still in office.) (*cough* Bush.)

I's got nothing

Or at least I feel like I have nothing to write about, hence the lack of writing.
Or, maybe I have too much to write about and I don't feel like taking the time to write it all out and explain.
I dunno.
It's definitely one of those.
So. I will give the Cliff notes version of what's up, what's new, what's old, and what's just generally been happening. Or not happening. That's for you to decide.

My "friend" Nick and I no longer talk to each other. Since my birthday disaster cry-fest where I was yelled at and belittled he never apologized nor has he tried to make contact with me. I called him after the incident and we talked for about 2.4 minutes. It is really interesting to see who your friends are in the end.

I finally downloaded the last of my pictures onto flickr. I hope to have the rest of Mykonos and NYC up for you all by the end of the week.

Because I know you're dying to see them.

Since returning from Greece I've been in a funk. Understandable, but blech.

I always knew I wanted to travel, but now I know that it is a need. I need to travel. It is a part of me. It is in me. It is not a want, but a need.

Therefore, I booked a trip to Budapest. I will be there the week of Thanksgiving. I booked it last week.

Mama was not thrilled about that news when I told her last night.

She'll get over it. Slowly, but she will.

The reason she wasn't happy is that her daughter (a.k.a. her only daughter. Her baby girl.) is moving away, thus the news that I wouldn't be home for a major holiday was not welcomed.

I go to my grad school interview with the director of the Public Policy program on Friday. Hopefully by then everything will be finalized and I can start to apply for housing and jobs.

I applied for scholarships and also tuition stipends. Cross fingers, pray to the gods, that those come through for me.

Because I have enough debt.

Between this job being over and grad school starting I will have less than two weeks to move, find a job, and start grad school.

That could be stressful if I let it be.

I am trying really hard not to let it be.

I really wish I wasn't taking classes this summer.

I am uberly burnt out on classes.

But I told them I would.

So. I am.

Although I love my job and the people I interact with everyday, it has become painfully obvious it is time to move on.

So, I am glad the job didn't come through for me.

Life is funny how it works out.

I've been getting regular updates from Mr. London.

I both love his emails.

And hate his emails.

I love hearing from him.

I hate that he loves it there.

This too shall pass.

(That I hate that he loves it there.)

After grad school I plan to join the Peace Corps.

Get back to me in two years, though. My life changes too quickly to really make that a firm commit.

After the 27 month minimum commitment I plan to work for the Peace Corps and eventually start my own organization.

I want to start an organization for women. Teaching them a trade or showing women that the skills they already have can make an income for themselves and for their families.

With the skills and income I hope to show that they then are a valuable contributor to the community and a vital part of the world and to their families, thus they are worth more than the cow on the hierarchy ladder.

I also would like to change the media images and messages women are shown and given here in the U.S. I think we are just as guilty of harming our women and causing permanent damage, we just do it in a much more subtle way.

I would like to start dating again.

Or at least have a boy toy.

But, I don't really want to commit the time and the amazing amounts of effort it takes to find someone who doesn't make me want to gouge my eyes out and kick myself in the head.

Plus, I will only be here for another two months.

Plus, the last couple relationships ended because of moves or transfers not coming through, ect. I don't need that drama a third time.

But, I would really like a summer fling.

Dilemmas.

inner dork: hodge podge

Hey, you know what? It has been forever since I've had a good dorking. But that's another story for another day. In the meantime, how about some useless trivia!

Did you know...

The word "idiot" comes from Greek and it refers to the time when it was popular/required for all men to take one day out of the year and participate in politics. If someone didn't fulfill this requirement, he was an idiot.
(Hmmmm, I still think the original term is appropriate today.)

When a female rhinoceros is feeling in the mood, she'll ram her potential lover with her horn.
(Because she's horny!)

Ra was the sun god of ancient Egypt.
(All bow down. Actually worshipping the sun makes more sense to me than worshiping an invisible being. But's that's for another day as well.)

One in four women can't remember the names of their past lovers.
(Does it count if you didn't know their name to begin with?)

In ancient Japan, public contests were held to see who could fart the longest and loudest. Winners were held in great acclaim.
(Today that's just called Tuesday.)

One in six adults have admitted to having sex with someone simply because they were too embarrassed to say no.
(ooooooooookay.)

The sound of E.T. walking was made by someone squishing her hands in jelly.
(K-Y or grape?)

Fifty-three percent of women prefer sex with the man on top.
(Wanna guess which percentage I am?) (Hint: Not the 53%.)

It was only after 440 C.E. that December 25 was celebrated as the birth date of Jesus.
(The first department store sale was held the following year.)

All organic compounds contain carbon.
(Which makes dating them SO much easier.)

It takes one fifteen-twenty year old tree to produce seven hundred paper grocery bags.
(Plastic it is.)

The poison arrow frog has enough poison to kill approximately twenty-two hundred people.
(Yaw-za! Frogs in trees, let them be.)

Whew! I feel good and dorked.
You?

Um. So, yeah. See. The thing is...

Okay, so I gradumated, right? Just about three weeks ago I was completely finished with school, right? I got my big diploma and all of my debt compounded and consolidated for twenty years at a reasonable interest rate, right?

...

Oh, no. I really did gradumate. No need to go there. Whoa. Wanna talk about livid if that was a hoax.

Anway.

Well, see, here’s the thing. I’m actually taking two classes right now. I know, I know. Believe me, my head is being examined.
Anyway, the reason for this sick and twisted masochistic behavior is because I applied to grad school. In my, you-would-have-to-be-complete-idiots-not-to-accept-and-be-completely-blessed-with-my-presance-and-glowing-(not-to-mention)-winning-personality letter. I told them I would take a couple of the undergrad pre-reqs that I haven’t taken. Thereby making it even harder for them to turn me down.
What are the pre-reqs? Macroeconomics and American National Government.
Oh yeah.
Who has two thumbs and knows how to have an awesome summer?
This girl!
So. I applied. I had to wait for my final transcript to arrive at the Biggish State University and wait...and wait...and... (Well, it wasn’t that bad as I was out of the country, but I wanted to be theatrical.) Last week I received word that they had received all of my shtuff. Yesterday I called and spoke with the department head to see if I had been accepted. He said he has accepted me into the program, buuuuuuut that ultimately it isn’t up to him. Buuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuut, he didn’t know why I would be turned down. Buuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuut, it will be about two more weeks before I know for sure.
So.
What does this mean for me?
More stress and an uncertain future for a few more weeks. (But really, are any of our futures certain?) And when I am accepted I will be moving. Moving away to go to Biggish State University, which also means I will be leaving my job. Sad, but it’s time.
Oh. I suppose you all might want to know the program to which I have applied? Master’s in Public Policy. I pretty much plan to rule the world. Just lettin’ you all know ahead of time.

everything but nip

Conversation with someone in the office.

"I love it when you do that." He says with his eyes focused directly on my cleavage. I look down at my chest and discover I am showing everything but nip.

I immediately sit up straight in my office chair and laugh as I pull up my baby doll tank top. "I honestly had no idea I was doing that."

"You do that about three or four times a day. It's like they get to be too much for you and you just need to rest them on the desk."

"I'm not resting them on the desk. I'm thinking deep thoughts...and just being lazy all hunched over in my chair ."

"I never said I mind."

Today, same person, different conversation.

"I would just like to say how disappointed I am with your selection of tops today."

T-shirt, no cleve.

"I was going to wear a similar top as yesterday, and do the everything but nip bit again, but I decided I need to mix it up and keep it surprising."

"You just want to keep your adoring fans around you."

"Pretty much."

deep like a puddle

Saturday night I went out to dinner with a co-worker. It was a very nice dinner in an up-scale establishment. However, the night ended too early for me and I decided to hit a few bars on my way home for a few more cocktails.

Bar number one I've been to a few times, but apparently on Saturday night it turns into a dance club. A country dance club. A place where they take their yee-haws and line dancing seriously. I could not take it seriously. I could only sit at the bar and be embarrassed for those who were taking it seriously. One cocktail down and I was out the door.

Bar number two is a small (blue-collar, neighborhood) establishment. I walk in and find an empty spot at the bar and order a drink. In the course of sipping my beverage I take a gander around the place. I am one out of four females in the place. Two of the other females are the bartenders and the third woman is married and not on the slim or attractive side. I suddenly feel very watched. But, I can deal with this. Just let me drink my beverage and enjoy the night.

...

..

(Sigh)

The man to my left moves a bar stool away from me as soon as I sit down (I must have cooties.) I turn and smile at him and I go back to my beverage. Several minutes later I still feel his eyes on me (creepy.) I again, turn and smile at him and go back to my beverage.
Several minutes later he turns to me and says, "I need to tell you that you are a very attractive woman and you have amazing eyebrows. But I have a girlfriend" Only he says it like this, "IneedtotellyouthatyouareaveryattractivewomanandyouhaveamazingeyebrowsbutIhaveagirlfriend." and then like Flash Gordon, he is gone (zoom!)

Um. Thanks.

Then I have a man to my right who is trying to make conversation with me. I am trying to ignore him. Why? Because the conversation is very one-sided (his) and he is drunk (very.)

New man to my left is also talking to me. Conversation is better, but still one-sided (his) and he is not drunk (yet.)

I now have my back to the drunk man, but he isn't getting my subtly as he keeps pinching my elbow and poking my arm (that's the way to make friends and influence people) to get me to turn back to him. I (politely) answer his questions then (subtly) turn my back on him.
New man is engaging me in conversation (his) and buying me drinks (yah!) Drunk man pinches my elbow one last time (it's like a bad tennis match) and asks if he can take me to dinner this week. I (politely) tell him no. He (drunkenly, complete with slurred and pronounced speech) asks why. I tell him because he is very (sloppy) drunk and chances are he won't remember who I am or that we even had this conversation in the morning, so thank you, but I am going to have to say no. He (slurriedly) refutes my claim that he won't remember this conversation in the morning, but doesn't refute the claim that he is drunk. He then continues to talk to me while my back is turned and I have stopped trying to be subtle. (Mean? Perhaps. But do you blame me?)

New guy is at least not drunk, but keeps pointing out how talkative he is and how he is ruling the conversation. Yet he doesn't let me get a word in nor does he offer any questions to me. In fact he didn't even ask me my name until we were hopping off our bar stools and walking out the door. After the bar closes I thank him for the drink and I shake his hand good-bye in the parking lot. (Polite.)

On my way home I stop at the local Gas and Sip for a greasy hot dog (Never, ever a good idea.) I notice one of the men outside the doors, as one of the gentleman I spoke to briefly in the bar (I would have liked to actually speak with him, but drunk man and talky man made that impossible.) As I get out of my car he asks if I am following him. I tell him I thought he was waiting for me. A few more flirts as I walk inside. I buy the (never, ever a good idea hot dog) and leave. A few more flirts later and I get in my car and I leave him with a wink and a smile as a good-bye.

That was the highlight of my evening.

God damn I miss Greece.

unsecure security

I'm sure most of you have heard the big news story about the guy who apparently didn't know he had a prescription resistant strain of TB and went on his scheduled marriage and honeymoon in Europe thus perhaps putting hundreds of lives at risk. He is now under a guard lock-down quarantine. I know, I know. He hadn't gotten the test results back and he swears he felt fine and best of all he wasn't even coughing while on his trip.
Whatever.
The new news coverage is about airport security and how a person in his (apparent) state of health could have even gotten on the plane in the first place.
Let me tell you how: security is none-existent and I'm pretty sure the security personal are under-paid, over-staffed, poorly fed, disgruntled, and simply following some sort of government protocol that no one really understands or even cares about.
I was going to do a write-up on the many airports I visited and list the best and worst in terms of security, friendliness, cleanliness, bathrooms, and what they have to offer fellow travelers in terms of food and entertainment and such. Well, why wait. I'll do it now.

Home state was the friendliest, cleanliest, and most willing to help a confused and nervous traveler. Then again I was at home state's airport at 4:30 a.m. so perhaps they were just fresh and clean from a good night sleep and hadn't been through the hell of a day yet.

Detroit: Definitely the coolest in terms of neon lights and distractions to keep a stressed person in a stoned and awe struck zone.
Friendliness: The Starbuck girl was lovely. The ticket counter person, not so much.
Security: Not sure as it was a transfer.
Bathrooms: Disgusting and small. Barely room for a person let alone for a person with luggage. I'm also guessing the last time they were cleaned, and don't let the trash can, bucket, and mop fool you, was around 1986. Ew.

JFK (I was there four times): What a joke. By far the most lax security I encountered and I was there four times both for domestic and international travel. Detroit-JFK, JFK-Frankfurt, Frankfurt-JFK, JFK-Boston. The thing they seemed most upset about on the international flight was that I had stepped over the yellow line while waiting in line. My bad.
When I stepped over the yellow line (when it was safe to do so) and showed the man my boarding pass and passport I kindly asked him how he was. His response: "I hate my job and I'm having a horrible day, but I'm glad you're having a good day." (Smell the sarcasm on the last sentence. It's pungent.)
Safely past him I then went to the carry-on security. I put my bag on the floor to get all of my oh-so-dangerous liquids that were safely under 3oz. We were chatting with each other and I then start to go through security when she asks if she has seen my boarding pass. I tell her she had and she gives me the okay to go through. Now, I had shown her my boarding pass, but really, should she take my word for it?

Customs: He didn't even look at me. He opened my passport, stamped it, and sent me on my way. It was so fast I asked if that was all. He assured me it was. Apparently I am not a threat nor do I look threatening. This is a good thing.

Domestically: I was pretty much breezed through security.
Shopping: A lot of high-end stores.
Food: Not a lot of variety and of course, expensive.
As I was 5.5 hours delayed in Frankfurt I missed my hotel and "slept" in JFK. However, I had (or wanted to) get to the terminal for my connecting flight. Luckily I had met two men who missed their flight to London so we trekked to the terminal together. The terminal was shut down due to construction and we were locked outside. That would be outside of the airport at 2 a.m. The helpful maintenance workers said we needed to walk around.
Walk around we did. I made the comment to one of the displaced travelers that I felt like I was Steve Martin in "Planes, Trains, and Automobiles."
Bathrooms: Not clean. I didn't really want to touch anything. However, after spending the night at JFK I most certainly had to. I took a "shower" in the sink and there was apparently only one stall that anyone was willing to use and it was behind me and my sink bath.

Also, on all my domestic flights there were announcements that the security alert had been raised to orange, but there wasn't any indication as to why or when. Personally I feel the whole alert system is a joke and nothing more than the government pretending to do something and to constantly remind us of 9/11, but that's just me.

Frankfurt (I was there twice): Good god whatever you do, don't mess around or smile in Frankfurt. I had 45 minutes to get from gate 12 to gate 42. There were only 44 gates in the airport and go through security. Oy.
All metal items need to be placed in the tray. Walk through the metal detector and each person is also gone over with a wand. The pat down and metal detecting wand was so thorough I needed a cigarette afterwards. I accidentally left a bottle of water in my purse. I realized my mistake as soon as I put the purse in the tray and it was going down the conveyor. I was pulled to the side. My bags were searched and when the devious and dangerous water bottle was found I was told to drink it. When I declined, I was again told to drink it. I took the bottle, but didn't drink from it. I was then, very forcibly, told to drink it. I obeyed. As I was drinking the hot and gross plane water it was ripped from my hand and thrown away. I really believe Mr. Frankfurt security guard was sad I didn't die from the hot and disgusting plane water.
Friendliness: Return flight was better than going, but don't expect smiles.
Bathrooms: Um, Yeah. There was a thorough hand washing afterwards.
Flight/plane: going, it was awesome. The flight crew was exceptional, then again it wasn't a full flight and perhaps they were able to give extra attention and care to everyone. Coming back it was horrible. The flight was nice, but there was a 5.5 hour delay and everyone pretty much had to fend for themselves in terms of water and such. Also, the delay was because the air conditioning was broken and it took several hours before they opened the doors to let some air in and then for whatever reason they were closed again. I was so parched and thirsty by the time I arrived in JFK I would have committed sins for some tasteless clear liquid.
Ease of getting to and fro: Bad. Moving sidewalks that last for only about 50 feet and too many people simply standing in the narrow walkway to try and pass one another.

Athens (I was there four times): No big deal. Check-in, check-out, put bags and liquids in a tray, walk through the metal detector.
Bathrooms: clean.
Friendliness: Eh, not overly so, not underly so.
Shops: A decent selection of places to shop and to eat.

Mykonos: I was only dropped off...the airport was pretty much empty except for my flight that had just arrived.

Santorini: For a smaller airport the security was pretty good.
Bathrooms: Funny moment: Hands are lathered up I go to wash off the soap and....where's the water? Where's the faucet? Why isn't the water coming out of the faucet? I'm moving my hands under the faucet because I think it must be a laser sensor. I'm looking all over the place. This is going on for a few minutes and a few people have walked in to the bathroom and I've asked them for help. They either don't understand me or they simply are mean, because no one helped me. I'm truly starting to panic at this point. I can't get on the plane with white foamy soapy hands. SOMEBODY HELP ME! A lady then points to the floor. Oh. There is a button on the floor that I need to step on to activate the water. Clever!
Shops: There are a variety of shops and places to eat.

Boston (I was there twice): Security was standard. Basically if a person either doesn't have any dangerous liquids 3oz or under they are pretty much safe and secure to board the plane.
Friendliness: Information desk was most helpful.
Cleanliness: Spotless and I was there both in the a.m. and the p.m.
Shops and such: A wide range and variety.
Ease of getting to and fro: No problem. Drop off and pick-up is a bit congested, but that is to be expected.

Minnesota: Security: Don't know as it was a transfer.
Friendliness: The staff was a bit stressed because of delays and such.
Cleanliness: Spotless.
Shops and such: Whether a person would want a meal, or face soap, stamps, or a hunting license, a stuffed animal, or a beer just go to the airport. The place had everything to the point of ridiculousness...everything.
Ease of getting to and fro: I had to go from Gate C to Gate G in terms of the alphabet that doesn't seem far. In terms of an airport, it's a long ass way to go. However, there wasn't a problem. Many moving sidewalks to help with luggage and tired travelers. Many massage chairs to ease tired and sore muscles.

I realize I haven't been everywhere. However, in terms of recently traveled planes, flights, persons, and airports I think this is a pretty good range of what to expect which is that unless it's Frankfurt, security isn't secure.

(some) pictures from (part) of my trip

I am (slowly) (very slowly) getting all of my pictures downloaded onto flickr. If flickr would let a person download more than six pictures at a time it would go much faster. Just a guess. (Or if I didn't have four hundred pictures to download I would already be finished.

Anyway.

Here are some of the pictures. I will try to get the rest of them on here shortly as well as some of the stories I do have to tell.

I already miss it.

(sigh.)

Fenway Park
Boston: North End
Athens: Lunch in the Palka
Athens: Archaeological Museum
Athens: The Streets of the Palka I was told by GirlGoyle that Athens is: big, expensive, and dirty. I completely agree with that statement. Take New York, times it by 10 add more dirt and pollution and that was my impression of Athens.
Athens: Zeus' Temple
Santorini: Volcano hike and boat cruise
Santorini: Fira
Mykonos
Delos

I will try to get the rest of my trip and pictures and stories up in the next week. (I am going in reverse. Boston was at the end of my trip and Delos was my last day in Mykonos.)

I still can't believe I went and I really can't believe I came back. (Seriously.) However, every time the wind blows I feel like I am back on the islands. Lovely.

oh yeah. I gradumatated

On May 19th to be exact.

I didn't attend the ceremony because of the hellish college experience at Small Private Expensive College and also because I was still sleeping when the ceremony was taking place. Ah, jet-lag.

Anyway. Yep. My head is officially over-edumacated and full of tons, of what I am sure will some day become useful kanowledge that has cost way too much money. However, my GPA was pretty decent, (3.481) not my goal, but all things considered (130 credits in two years, full-time job, two part-time jobs, a knack for going out.) (My goal was no less than 3.6, and I had maintained a 3.8 up until this last fall.) I should stop my bellyaching and just be glad it's over.

Ta Dah!

world traveler of airports

After two glorious weeks, I am back. Sadly. I can't believe I actually packed my bags and came home. Seriously.
I had an amazing, amazing time.
The first words after, "Welcome home, World Traveler" from my brothers and sister-in-law was, "...did you get laid?" I don't know whether to find those words, disturbing or telling. Either way, I didn't answer it. To which they all noticed. I will say that a single gal in Greece doesn't stay single for very long. The men are interesting to say the least, and I sadly discovered that Greek moves are the same as American moves. I'm pretty sure the first English words they learn are: "You are very beautiful, come back to my apartment, and I can drive you home." (Just a guess.) I received one marriage proposal, more hilarious than romantic, and learned to say, "I need to ask my husband." to the local male perveyors of shops who wanted to bargain and sell me their wears.

New York was fun. The weather wasn't the greatest when I was there, but I had a blast nonetheless. The Yankee game was cold, but a good time. I actually hurt my foot the first day of my trip. Something about walking from my hotel on E 51st all the way to 42nd street, all through Time Square and Broadway, back again and onto some side streets. However, I didn't let it stop me or slow me down during my trip. I walked everywhere and anywhere in all places and enjoyed every glorious and delicious second of it.

Mykonos was amazing and breathtakingly beautiful and my hotel was literally right on the beach. Man, that was tough. By far my favorite place on the trip.

Santorini was marvelous and I climbed to the top of a volcano and dove into the cold, cold sea without a second thought of the temperature or of what might be swimming underneath me.

Athens was big and bustling. Frustrating moment: the metro was on strike my second day there so I hoofed it from one end to the other...literally.

Boston is my kind of town and I need to go back this summer when the weather is nicer. (Very cold and rainy.) Fenway Park and Red Sox fans, what to say, but I loved every freezing second of it.
I found the town to be very laid back, very welcoming, and I drank a few pints in the hopes that it would warm me up. You know the theory: cold beer, warm thoughts.

After seventeen airports, nineteen planes (two planes were broken. If it is between a delay or flying in a broken plane, I will take the delay every time.)(That figure it no exaggeration. Seriously, it was that many. I was SO very sick of my luggage and security.) A odd moment with security in Frankfurt, in which I think the guard was sad I didn't die. Four hundred and seventy-two pictures I am still uploading onto my flickr account, and many misadventures, and many stories to tell, I am already dreaming of my next trip abroad. However, Greece and the islands are still very much in my heart and in my mind. Truly, truly wonderful. Absolutely my solace.

I will post more and tell some of the stories and post the pictures in the very near future.
My summer is already proving interesting and it will only become more so as it passes through the heat and humidity of the next several warm and breezy days and nights.

for everything else, there's visa

Tonight is my last class of my undergrad career. Tomorrow I pack. Saturday I leave on a early morning plane for destinations out of my home state. Color me glowing with anticipation.

One round-trip ticket from home state, to Detroit Rock-City, to NYC to Boston, back to home state =$327.00.

A steal of a deal for a hotel for the weekend in the heart of Midtown Manhattan = $400.00.

Seats on the first base line at a Sunday afternoon Yankee game =$66.00.

Eight nights in Greece. Including three nights in Mykonos, three nights in Santorini, two nights in Athens, including airfare, hotel accommodations, and day-trip excursions= $2,414.64.

One night in a two-star hotel in Jamaica Queens, NY for nothing more than a bed and a shower= $172.00.

One night hotel accommodations in Boston, but finagling it so I will be there for two days and only four miles from Fenway Park= $99.00.

Seats on the first base line at a Red Sox game= $95.00.

Looking forward to taking a two-week break from life and forgetting about everything, priceless.

My life has been hectic, chaotic, emotional, and stressful.

I've finally graduated from college and this is my reward to myself.

I've worked one full-time and at least two-part-time jobs, donated plasma, recycled pop cans, and sold a lot of my material goods on half.com. Sometimes you just have to say, what the hell, and go for it. Plus, I'm really tired of putting my life on hold. For everything that red blood cells, recycled aluminum, Internet selling, and working for the man in the city- can't buy, there's visa.

I'll see you all in two-weeks.
Don't worry, the stories will be plentiful, the flirting will be abundant, the tan will be deep and dark, and the memory card on the camera, my heart, and my mind will be full.

inner dork: New York, Greece, and Boston

(oooooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, I'm so excited!) (Why? Well, it is Inner Dork Thursday.)

Did you know…

New York:
There are 6,374 miles of streets in New York and 578 miles of waterfront? (I plan to walk (almost) every mile of it.)
John Hertz, who founded the Yellow Cab Company in 1907, chose the color yellow because of a study by the University of Chicago stating that yellow was the most recognizable color.
Bronx was named after Jonas Bronck who was one of the first to settle here in 1636, the Bronx officially became a borough in 1898.
Brooklyn: The Dutch were the first to settle there in 1640. Today Brooklyn is the largest of the boroughs.
Staten Island: Was originally discovered by Florentine explorer G. Da Verrazano.

Greece: Ah, I’m going to make you go to the link: It’s all Greek! I mean, it’s Greece, the factoids are long, varied, and numerous. Its been around awhile.

Boston:
Boston Common was the first public park in the US (1634.)
Revere Beach was the first public beach in the US (1896.)
Boston is referred as the “Cradle of Liberty.”
Boston Public Library was established in 1848 and was the first publicly funded municipal library in the US. It was the first to lend a book and to have a branch library.

No, concentration. No, attention span. No, concentration. No, attention span. No...

...what was I sayin'?

Last final and class of my undergrad career: Thursday night.

Days to finalize my independent study project: Two. Today and tomorrow. Of course, the web won't let me make any changes to the said project.

Last day of work: Thursday.

Leaving for the trip of a lifetime: Saturday. Early (very early) a.m.

Number of days to get ready for trip of a lifetime: One. Friday.

Yeah. I am so ADHD right now.

Ball, huge ball, of nervous and stressed energy.

Huge. Ball. Of. A.D.H.D. Energy.

Now. What was I sayin'?

the delicious warm humid air

There are many things I love about the start of warm weather:
Bare legs.
Fun summer shoes.
The first beginnings of sun-kissed skin.
Bare feet.
Raising my face up to the sun to catch a few extra rays.
Driving with the windows rolled down and my hair blowing this way and that.
Blinking and suddenly realizing everything is clean, crisp, green, and the brightest shade of blue.
The smell of freshly mowed grass.
Leaving my car behind and walking to and fro.
Working out in my summer solace and getting my hands dirty planting this summer's crop of flowers and vegetables.
Putting on last year's swimsuit and realizing I look better this year than last.
The smell of sweat and sex in the air.

but...
Last night I realized there is something else I love about summer.

Leaving Small Private College in my Mustang with the windows rolled down and old school Beastie Boys spinning in the CD player I am making my way home when a car of four young college boys meet up with me on the four lane highway. They pass me with ease and I can tell they feel victorious.
I can't let that feeling last for them.
I then pass them with ease.
They call sweet names to me out their window.
I stare straight ahead on the night road, the full moon guiding my way, as a sly smile crosses my lips.
We then play a fun game of, who can pass who.
They try to pass me on the hill.
I push down on the gas ever so slightly.
They try to pass me on the curves.
I accelerate.
The stay behind me for several miles.
They think they have an opening.
But to no avail, I again, accelerate slightly.
I let them pass me when I have to switch to another highway.
Cat-calls and whops and hollers travel from their open windows and into the lovely night air.
With a smile on my face, the beautiful moon in front of me and the Beastie Boys telling me there will be no sleep 'till Brooklyn I make my way home and realize summer is indeed in the air.

Karma, she's a bitch

Karma, she's a cold one. She can be a cold, cold bitch. So, remember this: about my "friend" Yeah. Her ass was 86'd yesterday. Interesting. It's pretty hard to get fired from where I work. It's also pretty hard to get on the bad side of my boss. She not only managed to do one of those, but both and many more. I've gotten the flip side of all the stories she told me from the people at work. I've also found out why and how she managed to basically 86 her own ass. Wow. I really need to pay attention to my gut and my intuition. She is a woman with issues. Several subscriptions worth.

On a happy note: the students gave me a surprise graduation party yesterday! Color me feeling loved. You know, when I am able to see the trees for the forest, life is good. Life is really pretty sweet.

inner dork: pure randomness

It's a purely random dorking today. It's madness! Madness, I tell ya!

So, without further ado. (I love how that sounds.)

Did you know...

In the 1940's, the Bich pen was changed to Bic for fear that Americans would pronounce it "bitch." (Stupid Americans.)

People didn't always say "hello" when they answered the phone. When the first regular phone service was established in 1878, people said, "ahoy." (Followed by a quick, "matey.")

The phrase "the boogeyman will get you" refers to the Boogey people who still inhabit an area of Indonesia. The natives still act as pirates today and attack passing ships. (Hmm, my Boogey man lived in my closet. Or in my nose. I can't remember which. It's definitely one or the other.)

The term honeymoon is derived from the Babylonians, who declared mead, a honey-flavored wine, the official wedding drink, stipulating that a bride's parents be required to keep the groom supplied with the drink for the month following the wedding. (Just a month? Really? I would think it would be/should be required for a much longer period. That whole "married" thing and all.)

The word constipation come from a Latin word that means, "to crowd together." (As in, my poop is all crowded together and it won't come out.) (Too, far? Did I go too far?)

In French, essay means "to try, attempt." (As in, I tried to attempt to meet the standards of my "mentor" when it came to my thesis, but I clearly failed that attempt.) (Not bitter.) (Not at all.)

The expression "What in tarnation?" comes from the original phrase "What in eternal damnation?" (Did anyone else have Yosemite Sam pop into their head?) (Anyone?) (Anyone?) (Bueller?)

Crack gets its name because it crackles when you smoke it. (So, where's the snap and pop? I guess Kellogg's was already all over that one.)

The word curfew originated from an old french word that means "cover fire." (As in, if my ass didn't make it home by curfew it was going to be covered in fire.)

That's all folks!

you can take the girl out of the party, but you can't take the party out of the girl

Last night was the do-over birthday. All I have to say is, god damn. God damn, but if only we could have do-overs on more things. Wouldn't that be awesome? I mean, remember as a kid when you did something wrong, or didn't hit the ball...anywhere, or when you went to kick the ball and your foot simply went over the ball? Man, you got a do-over. After last night I think I'm going to have more do-overs in my life. Even if something doesn't really need or deserve one, I'm totally going for it.

The night started out awesome. Which, considering I wasn't crying, being yelled at for something I didn't even do, or driving home in tears and falling asleep in tears, really how bad could the night have been? Anyway. The peeps from work took me to one of my favorite places. The bought me dinner and drinks and we had a lovely time. There was and is a torrential rain storm happening so I didn't drink all that much as I have enough trouble seeing at night in a torrential rainstorm without adding drunk to list. Oh, no. Waited until I was closer to home before I added drunk to the list.

I stopped at a new little bar close to home. There was a band...or rather a singer, doing cheesy covers and essentially making fun of himself (good times) and the bartender decided I was going to be his main source of conversation and entertainment for the night, thus he liquored me up quite nicely. Ah, lovely.

Very shortly into the night he asked if I would do a shot with him. Yeah. Twiiiiisssst the arm. Ow. Sure. "Jager, please." I knew I was in from that point on. Men are so easy. Or perhaps saying, "Jager" simply means, "...this girl can party and drink and I'm going to have fun with her..." Or perhaps it means, "Sweet! I'm not going to have to spend that much money after all getting her drunk..." silly. Simply, silly. Anywho. So we chatted and then a gay came up and told me I needed to join him and his friends. I passed. I mean, I was getting free drinks and more importantly, free shots. My ass wasn't going anywhere.

One shot was called: sex with (whatever the bartender's name was) when he asked if I wanted to know why, he said: "because it's more than a mouth full and it takes your breath away.."......aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand game on. More shots. More beer. The gays came after me and pretty much kidnap me to their table. Oh.MY.God. so much fun. Enough laughter to the point that I don't think I will need to do a sit-up for months my stomach hurt so bad. And they also plied me with free alcohol all night. We decided I will be joining them every Tuesday night from now on. They leave, I'm back to the bar. More shots, more beer. He made four shots, but only three people drank any, therefore I got two of them (was it my night or what?) Apparently this one was called: fuck me harder. Since I did two of them, of course my response was: "so I guess I get to fuck you harder, twice." Annnnnnnnnnnnnnd she's back ladies and gents. So yes, all-in-all the night was a good success. Home at 1:00, up at 6:19, to work 15 minutes late. Feeling awesome. See, all I needed was a night of laughter, flirting that leads to nowhere, and lots, and lots of free drinks. It's that simple. All a party girl needs is a good time party.

There was one slight Debbie Downer moment: one of the gays asked something about getting laid and if I was seeing someone. I replied, he is leaving for London tomorrow (meaning today)..to which they asked, "so how long is he there?" "Oh, that'd be, forever. Yeah. He's gone, forever." I'm not going to lie. They got a little forklempt. I, did not. For that, I am thankful. Yes, PG, life does go on. Even if I don't want it to, it does.

freaks and geeks

After watching disc one of the brilliant, but canceled show, Freaks and Geeks this past rainy Sunday afternoon I got to thinking about high school and all of the glorious humiliation it brought forth. Truly, the show breaks it down quite nicely. If you weren’t part of the popular crowd, well then you were either a freak of a geek, for no other reason than the popular kids said so.
Nice.
When asked about my glory days of high school, I tend to ask people what they thought I was. The over-whelming answer is: cheerleader.
(Shudder)
So wrong.
I’m guessing it has something to do with my ability to cheer people on and my perpetually perky attitude. But, the truth is I was closer to the freak category. I was the artsy chick. The one who dressed in my own fashion statement, I was punk rock before it was cool to be. I was in all the school plays, and tended to have a, rather worn notebook and a pen in my hand at all times. My hair has been just about every shade of the rainbow and some not found in nature.
Thinking back to the fashion statement I was, my favorite item of clothing was one of my dad’s old work shirts. Now, my dad is over 6ft tall and around 300 lbs. Needless to say, I am neither of those. So a rather large and long, fitting old work shirt that I had painted the word, “What?” on...
Actually, it read like this
Wh
at
?
Complete with splatter paint and hand prints over the boobs. Yep, that shirt, a pair of black leggings and nicely worn pair of Chuck Taylor’s. Black, of course. I was drinking, smoking cigarettes and pot before it was the cool thing to be doing; therefore getting a reputation for something that everyone else was doing by graduation- I was simply making the bell curve for everyone else.
I was called a slut long before I even lost my virginity.
I was into spirituality, tarot cards, Ouija boards therefore, I was also called a witch and a Satanist. (Just made me roll my eyes and smirk. I mean, god. How lame.)(The kids in high school. Not me. I was cool. Have you not been paying attention?) I questioned just about everything that could be asked in the form of a question to the point that I am sure I would have made Alex proud and many questions that I made up myself. I was definitely one of the more popular kids, but looking back I still fell into the freak category.
Even today as I look at what I am wearing, as a grown-up I’ve been told by several people today that what I have on looks really cool: Long black silk peasant skirt, bright red Grateful Dead retro-t, black cardigan, black flip-flops with beaded flowers on the straps, hair down and tucked behind my ears, lots of funky jewelry: big, chunky rings (retro, of course) big chandelier earrings, bracelets that I made along with my standard minimal make-up. I can assure you if I was to step into a high school I would still be the freak that I was then. As a grown-up I am cool, hip, open-minded and non-judgmental- someone people can come to when they need a friend, an ear, a shoulder, a hug, a cheerleader to tell them everything will be alright. As a 17 year old I was a freak.
So, even though we can leave high school behind us, does high school ever really leave us? There are many times within any given week when a situation, a comment, a look, a word, can take me right back and leaves me thinking, “My god. This is so high school…sometimes even junior high.” The attitudes and the mentality, maybe even how we dress, it doesn’t seem to leave us.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m certainly more fashionable, more confidant, and I would hope more intelligent than I was fifteen years ago. But somehow after watching four hours of a high school TV show that seemed to be more reality than drama, I realized I will not be attending my fifteen year reunion this summer because I am sure, to them, I would still be a freak.

How about you?

just sayin': internet and porn

Non-Disscript Male: You know, I'm surprised, considering how the Internet has taken off in the porn industry, that magazines like Playboy, Hustler, Penthouse and the like are still around.

PG: Well, people still have to poop.

NDM: True.

...and now it's time to hear about my birthday. Or why my life really does need to be a reality tv show

Monday night London left me. Tuesday was my big thirty-three. It was time to get my groove on and be fabulous.

At work all the peeps went above and beyond for me. Truly. They brought in lunch, unbeknown to me. They bought me presents, they gave me money for my trip, and they all wished me well. Color me feeling loved and special. Then some of my students who I am also friends-like with, and who when their eyes are bulging out of their heads and their bodies are all contorted with stress, I give back-rubs, back pats, and back scratches to all in an attempt to lower their pulse and heart-rate. Typically my comment during these de-stress sessions is: you know, you can reciprocate anytime, really. To one male student, I said when he was bent over a table moaning and groaning "...this isn't sexual harassment as you asked for it." and he replied, "If this is sexual harassment may it never stop..." Anyway, they bought me a 2.5 hour massage. Complete head, toe, face, scalp, body massage package. Two and half hours of pure bliss will be coming my way. When I thanked the, "...may it never end..." male he said, "...we really appreciate all you do for us and you really make a difference in our lives and all the help you give us everyday; It was the least we could for you...." Ah, what a warm-fuzzy heart-felt moment (don't cry.) So, the day was fab-u-lous.

There is a key-word in there. Day. The day was fabulous.

Oh, look. More foreshadowing.

That night Nick was taking me out to a five-star super expensive restaurant for my birthday. He was late and I sat at the bar and ordered a drink. A vodka cranberry with barely any cranberry. Ah, dee-lish. Nick shows up and is stressed. His new job is killing him. I ask him some questions about what he expected to what the reality has been. I thought they were harmless questions and I was truly just asking. He (we are now seated) told me "... we needed to change the subject because he felt I was attacking him and that I was throwing darts at him because how many ways can he say, no." At this point my eyes start to water and the tears are coming. I hate crying. I hate crying in public. I hate crying in front of people. I hate crying in a darkened movie theater, let alone in a five-star uber priced establishment. I hate how much crying I've been doing. I am trying my damnedest to stop.

To no avail. But the important thing is that I am trying.

He notices, asks why I'm crying, I tell him I'm not and to change the subject.

There is a table of four women sitting right (literally, right) next to us. They are talking about poopy diapers, vomiting children, piles of laundry and the like. Not pleasant, but I can ignore it. Apparently Nick, cannot. He leans over to the table, and rather politely, asks if they can keep it down as it is not a pleasant dinner time topic to listen to. I get a small (small) grin on my face, but don't really acknowledge it.

First there is stunned silence at the four-top all female table.

Then it turns to a murmur.

Then a grumble

Then a small boil.

Then a rolling boil.

Then the steam blows off the kettle.

They start with, "I feel sorry for your children." "May you never have any children." to "That is so rude and I'm tired of having to defend myself in public against people like that." All I'm thinking is, Nick is a 52 year-old gay man who has had the mumps, there is no hope of children in his future, but I keep it to myself. I'm also thinking, "..and I'm tired as a single woman having to defend myself against people like you." But again, I keep it to myself.
The rumble escalates to the point that they call their waiter over and tell him about us and ask us to be moved. The waiter says he will see what he can do. The grumble is now a full on rumble and I, being the person that I am and trying to save the night, a.k.a. my birthday dinner, turn to the table and say very politely, "Look, we're just...." thaaat's as far as I got because next thing I know I have a wild brunette Wilda Beast (I am naming her Wilda and she was a beast) with a manicured Barbra Streisand-esqu nail being pointed in my face screaming...no, really, literally screaming at me, "Shut the hell up! Shut the hell up! I don't want to hear anything you have to say, shut the hell up!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"...at which point, I'm still trying to get out what I am trying to say, but it is squashed by the wild looking angry mom with the pointy fingernail, "What part of, shut the hell up, are you not understanding? Shut.the.hell.up!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" (I think, I don't know. Maybe if you spell it out for me I would understand it better. But I don't.) Just keep repeating, "shut the hell up!!!!!!!" over, and over, and over again as many times as you can in the next few seconds that feels like a prolonged nightmare...oh, and have tunnel-vision so as not to see anyone else in the five-star extremely expensive restaurant but, I'm pretty sure everyone was looking, or at the very least, was able to hear what was going on...just a guess. Wilda Beast was loud. And angry. She was a loud and angry mom on the edge. Talk about, poor kids.

So, the hostess comes over and tells us we are going to be moved. She has my drink and our menus....you take my drink and I will move wherever you tell me to move. Nick and I decide we are just going to leave. The hostess tells us she is going to move us to some place without anyone else around "...so we will feel more comfortable..." at which point Nick says, "So we are being punished." "Oh, no. Just making you more comfortable." I interject with, "You had to hear how she was screaming at me, yet we are the ones being moved." She ignores me. I take my drink from her hands. It cost me $10, which I didn't have, I'm drinking my drink whether we leave or not.

We are apparently not leaving. We are now seated literally, in the corner of the uber expensive restaurant. Oh, did I mention I was crying earlier? Yeah, so that stopped during the whole, shut the hell up finger pointing escapade, only to re-start once Nick and I were seated across from one another. I try to explain, or ask, about the whole, "attacking him" thing. To which he says, I was throwing darts at him...and it just goes from there. Tears start again. I go into the restroom to try and compose myself and to become the cliche' I hate. I'm now composed. Well, I thought I was. I sit back down at the table...only to start crying again. (I so hate being a female sometimes.) I try to talk to Nick, again, to see what is going on. I tell him I think he is stressed and angry and somehow it is coming back at me. To which he responds with, he thinks all my emotions are very close to the surface and I'm overreacting.

K.

I ask if there is a back way out of the uber expensive restaurant....oh, forgot to mention this: four-top table of women spot us from across the restaurant and point and laugh at us....that was my cue to leave out the back door and get in my car. Cry all the way home. Cry when I get home. Cry myself to sleep hours later.

My birthday night out consisted of: one vodka cranberry, sans cranberry that I drank in three gulps, one sip of ice water, and moving of the bread basket, twice.

I've had some pretty bad birthdays, but I think the night of my thirty-three just became number one on that list.

Just to recap why my, "...emotions are close to the surface..."

Nightmare that is known as school and everything that has gone on with school this past year.

Not getting the job which was promised to me and having to create a new life plan.

Working one full-time and two part-time jobs, yet still not having any money. (all still while attending school)

Friend stabbing me in the back yet still working with her.

Having another friend tell me he felt I was attacking him when I was only trying to understand why he was stressed out.

Saying good-bye to Mr. London less than 24 hours before.

My dream vacation starts in 14 days. Fourteen wonderful days I can forget about all of this and everything else and leave my life for two-weeks....more on this in a later post.

(After telling this story a few times at this point I am now laughing about the whole thing. Let's face it, if you can't laugh at crazy ass people then your ass is just going to become crazy.)

inner dork: some factoids about me

These questions come by way of the most lovely and fabulous, Bre.
Here are the rules, there is a five question meme going around and I asked her to ask me five questions for today's dorking. I had to answer the questions she asked me and post them.
If you would like me to ask you five questions, send me an email and then post the Q/A on your blog and then pass it on.
So, without further ado:

1. Would you rather be a superhero or a super villain? Why?

A superhero. They get to save the world and usually end up with the guy/girl in the end. Super villains may have more fun, but it's only until the superhero kicks their ass. Thus, the super villain goes away, a.k.a. dies, and the superhero lives on in infamy. I'm an infamy kinda gal.


2. What is the one product you would be lost without?

Hmm, hair gel? Burt's Bees chap-stick? Eyelash curler? Body lotion? Toothpaste? Soap? Bottled water? Birth control? Condoms? KY?...this is a tough one. Although the last three are very important to me as a single gal, without the hair gel, chap-stick, eyelash curler, mascara, body lotion, toothpaste, soap, or fresh water none of those three would matter. I think I will have to say, chap-stick. This could change by the time I'm finished typing. Damn. I forgot about contacts/glasses. Damn. Without either of those I'm done for. Unless as a superhero I would have super vision. Yep. I'm guessing I would. Okay, scratch the glasses...well, not literally, cause them I'm back to the, done for part of this post. Although, I always said if I were to do "Survivor" I would want chap-stick and a toothbrush. If I had a toothbrush I could go over my lips keeping them soft and supple. Toothbrush. Final answer. (maybe)


3. If you could live in a different era, what era would you choose?

This is a tough one, too. I can see reasons why I would be fabulous in so many different eras, but I think I am going to go with the 1920's. Although I would love to live in a different century, I also like clean water and personal hygiene too much to really be devoted to say, 1762 New England, for instance.

Why the 1920's? So much change was happening for women in general with person freedoms and voice in terms of household, education, personal and sexual freedoms, and government; I really think I would have been a pretty forceful and powerful voice during this time. I also think my forceful and powerful voice would have had eggs and various other sundry goods thrown at me, as well as have done some jail time. But it would have been all in the name of empowerment, so it's all good. Did I mention my minor is Women's Studies?

4. What's the best pick-up line you have ever heard?

Ugh. Isn't this an oxymoron? Here's a list of memorable ones: (Not saying they're good, just sayin' they were memorable.)

"That dress is very becoming. Of course if I was on you, I'd be cumming, too." (drink spit out and back turned on the person.)

"Did you wash your pants in Windex, cause I can see myself in them." (eye-roll and are you 19?)

"I like my spaghetti like I like my women, hot, naked, and buttered." (Smile and a laugh)

"I'm no fruity pebble, but I sure could make your bed rock." (Okay, that's pretty cute and clever. He got conversation.)

"The word for today is, legs. Let's go spread the word." (Eye roll and a an attitude.)

"So do I have to spend money buying you drinks all night, or can we stop wasting time and just go get the strawberries and whipped cream, now?" (What do you think?)

....and my all time favorite pick-up line is: "Can I buy you drink?" (Yes, yes you can. Is it going to lead anywhere? Probably not, but by all means, spend endless amounts of cash on me if you feel you must.)

...but truly the best pick-up line ever is simply....."Hello." Hello will get you further with me than any of the others, always. The others may get me to spit out my drink, or laugh, or make my eyes bulge, but "hello" will get you conversation, which is the best pick-up line, always.

5. Would you rather find a sweet, sensitive, stable man or a wild, passionate one to grow old with?
(Sigh) Can I have both? Not two men, but all of these attributes rolled into one man? I like sweet and sensitive and stable, but wild and passionate are fun, too and can keep the embers burning. Yet so can sweet, sensitive, and stable because I won't be worrying about him and what he is doing after-hours. How about a sweet, sensitive, stable man who has a wild and passionate side that only I am privy to and it makes me fall more in love with him each day. Each time he comes up behind me when I am cooking dinner and he catches a glimpse of my neck and the casual need to lay a kiss upon the arch of my skin is just the beginning in the long list of casual and thoughtful gestures he does on any given day.

This leads me to something: I love the simple gestures. Nice grandiose gestures are wonderful, but they are grandiose. I love the simple, unexpected gestures. For example, I'm in the kitchen cooking dinner and my hair is swept up thus exposing my neck. Without cause or reason the man in my life comes up behind me and gently kisses the arch of my neck. It's so sweet and lovely and I think it can speak volumes in terms of the relationship. Or same scenario, but instead of a kiss, grabs me around the waist and gives my body a squeeze against his and I gently lean back into his arms. Or when we are laying on the big, ugly, comfy couch and I don't even realize I have my legs draped across his lap and he is running his fingers up and down my calf. His head is in my lap and I am running my fingers through his hair or vice verse. It's those little everyday things that are effortless and come without thought that I long for, that make a relationship a relationship for me. (Sigh. Ah, memories.)

But I digress. If I could have all of the above with all of those attributes with a man whose interests are wild and varied, yet somehow we still have the important things in common so as to have endless days and nights of conversation and passion, I will be happy to grow old with that person in my life. And if he can also be a dork, then the rest is just gravy. Cause I do love a man who has some dork and some geek in him. I do. I really do.

I liked this. It was an easy way to tell you all some things about me that I would never think of. If you would like to ask me something or if you would like me to ask you five questions email me: partygirl99 at gmail dot com.

so anyway...

So, Mr. London is gone. Left very early this morning for his parent's house and then he will be in the land of princes, warm beer, and drizzly streets this day next week.

I am very glad I told him good-bye. Obviously. I needed the kick in the head (or ass, depending on which end you want) that ptg gave to me (she really is a therapy genius. Just sayin'.) I immediately called and left an, oh, so eloquent phone mail message for him. Then after a wonderful game of phone tag we made a date for Monday night. After a lovely dinner together and some much needed cuddle time on the big, ugly, comfy couch it was time for me to see him to my door one last time. Each time he left my apartment I always wondered when the next time would be that he would appear on the other side; Monday night was the last time for his entrance and exit from my apartment.

With his arm around me and my head on his chest I told him I will miss him. To which he replied, "I'm going to miss you, too, but it's not like I'm dying." Kind of put it into perspective for me, but to myself I thought, No, just going to London.

After we said our good-byes I walked him to my door, took his arm and told him I had something I needed to say to him. In my, oh, so un-eloquent way I told him what I had been keeping inside for four months. Well, almost everything. His head didn't technically explode, but I could clearly register panic on his face. Although he and I are very affectionate, cuddly, loving people, mushy sentimentality, we aren't good with. Our actions spoke volumes, but not always our words, what little sentimentality we did say, usually boomed with affection. I'll get better at expressing my emotions. (I'm almost sure of it.) (Pretty positive.) (I'm going to try really hard.) I took one last picture of us together, seeing as how he hates getting his picture taken, I had one chance, literally one shot, to capture our last moment together. He looks adorable. My mouth is open. He thought that was appropriate. Hmmmm. Apparently I'm gabby.

Anyway, the big break through moment came for me on Sunday. Once again crying without cause or warning; (been my typically Sunday since December) the reason I couldn't, didn't want to, wasn't able to find the words to express to him how I felt and what I wanted was because I was afraid that I would freak him out and then ruin what little time we had together, essentially I was afraid of losing him. The ironic part and what I hit myself upside the head with on Sunday was, I'm losing him regardless. No matter what I do or say, or didn't do or say, he is leaving. No matter what. London is not going to stop calling. Duh. Sadly or wonderfully, I didn't realize this until Sunday.

So, of course we promised each other we will keep in touch. Of course. I truly hope we do and I truly hope he shows up on the other side of my door someday, someday not too far into the future. I also truly hope I didn't miss a chance or an opportunity for happiness and for someone wonderful to be in my life. I don't think I did, but I guess the truth is I may not ever now. Learn it from me kids, fear is a bitch.

What I do know for sure is that I met, fell in love with, and had an amazing time with a man who was truly worthy. Worthy of me, truly. This is a huge thing for me. Sad that it took until I was 32 to find someone, but at least I did. I also know that I am going to be taking a break from dating. The next person who wants to date me is going to have some very big shoes to fill and will need to prove his worthiness to me in many ways. However, I know next time, when I'm in love again, that I won't be so afraid to say how I feel. I won't be so afraid to say, I'll go with you, or they can go with me. Wherever that is, I'll go with you.

So, you say it's your birthday...

Well, what do you know, it's my birthday, too!

I'm a whopping 33! Big, big things, and good, good, great fabulous things are going to be coming my way this year. I just know it!

the hardest thing to be in the world

...seems to be a friend. Not in terms of me being a friend to someone, but in terms of someone being a friend to me. Trust is the hardest thing for me to do, yet I seem to continue to trust the wrong people. Over and over again I find this to be true.
Sad.
I was recently betrayed by a girlfriend who I was very close with. She had become my “go to” person when I needed a shoulder, but easily so because we work together. I misjudge my trust.
Literally weeks ago I had confided in her why I have the issues I have with people and in terms of my relationships and why Mr. London has meant so much to me. Literally days later she betrayed that confidence and my feelings towards Mr. London.
As all things seem to be lately it is a very convoluted story, but the short of it is that she “found” all of his belongings on craigslist and then went to his apartment to buy some things.
She went over to his apartment that I know of, more than five times…to buy stuff.
She met his parents.
Something I hadn’t even had the chance to do. I was upset by this for obvious reasons, but specifically because I had told myself that if I ever met his parents I would thank them for raising such a good man. Obviously, I won’t, nor did I, have the chance to do that.
When I found all of this out, from him in a very excited way, because Gosh! What a small world and how random that a friend of mine would find and buy all of his material goods! I confronted her and told her in a very ballistic and then in a very calm and rational way how I felt about the whole situation. I wasn’t comfortable with it. I didn’t like it. I felt as if she was lying and hiding things from me, which only makes me believe more is going on. I firmly, plainly, told her to: not to email him, not to call him, not to buy anything else, not to contact him in any way. I told her this several times within the context of one phone call and then several times within the next several days.

Oh look. Foreshadowing.

Not only did she do all of the above, she also kept it from me again.
Hello. He is going to tell me.

Essentially she has become the other woman.
As a result I feel no differently toward Mr. London at this point than I do toward any other man I’ve been involved with. She has turned what I felt toward him into nothing. And I hate her for that.
I cannot believe the betrayal.
I would never treat someone who is supposed to be my friend in this way.
I would never treat anyone this way.
I feel it was all deliberate and I feel she did exactly what I told her not to do simply because I told her not to.
What kind of friend does that?
One that is no longer mine.
The sad thing is we work together.
The good thing is I think she will be quitting soon due to a reprimand she received last week.
The sad thing is Chris leaves this weekend….and I don’t care.
That…that is heartbreaking.

word origin: pussy

I know the dorking is a day late, but is it a dollar short? I was busy not working at work yesterday. I did however book my dream vacation. More on that later.


According to the Oxford English Disctionary, puss was used as a "call-name" for cats in both German and English, but pussy was used in English more as a synonym for "cat": compare "pussycat". In addition to cats, the word was also used for rabbits and hares as well as a humorous name for tigers. In the 19 century, according to the Oxford English Dictionary, the meaning was extended "in childish speech, applied to anything soft and furry", as in pussy willow. In thieves' slang, it meant "fur coat".
(So what would a shaved one be called in slang?)

To pussyfoot around the question or point means to be evasive, cautious, or conceal one's opinions. The reference is to the careful soft tread of the cat and has no vulgar implications, other than obvious ties to weakness, which "pussy" sometimes connotes.
(Hey, my pussy isn't weak)

it's called a vagina

...or a pussy. Whichever you prefer. But please, no va-jay-jays, cooters, crotches, beavers, down-theres, who-whos, yum-yums, or ho-hos.

There are two things that make me wonder about a person: someone who can't be honest about their age and someone who can't say vagina (or pussy. Whichever you prefer.) Now, this can go for men just as much as it can for women. Well, actually come to think of it I don't know of any men who don't call their penis something other than a cock or a dick..there might be a few wieners out there, but I'm thinking by a certain point men, boys, stop calling their penis a willy and it suddenly matures into a dick and then suddenly it becomes a cock. (Somewhere around 21-23 years of age. Just a guess.) Yet, women never seem to out-grow the cute little nicknames for their vagina, why? I can see the va-jay-jays, and who-ha's, but the "down there" which is usually accompanied by a finger point and a whisper? C'mon. How insecure are you about your sexuality? Well, at least that's my thinking. It's called a vagina. (or a pussy) Do women call it their who-ha during their yearly? Do they whisper, "down there" to their lover? As in, "Honey, I really want you to eat me out "down there" tonight..." Down where? Australia? Seriously.

People who aren't honest about their age: Why? Whatchya trying to hide? What are they afraid of, ashamed about? That's my perception anyway. On a lot of the blogs I read or just in general people I encounter on a daily basis and age isn't mentioned, but it is referred to in a post, as "a critical moment in my years"..."or I'm approaching a milestone age-wise..." but then a number isn't given, well why not? I guess I think we should all be proud of our accomplishments and failures and any milestones we reach and achieve age-wise or otherwise, but that's just me. On the blogs I read that don't have very much info in way of profiles the thing I am most curious about isn't location, but age. Age tells a lot in way of commonalities and also when referencing something. If a person is talking about high school and the cool band of the day, well was it Loverboy, Winger, Journey, Nirvana, or New Kids on the Block? Kinda makes a difference in the perception of the conversation.

Same with vagina's and cocks. If someone calls their cock a willie or their vagina a cooter... where's the sexiness in that? I'm going to beat that willie into a cock and I'm going to shave that cooter into a pussy. But that's just me.

Imagine London

That's what my Travel magazine asks me to do, to imagine London. When I arrive in my apartment and riffle through my mail only to discover yet another reference to a land across the pond, I am irritated and I tell the magazine that lay upon my counter-top staring back at me as much. Actually, I yell in a very defeated voice, "I get it!" I am tired of all of the signs and references to some place that I am not going, but the man who I am in love with is leaving me for. I know I won't going with him, I know it is pointless to ask or even dream about, therefore all references to the land of fairies, goblins, castles, princes, warm beer, and misty streets can cease once and for all.

I throw the magazine on my catch-all known as my kitchen table and go about my days of fuzzy memories, all consuming thoughts about life and how it isn't working out, and the life plans that are all convoluted are left swirling in my head. But, that magazine cover won't leave me alone. Every time I go into my kitchen it stares at me. It's cover screaming at me telling me to Imagine London. Imagine London in all of her glory with the backdrop of Parliament in the warm glow of a sunrise, Imagine London. Grrrrrr.

I know what you're thinking, why don't I just throw it away? Cause I can't. I need to Imagine London, after all she is beckoning me, so why not entertain the thought, the visions, the chippy accents, strange money, cocky educations, smoky pubs, and damp days, why not torture myself a little bit longer? Plus, I still need to read the $3.95 magazine and see what the glory of London would behold for me. In short, I don't want to. I like the misery.

Finally after reading the article and flipping through the pages that I had dog-eared I throw it back on the catch-all. Then I throw it into the book bin catch-all, still visible, yet seemingly out of sight.

Then I start to do my own things. I apply for jobs at Harvard and Cornell. I start to look into grad school programs that are nowhere near here. I book and paid for my trip to Greece. I start to daydream again. I start to think and imagine a life outside of here, outside of myself, outside of my current life. I start to imagine London. I start to think about London for myself, by myself. I start to dream and think about the possibility of the impossible. Me, in grad school. Me, on my own somewhere else. Me, in a different job. Me, as an artist. Me, in Greece by myself. Me, in London. Imagine. And that's what I've started to do. I've started to believe in me again. To believe in my possibilities. To believe in the impossible.

I've always been my own best cheerleader, but I've also always been my own worst critic. I'm now becoming my own best cheerleader again. Mr. London was a positive force in my life in many respects. I fell in love for the first time. I fell for a really good man and not an ass like I normally do. I met a wonderful new friend who I've had a lovely time with over the past several months. But most importantly, without him even knowing or being aware of it, he made me believe in myself and he made me imagine things bigger and better than myself and outside of my world. I started to imagine huge things and changes, I started to imagine London for myself, in my own way and in my own dream, not piggy-backing someone else's dreams and goals.

I've been asked by everyone who knows the situation, "Why aren't you going with him?" Well, for one I wasn't asked, but I also don't think I'm supposed to, not yet. I think I'm supposed to go when it's right for me, when they are my own dreams, goals, possibilities that I am imagining, not someone else's. I look forward to that day and I also think it's a lot closer than even I know or could possibly realize.

where my ass will be in May

Greece.

Specifically my ass will be in Mykonos, Santorini, and Athens.

Even more specifically it will be there from May 7-17.

I paid for it last week.

Of course there is a convoluted story to go with the booking and finalizing of it, but I'm tired of the convolutedness. I'll just say, I didn't mean to actually book and pay for it when I did (there has been a definite mind, body, brain, awareness that has been lacking with me) and I proceeded to freak-out immediately following the point, click, paid process. See, I hadn't finalized with my prof if I could go. I had purchased the, "cancel for any reason" insurance. And yes, that is literally what it is called. But, believe it or not, I cannot, in fact, cancel for any reason. I just kept telling Abby, that was the girl on the phone who I was trying to be calm and rational with, that it really needed to be renamed cause something called, cancel for any reason leads me to believe that I can, in fact, cancel for any reason.

Anywho...

I'm going. Barring hell or high water, which the way my life has been going for the past several months wouldn't be a stretch, my ass will be on a beach, in the ocean, meandering through ancient ruins in May. I also really want to make a weekend in New York the weekend before I leave, but I need another $500.00 to make that happen. Any takers? Or I guess it would really be, any givers. Anyone?

Hello?

So yeah. As of right now and for the past couple of days I've gotten over myself and I am picking myself up. Of course there is a convoluted story to go with that as well, but I'll save it for another day.
Thanks all, for listening to me over the past months. Really, thanks.