Oooooh, You Smell Good: How to Explain the Scent Newly Taken Women Give off to Dogs

The last time I had an actual boyfriend:

• “If You Had My Love” By JLo was a #1 hit
• “The Blair Witch Project” was the surprise movie hit of the year
• I was rocking a silver, “No Limit Soldier” chain and thought I was pretty cool
• Gas was around $1.17 per gallon
• I was still having long, drawn-out AOL Instant Messenger sessions with my friends back home
• I was drinking St. Ides Special Brews

For the last decade, I have been involved in several scenarios, arrangements, and “situations”. I never liked anyone long enough to call them my own, and during this tenure of single life, I was only approached sporadically. I know it’s hard to believe, but it’s true. Over the years, I’ve been constantly asked, “Why don’t you have a boyfriend?”, and I became sick of replying that no one ever really asks me out. Everyone would always say that they didn’t believe me; that I was being bashful, but it’s always been the honest truth.

I know many of you can relate to that odd phenomenon of never being approached when you’re single and hoping that someone will soon make you half of their Bonnie/Clyde, Ike/Tina, Kim Kardashian/Some Random Dude (maybe not the best examples, but hey, they were all couples). You are trying to patiently wait for love to come find you, but all you get is the weird guy in the corner of the bar, who smells funny and is currently “between gigs”. It’s as if the raw scent of singledom is man-repellant- something you spray on, resulting in the absence of any quality man-candy, and the attraction of the occasional gnat.

And then a miracle happens… love comes along, and knocks you right off your feet! You turn in your third-wheel card and boom! You have yourself a man!

I recently ended my drought of being the single one in the bunch, and got myself a boo. A Boyfriend. A man. A partner. A person who I can make do stuff. And I haven’t been happier. After countless horrible dates, questionable lapses in judgement, and about 5 male friendships ruined, I have a person again. But along with that, there’s been a renewed interest in me, which has been pretty much been absent since I was dating Usher’s dopppledanger in the summer of 1999.

Now, I’m not saying that I have never been approached over the years, because I most certainly have- but not to the degree of fervor that’s happening now that I’m taken. This recent interest in me has confirmed that there is a physical scent that newly, coupled women (and men) give off that causes the dogs, leeches, scallywags, and skanks to come out of the woodwork and try to ruin a good thing.

Men who never returned my phone calls are suddenly texting me out of the blue. Guys who didn’t make it to a second date are shooting me “Let’s get together emails”. The chaps I used to fawn over who didn’t give a second look are now falling over themselves to talk to me. Where were you people when I was going to Kings of Leon concerts by myself? Why were you not around when I was chanting “Let’s Go Heat” with an empty seat next to, pretending that my “friend” was running late? I must also divulge another side effect of  what I like to coin “The Fresh Off the Market Scent”. The aura around me has also lured a freakishly large number of married and taken men. What is that all about? They should be the last ones approaching attached women, but apparently I have an iridescent hologram flashing “JUMP-OFF” on my forehead. And they won’t go away. Some of them actually think that they’re going to get somewhere. Must we revisit Delivery Boy from the Valentine’s Day fiasco? He questioned the validity of my newly minted union due to the impending Doomsday- perhaps that was his way of trying to get a date. EPIC FAIL.

And women aren’t the only ones who give off this scent. I imagine that it’s even worse for unavailable men. We’ve all heard of the “ring” trick- this involves single men purposely wearing a wedding ring in order to attract more women. And apparently it works. Which means our world is in a pretty sad state of affairs- no one wants you when you’re single, and everybody is scrambling for you once you become attached. Perhaps it’s the thrill of the chase, or the excitement of going after the unknown. But a warning to all of those who want to chase after danger: If you keep running after something that belongs to someone else, you may end up with one of two things: heartache and/or a prescription (no explanation needed).

-KEEP IT A HOT MESS

*All photographs used are courtesy of Goggle Images. I do not claim the rights to these photographs.

“TEXTS FROM IDIOTS” : Volume 1, Issue 1

I teased everyone awhile ago that I was going to release from time to time some of the ridiculous messages I tend to receive from the male species.  You have already had the pleasure of seeing me embarrass the hell out of the “Chef”, who told me that people from New York City were better than anyone else in the United States ( read http://hotmesslife.wordpress.com/2011/07/14/the-dirty-south-the-land-of-the-spontaneous-oh-and-apparently-new-yorkers-are-great-planners/)- all via a sweet text message, no less.

This recent gem comes from a lovely gentleman from a dating website I was a member of ( I know, it’s impossible to think that someone with my charm and wit would need to resort to trolling the nets for love). It all started when the guy, let’s call him Super Awesome, sent me a message saying he liked my profile, blah blah blah. He also immediately asked for my name and phone number. I politely thanked him for the sweet message, threw him a bone and told him my REAL name, but completely ignored his requests for my digits. I received another message soon after, saying “  Nice to meet you Michelle, and may I have your phone number?” Again, I try to take the dignified route and ignore his request, replying with a ” I don’t like to give out my number that fast” diddy. Um, this is the reply I got ( I CANNOT MAKE THIS UP):

Message received from “SuperAwesome”- Mar 25, 2012 – 6:15pm

 why? you have had bad experiences

why? does it send a message to the guy your easy

why? b/c every guy on here ask for your number
fast and you rather see who can put together
premeditated words over 2 weeks that may
seem like he is someone interesting and
patient but you meet him and its not the person who
wrote all those thought up things?

why????? just wondering?
Message sent to “Super Awesome” from ” You’ve Got to Be Kidding Me”- Mar 25, 2012 – 6:15pm

Wow…you just provided me the perfect reason not to give you my number… thanks for saving me a few weeks. Also, your grammar is atrocious.

I deleted my profile soon after that. I rather be single than deal with idiots who can’t spell.

-KEEP IT A HOT MESS

 

*All photographs used are courtesy of Google Images. I do not claim rights to the photographs.

How to Improperly Crash a Bachelor Party in Boston

My girlfriends and I took a summer trip to Boston last year, and pretty much wore out daytime activities. We walked the whole city (twice), took in the fireworks (it was Fourth of July Weekend), visited the North End a million times ( hung out with Pauly AND Mike), and also attempted to recreate the Town by robbing little kiosks on Boston Common. When the sun was shining, we had so much to do, but we were ready for some Beantown nightlife!

Well, we didn’t realize that a holiday weekend in Boston meant no one would be in the streets- literally. On one particularly breezy night, we passed by several clubs, and the only thing separating us from the entrances was the velvet rope and a fat, balding bouncer. What made it worse was that we were dressed up and literally had nowhere to go. We walked for what seemed like 50 blocks, until my friend, who had on 5 inch heels, halted in her tracks. ” I am starving, and we need to stop walking”. This was taken as a serious and potential threat to our lives.

The sad thing was, we couldn’t find anywhere to eat. No P.F. Chang’s, no Friday’s, not even an Applebee’s. So we made a decision to walk one more block, and if no food or drink were found, we were going to head back to the hotel for some “Hot Pot Buffet” (CHINATOWN SON!). We see a bit of promise in a neon-lit sign, beckoning us from the left side of the street. There’s two places, the Tavern and Intermission, right next door to each other. Tavern had already stopped serving food (it was only 10pm!), so that place was out. I then asked the doorman at Intermission if their kitchen was open, he said yes, and boom!- we had a place to hang out for the evening.

The food and drink were awesome at Intermission, so we decided to stay there for the evening. Although the place was empty, we were creating our own fun, mostly imagining our future wedding parties and recreating the “On The Floor” J. Lo video. We were pretty much in our own world when the bar door opens, and in walks a parade of guys, joking and laughing loudly. Hmm, the night just got interesting…

 I didn’t really pay them too much attention, but one of my girlfriends thought one of the guys was really cute, so the topic turned to the 7 Dwarfs that just entered the pub. The Peanut Gallery then decided it would be a GREAT idea if I went up to these fellas and talk to them. Why? They couldn’t come up with a good reason, but my friend was so adamant that she talk to a really hot guy that night, that I was forced to throw myself into the fire. What the hell…

So I go up to the bar, excuse myself, part the sea of dudes, and lamely ask the bartender for more lemons ( I couldn’t think of anything else-sue me). I then nonchalantly ask the guy to my left if he knows of any bars that stayed open past 2am. He tells me that he’s not from Boston, but he’ll ask his friend who lives there, and then reveals that they’re in town for Beantown’s bachelor party- HOW NICE! So we make small introductions, and I know the girls are wondering what in the world I am doing. The guy I was talking to who just happened to be named Spike proceeds to tell me that they are all from the same hometown as my girlfriend, and OH! this night just got better! I demurely say, “Oh, my friiiiieeeeeeend oooooooooovvvverrrrrr there is from BLAH BLAH too”, and they all look over at once. The girls light up like fireworks. I offer to buy Beantown the Bachelor a shot, and he claims he doesn’t want to drink. I then tell the group that I am going to return to my friends, but if BB changes his mind, just give a hand signal and I’ll return to the bar. I saunter back over to our booth, where I am immediately bombarded with questions regarding, who, what, and single status. I am quickly interrupted by two of the guys flapping their arms up and down in an odd flying motion, which I take to be the signal. All of us get up and head to the bar, and introductions are made.

Everyone is laughing, drinking, and enjoying the moment, including my friend, who has made her way over to Dream Dude. One of  us asks what in the world they are doing in an empty bar on Bachelor Party night, and they said they were just headed over to a fine establishment called “Centerfolds”, which is “right across the street”, and oh, would we like to join? Before my lips could form the words H-to-the-NO, the owner of the bar says that he just so happens to have free passes to this fine establishment, just for us. Well then, I guess we HAVE to go now. Across the street is actually down the alley, which was a little suspect, but there were also blinking neon lights at the entrance, so I felt safe. This should be fun…

But then we walk in, and a girl was dancing to “All the Small Things”. And she was really into it. I didn’t even know this song could be on a stripper’s play list. Maybe it’s all the Na Na Nas…

I have never seen dancers like this. Not that I frequent gentlemen’s clubs or anything, but in Miami, someone dancing to Blink-182 on a pole would NEVER fly. Not even at Tootsie’s. Our party took a seat at a few tables upstairs where we could see all the action. Which wasn’t much, trust me. For one thing, all the dancers were extremely tiny (hey, we have a girl down here named Tipdrill), and no rhythm whatsoever. I’m not sure if they were attempting to dance with the melody of the music, or tried to go along with the words. But it was like watching a car accident in slow motion. Except there were really bad strippers in the street, trying to guide traffic. At one point, I was forced to go down to the main floor with about 3 of the guys, to “get a better look”. I didn’t know that meant sitting around the rim of the stage, so close to the dancer that I could see the glitter on her butt. I sat there and tried not to looked involved, but then I start to feel sorry for Glitter Butt. I think her stage name was actually Butterfly, but she was really terrible. I don’t know what was worse- the fact that she was dancing like a zombie while looking at herself in the mirror, or that she had chosen Joe Budden’s diddy ”Pump it Up” to groove to. One of the guys folded a dollar up and stood it up on the side of the stage, and she smiled, and picked it up. Well, I thought I would do it too- so she would have at least 2 bucks. I actually found a bill on the floor that she never noticed, and recycled by putting it on the stage like a Jenga block. She smiled at me, so of course I got nervous and decided that it was time to go. Unfortunately, it took us awhile to get out of there, because the guys made the mistake of getting Beantown Bachelor a lap dance from a girl who claimed to be a math major. He literally left the club kicking and screaming, yelling out, “But she’s really a SCIENTIIIIST!”

Once we exited the club, the group thought it would be a great idea to walk back to their hotel, because they had a jacuzzi, or a pool table or something- I don’t really remember what the bait was. They said their hotel wasn’t far, only a 10 minute walk down “this way”…

Well, 20 minutes “this way” turned into 3 hours of walking aimlessly around the streets of Boston. Every time we reached a corner, the 10 of us would stop dead in our tracks and try to have a serious conversation about which way to go next. Then we went in the other direction. We were so out of it, the following actions apparently happened within a span of 180 minutes:

• Dream Dude dropped to his knees in the middle of the street and started singing Usher’s ultra-romantic “Nice and Slow” at the top of his lungs… to no one in particular
• One of the guys planked the following objects:  a USPS mailbox, the top of a church gate, and a row of bushes. The whole party was wary of the bushes attempt, but evidently he lasted about 5 seconds on top of the shrubs, and we declared victory
• We literally walked 500 miles

• We came across a speed trap on a desolate residential street. A couple of the guys decided that it would be awesome to channel Usain Bolt and run past the trap to see how fast they were going. I’ve never seen anyone run so fast and only clock in at 7 mph

Oh, in the time it took us to sing R& B and plank a house of worship, we apparently walked from Boston Common over to Harvard. I am not sure how far that is, but it seems like a lot….

-KEEP IT A HOT MESS

*All photographs are courtesy of Google Images. I do claim rights to any of the photographs

Cupid Doesn’t Lie

*IMPORTANT NOTICE: I grappled back and forth with the decision to tell this story. It is completely embarrassing for all parties involved and at times, utterly unbelievable, but it is completely true. I felt it was my duty to share this moment with you, to further prove my point that my love life is a hot ass mess. I have enough terrible love moments for about 13 lifetimes. I hope this is all preparing me to meet the man of my dreams (I think I may have met him)… Enjoy!

My boss knows me so well. She is so in tune with me, that she had me work late on Valentine’s Day, to spare me from having to sit in my living room alone, eating the obligatory chocolates and watching Cupid-esque themed NBC shows. I was thankful for the distraction, and looked forward to going straight to bed after work, in order to see the dawn of February 15th as soon as possible.

I exchanged Valentine’s Day cards with a few coworkers, and was the recipient of some awesome candy, as well as the remnants of my birthday gifts. The day had me in high spirits, and I was even working on a little V-Day something-something thousands of miles away. I was coasting through the day with a permanent cheese on my face. Until…

Later on in the evening, as I was mentally attempting to make the night fly by, I received a visitor from another planet. Let’s call him Delivery Guy (DG for short). He approached with a slight hesitancy, and mumbled a quick hello. Now, I know OF this guy, but I don’t KNOW this guy. DG has approached me on several different occasions, all very awkward attempts to “get to know me” as he asked me about work. Each time, I am very friendly (except the one time he nearly followed me to my car, and I was ready to jam keys into his thigh), because I just saw him as a harmless, nervous dude. I will explain the source of my initial hesitancy in a bit, as I am digressing…

I returned the gesture with a slow hello, already wondering why he was hovering around my desk at 9:30pm. He nervously asked me how I was doing, all the while having one hand behind his back. Now, I’ve seen enough Law and Order/Criminal Minds episodes to prepare myself for an attack at anytime, so I was completely ready to lunge forward and kick, when he said, “I just wanted to come by and say Happy Valentine’s Day”, and whipped a dozen roses from behind his back…

To say I was stunned would be an understatement. Mind you, this act of Cupid did not occur in an intimate setting, but rather in front of my entire staff and one other colleague. It is for this reason I was not able to enjoy this act of embarrassment alone, rather it played out in front of about 15 people, who were all obviously VERY happy for me. The proof was in the huge grins and loud snickering they all expressed as this played out in front of them. As I took the roses, my voice rose about 10 octaves higher as I heard “Oh, wow, you didn’t have to do this, really” fall from my lips. He then told me it HAD TO BE DONE, and then sounded as if he was about to BREAK IT DOWN in front of everyone! And by that I mean, he started to use language that suggested he was going to tell me exactly how he felt in front of everyone. I must have had an out-of-body experience, because I then heard myself utter “No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, you dont’ have to do that- thankyousomuch” before he could go any further. He smiled, walked away, and then all hell literally broke loose. I never seen so many people laugh at me at once, as if I was onstage at the Improv. Someone mentioned that he looked as if he was going to propose or something, and they all started to Tebow me for the next 5 minutes.

I was so freaked out that I contemplated throwing the roses out. I was afraid to keep them on my desk, in case he thought that I was into him. But then the thought of taking them home and putting them in a vase freaked me out as well, as if he might be looking at me in the middle of the night as I went to go get a drink of water from the kitchen. Now my hesitancy was fueled by a friend’s previous encounter with DG. They went so far as exchanging numbers and talking on the phone a few times. Before she was ready to go on a date with DG, he expressed his own “Tebow status” (it may take you awhile to figure that one out), but then explained to her that he was just looking for a FWB, ultimately contradicting himself. Anybody with that type of reasoning is clearly not for me…

Soon afterwards, I had a change of heart, and felt like I may have been a huge bitch. I know it must have taken a huge pair of cajones to get the courage to give roses to someone on VDay, and in front of all those people. Although I was not interested in DG at all, I decided that I would talk to him in private, thank him, but tell him I was seeing someone, and let him down easy. Tough, but it had to be done. He actually came by at the end of the night, pulled up a chair, and said he wanted to talk about what happened earlier. Man, this was going to be easier than I thought. However, after what happened next, I no longer felt bad about my initial feelings:

(Again, I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP. Below, is a word-for-word transcript of the exchange between myself and DG)

DG: So how’s it going?

Me: Um, it’s ok…what’s up?

DG: Well, I was just wondering how you were feeling, and what you thought about what happened earlier today…

Me: Well, one, I want to say thank you again. That was really sweet of you. I was surprised, as I wasn’t expecting you to do that in front of all those people…

DG: Well, it had to be done. I’ve been watching you for a long time now, and I really want to get to know you better.

Me: …

DG: I know you may not be used to people approaching you like this, and I may not have much game, but I am willing to learn, if you are willing to teach me…

Me: Ummm, well again, I want to say that is really sweet, but I’m seeing someone right now. It’s very new, a few weeks now, but I am really happy, so nothing can really happen between us ( I smiled to ease the pain)

DG: Ok…. (awkward silence) Well, you know they say that the world is going to end in 2012, so I’m just really wondering how serious you are about this “new” relationship…

Me: Uh, are you serious? (Apparently I said this 6 times, because my coworker who “wasn’t listening” around the corner heard me utter the phrase multiple times). Who is “they?”

DG: You know, the world… I mean, I will very disappointed if I don’t make it past May 2012 without accomplishing things I wanted to do in my life…

Me: Well, no one but JESUS is going to tell me when the world is going to end, so I think you’ll be fine…

DG: Yeah, I mean if there is any part of you that is attracted to me at all, I want to know now to see if I have a chance.

Me: Well, I’m pretty happy, so that’s not going to happen, sorry. But thank you again.

(DG saunters off…)

I gave the roses to someone whose Valentine was actually in the same zip code….

-KEEP IT A HOT MESS

* All photographs used are courtesy of GOOGLE Images. I do not claim ownership to any of these photographs.

Facebook: A Lame Addiction

I must have checked my phone 50 times in the last 20 minutes. But I couldn’t open the app. I tried to check my text messages. I deleted all the conversations from the men who never responded or gave me an answer I didn’t want to hear. I smashed a few people in Hanging With Friends, and was pissed that Prince Hakeem had once again beaten me in Scrabble. I counted how minutes I used that month, tallied the number of men vs. women in my contacts, and deleted all the pictures where I had 2 or more chins. It was 2 am, and I was going crazy. My frantic antics lead me to believe a few things: 1)I needed to get a life and some sleep, 2) I may be slighty neurotic, and 3) cracking my Facebook addiction was going to be harder than I thought.

I decided about a couple of weeks ago to go on a Facebook hiatus. Being a self-proclaimed FB junkie, I wanted to examine just how much this stupid website influenced my life and my actions. Yes, I admit that I was on it all the time for reasons that most likely are completely lame, but was my life really centered around a social network? I made a point to avoid logging onto the site for a week, with the exception of promoting HML (the very website you are stalking right now) with an occasional Tweet here and there. I was certain that I could give up clicking the big, blue “F” on my phone 3,000 times a day, and do something else constructive with my time.

A few weeks later, I have come to the conclusion that Facebook was not hard to “give up”, and it is quite a laughable and completely lame addiction. Now, I did have  few moments where I was dying to know if a former coworker knew that I “de-friended” her, and if the guy I went to Tobacco Road with last Thursday had a Facebook profile. Then I realized that none of this really mattered at all, and this social phenomenon was starting to turn me into a crazy person. Being obsessed with the website was causing me to do things I would have never done before; care about things that really shouldn’t matter. Sadly, all of us have been plagued by this horrible addiction known as Facebook. Many of you will scoff at the notion that you have a problem, but you’re definitely in denial. Even if it’s not to the same extreme as others, you all must concede that you have suffered from at least one of the following conditions, as a direct result of your Facebook consumption:

1. Stabler Syndrome

Let’s “face” it. Facebook was intended for people to be able to reconnect with old friends, colleagues from old jobs, and classmates from high school. In actuality, it’s all about you getting your Law & Order SVU on and stalking your ex-boyfriend from the 10th grade, who supposedly is married with a baby on the way with that Lisa from AP Chemistry. How else would you be able to find any information on this union, other than Facebook? You start off with a name search, then filter to the city you grew up in, and you suddenly uncover the identity of the guy you SHOULD have gone to the homecoming dance with. And OMG, he’s single! And he moved to Florida too! He lives in Orlando, that’s only a 4 hour drive from Miami! He works for the Magic, and wouldn’t it be the oddest coincidence if you went to a game and ran into him and revived that old connection… wait, what was I searching for in the first place???

That’s how it happens. The site has the ability to take you down roads you have never been before. You are exhibiting your best detective work and digging up friends from kindergarten, all your exes, that guy from Spring Break junior year, and the leader of that band you used to idolize. You find yourself wanting to know all the intricacies of their lives, what their daily rituals are, and if their children are ugly. But the snooping doesn’t stop there. Don’t you DARE have a girlfriend/boyfriend and suddenly break up. Men will find themselves on their IPhones at 3am, looking through all 200 of the pictures their ex-girlfriend posted from last night’s “27th Birthday Partay!”, in which they uncovered at least FIVE photos with a Jersey Shore look-a-like with their collared pop so high, they can’t hear anything. He has his hand around YOUR woman, and WTF, they’re kissing!

Women are worse. I hate to say it but it’s true. After a breakup is fresh, you start scaling “walls” like Angelina Jolie in “SALT”, and looking for any innuendos you can find on his page, and that skank’s page as well. You see he hasn’t logged on to Facebook since 8pm last night, when he updated his status to “Bout to have the time of my liiiiiiiiiiife! Got rid of the baggage son!”  Was he talking about me?! Why hasn’t he posted anything since then? Why hasn’t he checked into 24 this morning? Is he with that SKANK?! Some women will go as far as to create a “fake” profile of some hot chick, and try to hit on their ex, in hopes that he’ll take the bait and you’ll be able to catch them in the act. But then you realize that you’re BROKEN UP, and your act of espionage has no real purpose. It’s 2:30 in the morning, you’re pretending to be a woman named Tracey with an “I”, and you’re alone. On your computer . In the dark. And it’s Friday night. Get off the computer and go get a drink. Please. Save yourself before you deprave yourself.

2. Subliminal Message Disease

I reluctantly admit that I have succumbed to this side effect of Facebook. I am not proud of my behavior. But this site does things to your psyche and oftentimes you are unable to explain your ridiculous behavior. Instead of telling someone how you really feel, you just decide to update your status to “indiscreetly” send a message to the person who you can’t seem to express your feelings to. Here are a few gems I’ve written and also seen from others:

“When a man tells you how he feels, believe him”

“The best revenge is knowing you are checking my wall EVERYDAY”

“The definition of insanity is repeating the same thing over and over and expecting different results”

“Out with the old, and in with the new. Can we say UPGRADE?”

“After you’re done dismissing everyone, remember who was here for you”

After you write it, you think you’re going to feel better about the whole situation, when in actuality nothing has changed, and he probably didn’t even understand it. You also drive yourself completely insane checking your page every 3 seconds, to see if he responded to it. After 4 hours of pure hell, you fall asleep with tears and mascara staining your pillow. You wake up and see that not only has he “liked” your status (to spite you, of course), but he’s also updated his to ” When it’s over, it’s over. Get a clue”. You immediately explode into a pink mist.

3. Self-Inflicted GPS Tracking (aka “Checking In”)

 

You are trying to become the “Mayor” of Blue Martini. I get it. For some reason, you feel like achieving this goal in your life will somehow enhance it. Make you cooler. But it doesn’t. You just look like a jerk who wants to tell people how many chances you’ve had to drink $10 martinis (in Kendall, of all places).

I used to think (let me stop lying, I still do) that “checking-in” everywhere I went was cool. How awesome will people think I am if they see I went to Jazid? Tobacco Road? Town? Denny’s? Not awesome at all, actually. While it may be noble to know I’ve been to 24 Hour Fitness 38 times, all it’s really telling people is that I have spent all this time in the gym and only managed to lose 5 lbs and pick up a weird stalking habit. All you’re really doing is stamping an online imprint of exactly where you are, so robbers have time to come to your house and steal your crap, your ex-girlfriend has the opportunity to dodge you, or your stalker can come find what bar you’re at. If I were ever to commit a serious crime, the FBI would have no trouble finding me, because I just checked into Continental Park! And no worries, if they don’t get there in time, I JUST told the whole internets that I was at Total Wine picking up some Pinot Noir. Takedown in the red wine aisle!

4. Judge Judy-itis

You are conducting business as usual (on Facebook, of course) and you see that a girl you “friended” from nursery school is having a baby. Before GETTING MARRIED. The nerve. Didn’t her boyfriend just get out of jail?  Man, she is messed up…

Facebook not only forces you to care about people who don’t matter, it also persuades you to judge the mundane activity in their lives. Who cares if the girl you can’t stand at work is having another baby outside of wedlock? Does she really even matter? And the guy from IT is posting pictures all of Facebook of his ex-wife because he is obviously bitter. Why do we CARE?????

Instead of reading a book, you’re on the site judging someone’s tacky pregnancy photo shoot. You lose hours of sleep because you’re up all night, perusing through every single picture of your best friend from high school who stopped talking to you because she lost 60 lbs. How absurd is it that you are mocking your old classmate for going out every night and having the time of her life while having three kids, and you’re at home on a Saturday night, stalking her status updates like Marky Mark in Fear.

5. Word Vomit

I really don’t care that your baby rolled over twice today. My world is not going to change after learning that you lost 5 lbs. or that you can’t seem to get rid of that migraine. You are so on love with your cat… that is AWESOME. The world can continue to spin on its axis!

This website is the one reason that people in this world “overshare”. Never has there been a platform in which people felt completely comfortable telling you every minute detail of their lives. In lieu of phone calls, we have decided to communicate to our loved ones through status updates. I have seen the birth of a child and just recently saw pictures from their first day of kindergarten, all from their parent’s Wall. I wasn’t invited to a friend’s wedding, but it wasn’t even that big of a deal. I saw a photo collage of the proposal, engagement party, bachelorette party, wedding, and subsequent reception. I was even lucky enough to go on the honeymoon as well! Those pictures of the lovely couple the moment they got on the cruise ship were just adorable!

I am 100% guilty of this, and really don’t know when I’ll stop. I have this innate desire to want to tell everyone what I’m doing from the time I wake up in the morning, until the moment I pass out at night. I feel like my day cannot be validated until I let my 705 friends know I went to work out, I had a drink, and I went to listen to jazz. Will it ever stop?

*Actually it won’t. Let me admit what just happened as I am writing this. The “SONG” that belonged to my ex-boyfriend and I just came on, and I started to linger over fond memories of him coming to see me at boarding school. Even though I have already done this, I try searching for him on Facebook for the 100th time, in hopes that he finally got with it and created a Facebook page. Alas, he has yet to do so and I still look like a lame. PLEASE HELP ME.

 

 

-KEEP IT A HOT MESS

 

*All photographs used are courtesy of Google Images. I do not the rights to any of these photographs

How to Dirty Before Thirty

When I turned 25, my roommate gave my best friend and I a book entitled “Swim Naked, Defy Gravity & 99 Other Essential Things to Accomplish Before Turning 30″, a sort of kitschy, gag gift celebrating our impending pumaness (pre-cougar status). We laughed the title off, and began to peruse through the book, searching for crimes we already committed. I thought I was doing pretty good, as I had already conquered the two tasks in the title, after a questionable RA retreat on Marco Island in college, and when I had reduction surgery that year. The BFF and I discovered that although we had done many of the things in the book like travel solo, own a cashmere sweater, and claim your granny panties, there were so many things that apparently needed to be done before we switched over to the big 3-0. According to the book, if you didn’t do these things or make these “mistakes” in your 20s, you could not properly begin to live your life in the next decade.

I uncovered the book the other day, as I was searching through the closet for my thumb drive, for the 300th time. I plopped down on my bed, thinking it would be a hilarious read to go through and see what I had “accomplished”. Now that I’m 30-whatever, I noticed that there were feats I had acheived pre- and post-30, and many I had yet to attain. I sat there thinking, is my life on the wrong track because I have yet to make brownies from scratch? Did I somehow mess with life’s design because I didn’t learn to hold my booze until after Dirty Thirty? Let’s take a look at the evidence- and YOU be the judge.

 Pre-Dirty Thirty

“Speak A Foreign Language”- I started taking Spanish classes in high school, mostly because it seemed easy and I didn’t think I would have to use it that much. In Michigan, it would have been better to take up Arabic or Chinese, but I was more focused on getting in the same Spanish 2 class as my high school crush. Two years of Espanol Dos didn’t land me the guy that I wanted, and I still couldn’t string a proper sentence together. Most of my replies to my professor’s questions began with “Pero, ummmmm….”

Then I moved to Miami. I definitely regretted not paying attention in class, as I noticed that the first time I stepped off a plane in the MIA, all the airport intercom voices were in Spanish, and the only words I understood was “Bienvenidos” and “bano”. Over the years, I have built up a Spanish vocabulary of about 3,000 words, but still cannot have a conversation with ANYONE. Sure, I can order a sandwich at Subway with lechuga y mayonesa, and even give you proper directions to the playa (by telling you to make a izquierda y derecha). But when I go over a friend’s house, and hola his abuela, she starts to go off in Espanol, I can’t return the favor.

“Declare Your Birthday a National Holiday”- My BFF and I covered this way before we hit 30. We actually made a pact in college to celebrate our birthdays with each other every year for the rest of our lives, since we were a measly 2 weeks apart. And since then, we have definitely celebrated in style over the last decade. From our unforgettable “Girls Gone Wild at 25″ party, to our Miami-to-DC-back to Miami-back to DC tradition, we have made it known to the world that we take our birthday very seriously. We create themes, we send cards, and we travel across the country to see each other, and ensure we get crazy wherever we are.  This year, we plan on traveling to the exotic locale of ORLANDO, where we will celebrate what we simply call “BIRTHDAY”, by sleeping as much as possible, spending hours at the pool drinking margaritas, and outlet mall shopping. Our most recent tradition has been to coin a catchphrase for every year. There was “31 Is More Fun!” , and now we get to do “32, Look at You!” We are so old…

“Get Waxed Down There”- I made the mistake of going to get a Brazilian in celebration of one of my birthdays. Apparently, I wanted to feel like a newborn baby when I went out that night dancing at Purdy Lounge. I was obviously hesitant at first, but all my girlfriends said that I had to do it, because I would feel like a new woman. I didn’t know that woman would be a 6-month old, in extreme pain.

I went to a spa, where patrons were in the front, sipping champagne while they received pedicures. I took this to be a good sign- surely a place that gets you drunk while they paint your toes would be a classy place. I was quickly led to a room by a woman who seemed like she liked me, because she had the lights low, candles burning, and a bubbling water fountain in the corner. She then had me lie on the table, and undress. She told me to relax and to just breathe…she then proceeded to rip out my soul down there, one wax strip at a time. I never felt such excruciating pain in my life (besides the time I got kicked in the face when I was 10). It went on for 45 MINUTES! My friends told me to get the full package, which I didn’t understand fully at the time. It wasn’t until she told me to get on all fours, that I knew I had been tricked. I left with tears in my eyes, pain in my heart, and a weird sensation in my shorts.

“Read Your Old Diaries”- I recommend EVERYONE do this, if they’ve held on to any of their journals from college, high school, or even 7th grade. If you don’t get teared up by a trip down memory lane, you will definitely laugh at the crazy junk you took so seriously when you were 17. As I looked though my old diaries, I noticed a trend in expressing my undying love for really crappy guys.  I was “in love” with about 12 people, ready to propose to 3 of them, and then was devastated when 2 of them got married. Oh, and I apparently have had the same 4 New Year’s Resolutions since 2003.

 Post- Dirty Thirty

“Invest in Earplugs”- Everyone swears up and down when they’re younger, they will never grow up to be the old lady down the street who would yell at all the neighborhood kids to keep it down. Well, I AM that woman.

I am the woman who yells at the kids who scream at the top of their lungs in the courtyards. I want to kill all the dogs that bark incessantly with no home training. The worst offender is my downstairs neighbor who has what he thinks is a muscle car. He’s been working on this P.O.S for about 5 years, or the entire time I’ve been living here. He claims to have put at least $10K into restoration projects, but the seats look like the tiger from the Hangover has been living in the front seat. Every morning, 7 days a week, he revs up the engine anywhere between 6-8am. EVERYDAY. This fool has said that he HAS to do it, to warm up the engine. But in August? When it’s 95 degrees?? I think he does it more to spite me, because this clunker is parked right under my bedroom window. I haven’t had a full night’s sleep since Ugly Betty came on the air. And it’s off already. I have wished this car a slow death many times. I have even thrown bologna and vodka on it in a drunken state, thinking that somehow each action would somehow cause the car to burst into flames. Hasn’t happened yet. But back to my point: my earplugs don’t block out the kids, the dogs, or this car. I just say a prayer everyday that I will hit the lottery or meet a man with an empty house so I can move to a cul-de-sac that doesn’t allow pets, loud cars, or people living there under the age of 6.

“Get a Massage”- I never had a professional massage in my life, up until my birthday last year. Seriously. And I don’t count the times that I have had “company”, where I would be tempted with that age-old line “Do you want to watch a movie?”, that somehow turned into “Here, let me give you a massage”. That mess doesn’t work anymore (damn, I hate having morals)….

When I received the massage gift certificate, I was excited but hesitant at the same time. I had one of those 10-min. massages that you get at the mall, and it felt like an eternity! I could not fathom how someone could rub on you for an ENTIRE HOUR. Surely, there was nothing the masseuse could do for an hour…

Well, after I received a 15 minute arm massage, I wanted to propose! But it was extremely awkward, because my masseuse was a 45 year-old woman from Colombia. I just kept my mouth shut. But it was absolutely amazing! Now I understand why housewives go to the spa for an entire day. All I had to do was lay there, and this woman removed every knot I had in my body- even in places where I didn’t know I was in pain. At the end, I just wanted to hug her and asked if she wanted to go to Greenstreet for brunch. She just laughed at me, and said that I was really stressed and needed to come back soon. Of course, I haven’t been back yet, because I am the Queen of Procrastination (one of those 4 Resolutions!) and they haven’t hired Idris Elba yet.

“Be Notorious For Something”- Now, I certainly wish I was known for something extremely cool, like being a great artist or being able to juggle, but I’m not. Besides being the greatest dancer in the world other than Chris Brown (which is a FACT), my friends and coworkers will say I’m known for one thing, and one thing only: I’m a SPELLING NINJA!

At first, I thought it was cool, that people would always come and ask me how to spell a word. It made me feel cool. Smart. But then I started to get out of control. I would spell check my text messages. I would make fun of friends who spelled something incorrectly. I would hear someone around the corner ask how to spell something like “voila”, and I could hear myself blurt out: “V-O-I-L-A, VOILA!” They would thank me, but everyone would look at me with a weird expression, as if I did something out of the ordinary. I get so anal about spelling errors, that someone just told me that my last blog had a few spelling errors, and I COMPLETELY FREAKED OUT. My friend told me this morning about the mishap, and all I could think about today was getting home to correct my mistake. Yes, I am lame… but notorious, nonetheless.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ain’t Happened Yet- Is My Life Over???

“Invest in Seriously Frivolous Undies”- I’ve always grappled with undergarments. I skipped right through training bras, and next thing you know, I have to shop with granny at Bra World, because my rack is bigger than everyone else’s in the 9th grade. I  couldn’t shop at Victoria’s Secret for a while because I had outgrown their biggest size in the store, and was relegated to catalogue shopping. My current arsenal comes from the JCP and Target’ Boutique-not quite La Perla. I keep telling myself that I deserve to buy some ridiculously expensive playthings, but need to be in video-vixen shape. Now that my next birthday is looming, perhaps I’ll go off and waste some money on something nice and naughty for myself. But only at the VS outlet, of course. Let’s not get crazy…

“Escape Creeps and Kick Criminal Ass”- I’ve never been in a fight. Ever. Once in 7th grade, a girl tried to beat me up because I was “going” with the cutest guy in our grade, but Sister Stella stopped her before she could punch me in the face. I’m glad she did, because it would have been on!

I jump when a car horn beeps. A cat crosses my path, and I freak out. I get pinched, and I want to cry. These are the valid reasons why I’ve never been in a beat down. Although I consider myself lucky, not being in a fight has prevented me from building up my self-defense skills. The weirdest part of it all is that I am so afraid of the first time I battle, and not because I’m afraid that I’m going to get my ass kicked- I’m afraid I might kill someone! And I’m being 100% serious about this. I am so terrified that because I’ve never hit anyone, I won’t know my own strength and will cause someone serious bodily harm. I also might be prone to picking up weapons instead of using the fists I was born with. I might be more inclined to jab someone in the jugular vein with a remote control instead of kicking them in the gut, which I assume will cause more harm. You can stop laughing, because it’s not funny- I’m serious.

-KEEP IT A HOT MESS

 

* All images are courtesy of Google Images. I do not own the rights to any of these photographs.

Protected: Agyrophobia is Real (And Other Reasons Activities Involving Cars in Miami Scares Me)

This post is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:

Password:

Watch My Throne

“The pinnacle of success can be determined by one’s access to their own private, office restroom.”

How do you know that you’ve made it in the corporate world? Is it the CEO title after your name? Your moniker on all the office letterhead? The corner office with the view? The hot assistant with no brains, but who wears those pants you like? You may think that those extra zeros in your paycheck or use of the company’s expense account means that you “made it”, but it’s actually the use of your own water closet that let’s the world know that you’re a BOSS.

This concept may sound completely absurd, but let’s sit back and think about this for a minute. When I worked for the University of Miami, I worked in a two-story building with limited bathrooms. Although I was lucky enough to work on the first floor that only housed three departments and MAYBE 20 people, it was still unheard of to take care of one’s business in the sole bathroom on the 1st floor. Let’s just say if one decided to do the deed on site, you were found out pretty quick- plus no one would eat with you for a week.

Everyone in my office joked about having their own “secret spot” hidden away on campus that they could go to if things got out of control. None if us ever revealed our locations, in fear that someone else would steal our secret loo spot and our sanctuary would be no more. Our office was located on the far end of campus, away from civilization and most foot traffic, so many of us had to trek quite a hike to reach our destinations. There was also an unwritten rule amongst us to never question the length of time someone was missing from the office.

My bathroom oasis was the newly built facilities on the Intramural Fields at the time. The great thing about this place was that it was ALWAYS empty and completely pristine- most of the campus didn’t even know it was there! And since students never played Ultimate Frisbee at 1pm, I was good to go! Mind you, I had several other options to choose from before I reached the fields, but all proved to be disappointments. Initially, I had to cut across the football practice fields (THAT’S A NO), the Sports Information Office (they only had 1 bathroom, where no one’s secret was safe), and finally through the tennis courts. Now, if anyone is familiar with the Schiff Tennis Center, you know there is minimal lighting in the women’s bathroom, and the places had the eerie feeling of being a back drop for a murder scene in a horrendous teen fright flick. Needless to say, I vowed NEVER to get too comfortable in a place like that, so the tennis courts were out. I hope they fixed that…

Now, I’m sure this woman doesn’t have to worry about searching through her office park to find a place to shut it down in peace. She appears happy in her office. Looks like she enjoys going to work for herself, and breezes through her day. This means that she most likely she does not work for $10 an hour, has her own toilet behind that glass window, and go to the bathroom at will! For goodness sakes, she sits on an exercise ball and has her feet all out. She’s living the life!

I’m sure there are people out there who don’t give a “crap” (THE IRONY!) about going to the bathroom at work. But I believe that everyone can definitely relate to experiencing some hesitancy when it comes doing the their dirty work AT WORK. Call me Emily Post, paranoid, or just plain weird, but I refuse to conduct my bathroom business at the office if it is not absolutely necessary. I am fortunate enough to live literally 3 minutes away from work, and can be seen sprinting away from my cubicle during the lunch hour. Unfortunately, I can no longer fool the receptionist at the front desk who has seen me go off to a “business meeting” at home, like 10 times.

In the instance where I am unable to make it to my boardroom at the crib, I liken myself to a Marine carrying out a Black Ops mission when entering the ladies’ room. I check for other occupants, the time of the day, and the severity of the mission at hand. You know the drill. You go in, wait for the last person to leave, then run into the last stall like your life depended on it. You ponder if you are actually going to do this, and pray that no one walks into the restroom. Just as you are about to exhale, you hear the door open. You gasp, and then pray that all she does is wash her hands. But she doesn’t. She takes her sweet time, as her best friend saunters in to wash her Tupperware and reapply her lipstick. You think you can hold out until they leave, but they continue to chit-chat about homegirl’s recent gallbladder surgery and her cats, all named after the Jackson 5. You realize that you just.can’t. do.this, and sulk out the stall, realizing that your 15-minute trip to the bathroom will only result in a measly hand-washing. On the flip side, if you are ever successful in your mission, you hope that you will be able to escape the restroom without anyone having an inkling of what just happened. I have such a distaste of doing such a thing at work, that I’d rather fake morning sickness than having Anne from Payroll know what just occurred in the handicap stall.

-KEEP IT A HOT MESS

 

*All images are courtesy of GOOGLE Images. I do not own the rights to any of the photographs

“Landscaping Builds Character”: What I’ve Learned From My 27 Jobs

I believe it was the summer after my freshman year at UM, when I lolly-gagged the summer along in Detroit, then decided last-minute that I needed some extra funds to pay the $20 cover at Krave and Amnesia when I went back to Miami in the fall. It was around the second week of July already, so I didn’t think ANYONE would hire me for 6 weeks- even a Target on the Eastside. Then I was introduced to the wonderful world of Temporary Agencies…

These are places where one could work for weeks at time, doing extraordinary things like stuffing envelopes, filing, or in my case, picking up trash off the side of the road and pulling weeds. My uncle set up myself and my cousin ( I wasn’t going to look dumb by myself) with a five-week job with a landscaping company that took crews around the Detroit area, doing work at large office parks, restaurants, and malls. I knew we were in for a treat when we showed up for our first shift and were the only two women there, with the exception of a questionable individual named “Lynn”. We were immediately ogled, but that admiration was quickly squashed when we were given our refried bean-colored uniforms, likening us to Luther’s Janitorial Service Crew on “Set if Off”. I know, real sexy.

We were then put on a crew of 6, led by a character we’ll call “Ricky”, who wore multiple gold chains and loved to tell stories of how he shaved ALL the hair off his body on his own. I must reiterate that the fact that we were female did not prevent these men from being disgusting, filthy neanderthals who constantly talked about women, farting, and beer. IN THAT ORDER. While actually working, we were relegated to pulling dandelions, stabbing garbage with a stick, prisoner-style off I-75, and using something called an “edger”, because they did not trust us with a lawnmower, in any form. When I told a friend about my experience once I arrived back in Miami, he hit me with this gem of wisdom: “There’s nothing wrong with landscaping. I think everyone should do it at least once in their lives. It builds character.”

I personally feel like I got nothing out of that job, besides a really bad sunburn on my forehead and an aversion to the smell of grass. Now I may not have had TWENTY-SEVEN jobs, but it’s been a definite 17 ( I worked at the JCP on two separate occasions). And I have learned so much from every last one. My first job, besides being annoying, was “Sandwich Artist” at Universal Mall in Warren, Michigan (where the term “Tramp Stamp” originated), the year I turned 16. This “mall” had nothing but a Service Merchandise, Rave, and a DEB. The real draw was the “$1.50 Show”, where you could wait 3 months to watch the latest movie for the same price as washing your clothes in the laundromat. Situated next to this Walmart of Movies was the measly Food Court, which housed  my Subway, an A & W, and some Gyro place. I did learn how to eat as many free sandwiches as I could at this establishment, but the real draw was the interaction with the customers, as well as the other food court employees. One of the most memorable characters that I can recall is a former exotic dancer who worked the register at the root beer chain’s spot, who was constantly hitting on me and trying to impress me with his Ginuwine-esque hairstyles.  Since that memorable summer of ’96, I have encountered so many individuals and experiences that have truly formed me into the weirdo that I am today. To further embarrass myself and bestow my wisdom upon my ENORMOUS audience, I give you the “Life-Lessons I’ve Learned from My Most Memorable Jobs”.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“RETAIL CONFIRMS THAT PEOPLE ARE CRAZY”

I have no idea how I ended up at JC Penney twice in one lifetime. The first time was voluntary, as it was the summer prior to me shipping off to college, the second time was not. I worked in the “Juniors” department the first time around, where I learned the value of a dollar by spending my entire paycheck on Arizona jeans with eyelet designs and plaid skirts that didn’t fit quite right. By the time I graduated to the Big Leagues, aka the Bra Department, I knew that people were crazy when it came to shopping. As a Professional Bra Fitter (not so glamorous when the majority of my “clients” were 85 year-old women from Hialeah asking “donde estan las fajas?”), I was introduced to a species of human being who felt comfortable enough to get completely naked in a fitting room, leave all the clothes OFF the hangar and on the floor, and also steal 2-for-1 Maidenform T-shirt bras. Lady, I know you came in here as a 32A. You are not leaving here as a natural 38DD under that Worthington sweater set. Give me back those bras.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“PEOPLE WILL PAY A LOT OF MONEY TO GET DRUNK”

I returned to Detroit one summer for a change of scenery, then thought it would be better for my life to move back to Miami with no job and living in my BFF’s spare room- which was actually a closet for his dogs. I then decided to take up the art of “mixology”, or bartending in the real world. After a strenuous two-week course learning how to drown a tequila sunrise with more Minute Maid than Cuervo, I was set up with a job at a hotel sports bar- which would have been great if the hotel side was not likened to a pay-by-the-hour establishment. The hotel was in an interesting part of town, but the craft did deliver on the dividends. I made an insane amount of money! I was astounded at the amount of money: 1. people paid for drinks and 2. people tipped if you made their drinks REALLY strong. The drunker the patrons became, the nicer they were, and the wider the wallets opened. I could have stayed in the profession, except I had this nagging $1,000,000.00 in student loans I needed to pay back and felt that my mom probably didn’t want me to pursue making DRANKS after we had to give up a kidney and someone’s unborn baby for me to go to school. I even did private bartending at one point, where the real money was. I was lucky enough to not get solicited for weird fetish acts when I posted my services on Craigslist and the like, and even made a few friends at the parties I did. My signature drink was even concocted at the 2nd annual Christmas party I bartended for a couple of doctors who insisted that I trademark my “Baja Hypnotini”. Soooo glad I was never involved any “Eyes Wide Shut” scenarios.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“GRAVEYARD SHIFTS ARE NOT FOR THE WEAK”

Yes, I worked the 11pm-7am shift at Denny’s my senior year in college. Yes, it was fun at times. It was also a nightmare in other instances. I personally feel you have not been a true waiter/waitress until you have sat in a desolate diner at 4am, with your only customer being a vampire. This assumption is pretty much verified with the fact that all he eats is a slice of apple pie, continues to drink multiple 16 oz. glasses of milk, and will not look you in the eye. His skin is also the color of college-ruled paper.

You also learn the lengths people will go to eat really cheap food. As this particular establishment was across from campus, a lot of my customers were students and friends of mine. There was a fantastic entrée known as a “Grand Slam” that would sell for the awesome price of $1.99 (regularly $4.99)- but one had to wait until the 5am hour for the price to go into effect. My friends, football players, and prostitutes, would crowd the entire dining room area and order multiple Cokes for hours on end, until the clock rang cinco, and then all hell broke loose. All this commotion for two runny eggs, questionably cooked-bacon, and soggy toast?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“PEOPLE TAKE THEIR SPORTS VERY SERIOUSLY”

I’ve worked in both the collegiate and professional sport industry, and it baffles me when people turn completely insane when it comes to their teams. Although touted as a luxury purchased with disposable income, you would think people have been separated from their first-born when something goes wrong at a game. I’ve been threatened, almost set on fire (FSU/UM week, circa 2006), and attacked by children while wearing an Obie the Orange mascot costume (kids are crazy!). I understand that many live and die by their teams ( I mean, I do bleed orange and green!), but just because you don’t get to sit on the 50-yard line like you feel you deserve, the team is not going to implode. After all, the team’s not called the “Jose DOLPHINS”.  It’s the city’s team, big guy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“CORPORATE AMERICA IS EAST SIDE/BAYSIDE HIGH… WITHOUT THE VIOLENCE OR LAUGH TRACK”

You would think that when people get older and begin to establish themselves in the working world, they would behave as adults. This is not always the case. After I graduated college, I have worked in several different environments that resemble the teen angst in movies like “The Breakfast Club” and “Just One of the Guys”. There are office cliques, gossip, even hesitancy on where to sit in the office cafeteria. If you talk to one colleague and they are at war with another, you can feel forced to pick sides. What is this a Zach Morris vs. A. C. Slater conundrum? Come on people, let’s grow up.

-KEEP IT A HOT MESS

 

* All photographs used are courtesy of Google Images. I do not own the rights to any of these photogrpahs”

This Biscuit Needs Butter…Why I Apparently Need a Makeover

Whenever I am with my mom, she constantly sends me subliminal messages regarding my current state of dress. Once we went out for a family dinner to our local pizzeria, and she inquired on whether I was going to change. I asked what for, as all we were going to do was eat pizza with the family. She gave my white khakis and grey “OBAMA FOR YO’ MAMA” shirt a once-over and rolled her eyes. Okay, maybe that particular ensemble isn’t the best evidence to plead my case…

My mother then went on her repeated diatribe on how I dress like I don’t care what people think about me. I also dress as if I don’t want a husband, like I’m going to the gym, and that I must only take 15 minutes to get dressed at any given time. She is accurate in the sense that I don’t care what other people think of how I dress, because I like to be comfortable. However, she is incorrect because I would like a husband EVENTUALLY, just not right now. That would cause me to have to learn how to cook something other than an omlette and learn how to listen to people when they are talking. Oh, and I usually only take about 10 minutes to get dressed in the morning, including the application of face paint (aka MAKEUP).

But I do understand where my mother is coming from. She’s not the only one that tells me that I should take more time to put myself together, as the majority of my friends feel the same way. I have conducted several meetings with the IP conglomerate and most of them have told me that I am “too cute” to not care about my clothes, not know enough about makeup, and that there is no reason I should not be on 2 dates per week. I get bombarded with these messages so much, that I’m starting to believe them. Here’s a rundown of a few other gems:

“You wear too much black!”

“Your eyes are too pretty to have those jacked up eyebrows…”

“You should be getting a manicure and pedicure AT LEAST every 3 weeks”

“Did you do your hair this morning?”

“Are you sure you put makeup on? Lip gloss does not count!”

“You don’t even MATCH!”

“You’re already to go? You took 15 minutes to get dressed!”

“Are you sure you want to wear that?”

Now don’t get me wrong, I have been known to take my time and put on makeup, nice clothes and do my hair- and the finished product is pretty sweet. But it usually takes 2 hours and half a bottle of wine to complete that masterpiece. Who has that time EVERYDAY to iron out their clothes, apply a fresh coat makeup, AND make sure their hair doesn’t look crazy? I’m simply too impatient for all of that. I guess all my girlfriends have this craft mastered because they’ve been doing it for so long, but it’s kind of annoying. But then again, so is being single…

Now that we’re on the subject of LOVE & DATING, my hesitancy is further fueled by the fact that I know that it doesn’t take all that for a man to be attracted to you. I was once approached by a young gentleman who inquired on the status of my love life as I wore a pair of cutoff football sweat pants and a ragged  Tootsie’s ” I Love Strippers” T-Shirt in the line at Starbucks. Ok, maybe the shirt got him, but you get my point. Like babies and puppies, are men attracted to shiny things to play with, in this case, a pretty girl with rosy cheeks and painted nails? YES. But in the end, will they still play with their own poop and be just as happy and amused? HELL YES. You get my point. However, my mother ( along with my cousin, my granny, 3 of my girls, and at least 2 strangers) believe that men would be flocking to my door if I just put myself together. Who knew that all I had to do to get a man was iron my clothes before I put them on, paint my toenails red, and put on some eyeshadow?

But I believe in trying new things, and am willing to work on this phenomenon of being “ladylike”. I have a decided to conduct an experiment of sorts, and actually do all of these things the people in my life claim I’m not doing right. I am going to sacrifice sleep to wake up earlier to get myself together in the morning. I’ll ask my girlfriends to take me shopping to buy different clothes to fit my body. I’ll even pluck my eyebrows. This won’t be easy, but if something drastic happens like Brad Pitt asking me out for dinner at Morton’s, then I guess it’ll be worth it. I would start tomorrow, but I think I need to rest up this weekend and read some books about foundation and how to walk in 5-inch heels, Wish me luck…

-KEEP IT A HOT MESS

(All photos are courtesy of Google Images unless otherwise specified. I do not own the rights to any of the photographs)