A few days before Jamie took off to Vegas she asked me to guest post on her blog. While I’m happy that she handed over the blog reigns to me, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t the least bit jealous. I was planning on joining her, but after the guilt trip I got from my mom & fiancé about spending money on a vacation when I should be saving for a wedding the closest I was getting to Vegas was seeing The Hangover in theaters this weekend (flipping hilarious by the way).

But seriously, my brain must be in Vegas or something because I cannot think of anything worth sharing.

First I was thinking writing about how awesome Jamie is, but you all already know that (but she totally is). I totally have a blog crush on her. And she’s an even better dinner date.

Then I was like, well I can list all the reasons why I’d rather be in Chicago than Vegas. Besides the Printer’s Row Lit Fest and ‘Chicago is the New Vegas’ meetup, nothing earth shattering happened. And the weather sucked. Big time. Last time I checked, it was June not March.  Plus I heard Vegas has a Serendipity, and Chicago is severely lacking in that department. So, Vegas-2 Chicago-0.

So instead I just rambled my way through this post by writing about what I wasn’t going to write about. Does that even make sense?

While part of me wishes I was partying it up with the best of them in Vegas, I know I’ll get to meet many of you in a few weeks here in Chicago.

And I can’t wait for my next dinner date with Jamie so she can fill me on all the details!

there are laws against drinking and driving, drinking and boating, drinking under the age of 21, and in some states there are even laws about drinking and bike riding.

but there is one drinking and _____________ law that is missing from the world.

drinking and internetting. 

internetting (it’s a word cause i just made it up), includes instant messaging, emailing, twittering, facebooking, blogging and the dreaded online shopping. this included smart phone internet as well kids. 

cruising the internet while intoxicated is an extremely dangerous act that needs to be regulated, controlled and basically stopped altogether.

i can’t explain how many times i’ve woken up in the morning after a drunken night and looked at my twitter  and seen this…

“omg drinks and shots boy don’t like me no more dance home”

or i got in a silly disagreement with a friends and i decide to post a blog about it from my blackberry at a bar only to wake up in the morning and quickly have to delete it.

hell, right now as i’m writing this? i’ve drank three glasses of wine – thank god jamie is so lovely and trusts me and my buzzed up thinking.

gchatting boys semi-dirty chats? been there.

bought the carpenters greatest hits album on itunes? done that. 

all i know is that something needs to be done to make me stop – maybe i’ll start a non-profit and call it bloggers against drunk internetting. it could happen.

maybe there’s some kind of test that i can set up to take when i log onto my computer after a certain hour. like a really hard algebra problem that only when answered correctly would i be able to access the internet.

who am i kidding? i can’t even do algebra sober!

oh well, until something prevents me from drunk internetting i’ll keep doing what i do best… making a fool out of myself.

If you didn’t know (like, as in, you might be living under a rock), the other day was Jamie’s 25th birthday.  She wasn’t ESPECIALLY excited about it, which is something I can totally relate to, although her reasons might differ from mine.

(As in, she’s probably not crazy and doesn’t harbor major phobias about getting older.)

(And seriously?  If I could have, I would’ve sent her balloons and flowers and 19 puppies and Edward Cullen.  But I don’t know where she lives.)

Anyhoodle.  I can sympathize with Jamie about lack of enthusiasm towards birthdays, because mine is next week.

(I accept gifts in forms of jewelry, cash, and ponies.)

Last year, I had a VERY hard time with turning 27.  I dreaded it.  I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was an age that someone ELSE was, not me.  I know that probably doesn’t make much sense, but for me, 27 was iconic and scary.

Now, as I’m staring 28 in the face, and strangely enough, it doesn’t bother me at all.  A couple weeks ago, I was waiting for the anxiety to settle in.  I figured any minute, I’d be chasing Hubs around the house with a knife, yelling “REDRUM!” because he dared to bring up the idea of a birthday party for me.

(Best.  Wife.  EVER.)

Whatever the reason, 28 is looking just fine to me.  I’m embracing it.  It doesn’t scare me.  I’ve bested The Crazy.  28 seems settled, and on the right track.  Sure, it lacks the cute intonations of, say, 23, but it’s not a bad place to be.  I’m okay with it.

Besides, I got carded twice last week, so I figure my age-obsession is all in my head.

(Thank you, cute pizza place waiter!)

In today’s society, when people are completely focused on diets and botox and cougars and wrinkle treatments, it’s no wonder that a girl might get a little sidetracked and not realize the BEST thing about getting older:  MORE TIME TO MAKE FRIENDS = MORE PRESENTS.

So if you find yourself with the birthday blues, just remember that.

And let’s be real, shall we?  The WORST thing about getting older, for me?

Feeling creepier every year about lusting after a seventeen year old undead high schooler.

I am Michelle Woo of the cleverly titled blog Michelle Woo and in today’s issue of Photo Scanner Fun, I have a somewhat embarrassing confession to make.

I used to do musicals.

Me (center), age 14, in “No, No, Nanette” at my high school. I look so cool.

Growing up, musical theater was my main extracurricular. When I was in elementary school, my parents had me audition for a local song and dance company as 1) they hoped it might help me break out of my shell and 2) I couldn’t throw/hit/kick/catch a ball to save my life. So in front of a panel of note-taking grownups, I sang a shaky “Somewhere Out There,” somehow made the cut, and thus began a life of sequins, red lipstick and jazz hands.

I performed in shows like “Bye Bye Birdie,” the musical rendition of The Hobbit (no joke), and even “Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat” with the Young and Restless’ Michael Damian and the Broadway cast. I was never the lead or anything, thank goodness. I was always more than content doing heel-step-shuffle-ball-changes and singing my “Ooooh, oooh, ooohs” as part of the ensemble. (Although in “Once Upon a Mattress,” I did get to recite SEVEN WHOLE WORDS as Princess #12. Thank you, thank you. No pictures, please.)

While this was strictly a childhood hobby (shoot me if I ever do adult community theater), I do kind of miss that old life — the delirious late-night rehearsals, the adrenaline, the standing ovations (from my parents). Every now and then, in the car or in the kitchen, my sister and I will spontaneously belt out obscure Broadway show tunes and pretend we’re on the big stage. It’s fun.

So there’s my confession.

Did you ever do musicals? Wish you did musicals? Watch musicals? Make fun of the kids who did musicals? Spill!

You know when you have an idea that’s so crazy that you have to write about it? Like, that time you decided to go a week only drinking things  from a funnel? Or that time you went to Mexico and got a gang member to explain to you what each of his tattoos meant when you bumped into him in an alley? Or that time you voted *Republican?

That’s what todays post is like. After getting 4 random emails in the last week asking for dating advice, from both bloggers and real life friends, I thought I would impart some tips for the ladies about relationships.  Why is this idea so ridiculous? It could be because I’m currently as single as humanly possible. So much so that asking me for relationship advice is similar to asking Tara Reid tips on sobriety. It’s just a silly idea. But, I thought it would be fun to try and everyone needs a good laugh during a long week. So open up your knowledge basket, because I’m about to fill it up.

1. If a person likes you- YOU WILL KNOW. Stop. Re-read that first sentence. Now read it again. AND AGAIN. Read it until it is carved into your memory, burned into your eyeballs. Read it until you choke on it. Guys don’t play hard to get, so if he IS hard to get? Then he’s not the guy for you. Move along. Trust.

2. Sure, relationships are work but if it’s more work and less play, more tears than laughter, more Ike and less Tina then it’s not worth it. Relationships ARE work, but a relationship shouldn’t feel like a full time job, unless you are getting paid. And if you are getting paid for sleeping with the guy? Then you are a hooker and not a girlfriend and this post doesn’t apply to you.

3. Make up sex is hot, but you know what’s even hotter? Compromising so you don’t argue in the first place. Okay, that’s a lie but you could try it and see if it works for you.

4.”I’m sorry” doesn’t fix things as quickly as “I was wrong” does. But, sometimes it’s nice to hear both, so say each when you mean it.

5. If you have sex in person, you need to dump them in person. If you’ve only had phone sex, you can dump them on the phone, but I assure you, a message left on a machine is just not classy.

Any tips you feel should be on the list?

*Kidding. I promise. I miss politics. Let’s still be friends?

Also it is apparently Delurking Day or something so delurk and say hi. I promise we are all nice here!

***

In winter there seems to be more time for dreamy flipping through fashion magazines or vegan cupcake cook books, which means more time for blogs – and my top indulgences are design and street style blogs. I am full on and wholly addicted.

Where I live in Canada, between Toronto and Vancouver, the winter lasts from November to April and is routinely well below the -30°C (-22°F!) mark which means a significant amount of time spent indoors. This year is also the first year that I’ve owned a PVR which has opened a world of TV to me that I couldn’t be bothered to watch before…..suddenly America’s Next Top Model has entered our home.

The word fierce has new meaning! There are more (albeit less political) girls from Alaska! There are hormone injections and
underwater shoots! But between the winter weather, street style blogs, and Top Models I’m feeling all together fashionably sub par this winter.

So in continuation of Jamie’s major fashion offenses, I give you 5 major fashion offenses I have committed in The Great White Canadian Winter. Because sometimes when you have frostbite, you just can’t think straight. And sometimes it’s more important to be warm than to look good.

The Crimes:

1. Painting my nails in pastel, because while the light blue OPI that I own looked edgy in the summer, but it really draws attention to how pale I am in January.

2. Layering with more than one sweater and compensating for massive heat loss due to wearing leggings when I should be wearing snow pants by wearing black long johns under black tights. It keeps the heat in!

3. Wearing snow pants over my skinny jeans. I’m still going to wear skinny jeans even though I’m cold and the internet tells me I shouldn’t! I’m just not going to freeze. Snow pants are cool when you live 8 hours north of Minneapolis, it’s a fact.

4. Rocking oversized men’s flannel and skinny belts. It’s warm. And with ankle boots it can be fierce. Or at least warm & tall. I’m not apologizing for this one.

5. Watching my co-workers squirm while trying to choose their words when complementing my new sweater. Because it’s not a sweater, it’s a pancho. (Don’t worry, I didn’t wear it with tights to work!)

It can be near impossible to look pulled together when you’re staving off frostbite and static electricity – what winter faux pas have you given up on avoiding while there’s snow on the ground?

OH! You should have seen your face! Ha! Hahahaha! I really got you that time. Hey, it’s Mermanda from Cusp of Normal. I’m bringing you today’s dose of Oh! How Lovely! because Jamie is busy eloping in Sin City. (Ok, not really, but I like to pretend.)

So today is Oct. 6. That means there is less than a month left of my favorite month. I love the red leaves, smell of burning wood, crunchy leaves, apple cider, costumes, caramel apples, carving weird things into pumpkins (see below), pumpkin seeds, pumpkin pie, pumpkin, pumpkin, pumpkin, oh… and HAUNTED HOUSES!

Wu-Tang Pumpkin provided by Mermanda’s boyfriend’s mad carving skills.

I am probably one of the world’s biggest scaredy cats. I can convince myself I am about to die at any moment. It is actually a talent to be this afraid of everything. Do you think it is easy being afraid of bugs, being flattened by a suicidal jumper, germs, dying in a fiery car crash, drowning in a bridge collapse, being abducted, eating under cooked meats, being electrocuted in the shower during an electrical storm, salmonella poisoning, weak bladders, having my identity stolen, carbon monoxide poisoning, being bitten by a rabid squirrel, running out of ginger snaps, sitting by smelly people on the bus, finding a hair in my food, chipping my teeth, having my fingers run over by rollerbladers, strangers, broken noses, ear infections, and root canals? It takes a lot of energy, and I think I deserve some credit for being able to maintain so many fears all the while going about my life.

However, regardless of my fear of everything, I do enjoy a good haunted house. Not real haunted houses, like the one where my sister’s friend lives and claims to often be confronted by a little girl ghost. Hell no. Forget that. I can only handle poorly made-up actors grunting and screaming in my face. I mean, as long as I can hold on to someone and keep my eyes closed the entire time. That’s a pretty okay time in my book.

I didn’t always enjoy haunted houses, though. When I was in sixth grade, my friends went to haunted houses together and had a jolly time. I wasn’t allowed to go because my parents knew me. It was obvious that their daughter who still played with Barbies when no one was looking was not yet ready for a good haunting. So what did I do when my friends got to have their Halloween fun and I was stuck at home with Animal Lovin’ Barbie? I cried. I BEGGED my dad to PLEASE take me a haunted house because it would be SO FUN! I wouldn’t even be SCARED! I PROMISED!

Now my dad is a pretty smart guy, however, his downfall is that he’s nice. He listened to my stupid pleas and loaded me in the minivan for a trip to our local haunted warehouse. (Poor fool.) The whole five-minute drive there, my dad kept asking me, “Are you sure you want to do this? It is going to be pretty scary.”

“YES! I want to do it! Of course I do, dad! It’s going to be so fun. Kristen and Lauren went last weekend and they said it wasn’t even that scary.”

“Okay… I’m just making sure…”

There were two different attractions at this particular warehouse. One was a Halloween-themed kiddy-puppet show. The other was the real deal.

Giving me one last chance to back out, my dad asked if I’d rather see the puppet show. I probably rolled my eyes because I was just entering my sassy preteen years. (I shaved my legs for the first time that year… so you know I was headed for a pre-adolescent melt-down.)

We got in line for the haunted house. There were probably about a dozen teenagers ahead of us. I felt so grown up and cool to be in their presence at a HAUNTED HOUSE! Yeah!

I was psyching myself up, ready for the scare of a lifetime, when a dude in werewolf mask approached the line to explain the rules of the house. My heart began to pound. Ok. I know it was just a guy in a mask, but he was FRIGHTENING! I began to have second thoughts immediately. I tuned out his rules about not touching the actors as I tried to breathe deeply in order to stop myself from vomiting.

My dad watched my slow downward spiral and saw tears welling in my eyes. That’s when the door behind us slammed shut. We were stuck! There was no where to go but through the HAUNTED HOUSE!

“I changed my mind! I screamed. Please, Dad, let’s just go home. Please. Please. Oh my god. I can’t do this! Why did you bring me here?” The tears began to flow generously.

My dad tried to open the door, but it wouldn’t budge. My panic only multiplied when the werewolf man ended his rule-spewing and lead the group into the HAUNTED HOUSE!

“No. No. No. I can’t. I can’t go in there.”

“You have to, come on. It won’t be that bad. You said your friends said it wasn’t even that scary.”

“MY FRIENDS ARE IDIOTS!”

That’s when I heard the chainsaws. Of course, I was then certain of my impending death. I looked at my dad and did something that would set my street-cred back about three grades. Back to when Mr. Fisher ruined my childhood by telling the entire class that there was no such thing as Santa Claus. (He made deer hoof tracks in the snow to fool his kids into thinking otherwise… that sneaky bastard!) I asked my dad to carry me. Now let’s pause to take in my shame. It’s a heavy yucky kind of shame, isn’t it? Thinking you are going to increase your cool points with the other sixth-graders, only to have your dad CARRY YOU THROUGH THE CHAINSAW KILLERS WHILE BURYING YOUR HEAD IN HIS SHOULDER AND SOBBING?

Well, guess what? I lived. However, my dad’s current back problems may or may not be attributed to that fine October day in 1995.

***

Allow me to take a moment to introduce myself to some of you that don’t know me. My name is Penelope. I used to have a blog called The Rivers of Addiction Flow, however on Tuesday morning I deleted it.

It wasn’t something I wanted to do or that I was happy to do, but in the moment it needed to be done. A couple of weeks ago I wrote a post about how I had just moved to Chicago to be with my boyfriend, WB, but that there was someone back where I moved here from that I had feelings for and that I was struggling to decide what I was going to do.

This past weekend when I went to Indianapolis to visit my sick grandfather, I also made a trip back down to Bloomington (where I used to live) to see my cousin. While I was there I saw this boy and I ended up making a mistake and making out with him.

When I returned to Chicago, WB and I had got into a fight on Monday night about how we want two different things out of life and that we have issues in our relationship. He asked me that night point blank and the next morning if there was someone else and I lied to him and said no. I realize I shouldn’t have lied about it, but I couldn’t find the words to explain that yes I had moved up here to be with him and yes I had feelings for someone else. I felt horrible about the whole thing and I still do.

So when I left for work on Tuesday morning, WB got onto my laptop and found my blog. He read the post and text me that he knew what was going on and that I lied to him. When I arrived at work the first thing I did was delete my blog so he couldn’t read anymore of my now not-so-private thoughts.

When I signed the lease with him, I didn’t have feelings for anyone else. Just him. I just wanted to be with him. But life happens and life can be shitty. I realize it’s not the most convenient time to have these feelings, but I have them. You can’t change the way you feel, life doesn’t work that way.

At this point, I am not sure if WB and I are going to be able to get through this. My feelings for this other person are really a secondary issue because WB and I want two different things.Even if we can get past the my feelings/cheating, I want to move back to Louisville. So I have to ask myself what the point of staying and trying one more time to make it work when in a year we are going to want two different things? I have been trying to make things work for a long time. I have cried, begged and pleaded

I feel like I have spent the past three years of our relationship catering to him and making sure his needs are met. And in the mean time I haven’t been meeting my need and making myself happy. I never wanted to move to Chicago, and WB knew that. But he moved here anyway and as a result I felt like to make the relationship work and give it a real fighting chance that I needed to move up here. I gave up my whole life (close proximity to my friends and family, my job, my comfort) to be with him and all he can see are these other feelings and how I could do that to him.

I know two wrongs don’t make a right, but I will continue to feel that the moral high ground he is standing on is very shaky. It’s like the golden rule or something: you shouldn’t throw stones when you live in a glass house and what goes around comes around.

I thought that my feelings for this person would change when I got to Chicago. I thought that I just had those feelings because I was scared to move to Chicago and that I would get up here and be with WB, that things would be fine. But they aren’t fine and they haven’t been fine for a while. I can’t pretend that I am happy living my life for someone else and always making sure that they are happy. It’s not a fun or healthy way to live my life.

Sadly all my writing is gone. Lost in the vast space of the Internet somewhere. I do plan on starting a new blog again, but it is going to take some time.

It’s so long for a while, but not farewell.

I feel privileged that I was even asked to post here. Although, those who know me know that I am sometimes a foul mouthed, drunken, self centered jerk. So I might not fit in with the mantra here but here is my attempt at a softer post.

I wasn’t always a jerk. I was a nice kid. A kid who had big dreams…not about being rich, but dreams of being heavyweight champion of the world.

My favorite movie as a kid was Rocky. The very first Rocky Balboa, before Mr. T, the Russian and Tommy Gunn.  My dad bought me the VHS and I would watch it every single day. It was a brilliant movie. A story about a no one who, by way of his nickname got a chance to fight the one and only, Apollo Creed.

What I love about the movie is that it wasn’t a fairy tale. Rocky lived in a dump, smoked cigarettes, could hardly read and lost his one shot at the heavyweight title. Realistic.

I loved the movie so much, I used to throw punches when Rocky threw punches, go down when Rocky went down and I would even tell corny jokes all the time. My dad also bought me a pair of Sugar Ray Leonard gloves and a mouthpiece so that when I watched my hero, I could pretend I was truly him.

In some ways, I will always look up to Rocky and there will always be a part of me who feels like I am the heavyweight champ.

Don’t I look like a fucking champ to you?