You know you have become a hermit when...

Your friend gchats you to talk about how crazy it is snowing outside, and you have no idea what he's talking about until you walk over and open the blinds you were too lazy to open in the morning, after not having been outside since Sunday.

Upgrade me, I'm Irish

My mother and I had been desperately trying to change my flight to Paraguay next week since my ticket only allowed for a 45 min window of time between connections in Miami, and with the track record of NY airports that is just begging for a flight to be missed. I called American Airlines and spoke to an older gentleman who told me there was nothing he can do and the airline had denied my request for a change. I decided to channel my fiery Hispanic mother and give him my full wrath in response to this news. Apparently, I should have taken on an Irish accent instead.

As soon as he read my last name, his entire demeanor changed. "What are a bunch of Irish people doing going down to South America?" he said. (I chose to ignore any racism he may have been implying and go with it). I explained to him that I was half Hispanic and then answered all of his questions about where in Ireland my ancestors were from, where my relatives live now  — "I'm a Boston Irishman, you?" "My family is proudly Chicago Irish sir" — while he told me all about his ancestors growing up 20 minutes away from mine, how his son now is the assistant superintendent in a Long Island, has four kids with his wife, and his school placed fourth in his district. He then proceeded to change my flight, upgrade me to Business class for the long trip down and in turn I assured him I would tell my father how "Only an Irishman could fix my problem."

I hope my Paraguayan relatives will forgive me for fully abandoning them in order to make sure I get to them in time. And hey, the Irish are one of the only other cultures who have as bad of a temper and as much of a drinking problem as the Latins — is it a wonder I am the way I am?

Because You Can't Ctrl Alt Delete Your Love Life

I was loading pictures on Facebook recently and go to the "Trust" or "Don't Trust" option on the uploader. As I moved my mouse over to click Trust like I always do, without hesitation, I thought to myself 'Why is this such an easy decision?' I mean part of it is because one time when I hit Don't Trust I had to restart my computer to get it to work again, because it apparently saved Don't Trust in its memory. (I guess after you Dont Trust something once, you should probably not trust it again.) Why is it so easy for me to hit Trust on a computer but not in my life?

If you have ever dated me, been friends with me, or known me even a little, you'd know that I have a teeny tiny issue with trusting people. And Don't Trust always comes along with its best friends — Jealousy and Paranoia, which is so much fun for whoever they are latching on to.

I suppose I can easily click Trust on my computer because I have a Mac, and they rarely get viruses. So why can't we program ourselves to be more Mac-like? We could be so amazing, that viruses wouldn't even penetrate us. They just wouldn't exist in our godly Mac-like world. Or, if you are just too PC to function as a Mac, why isn't there spyware we can download to protect ourselves from the asshole viruses out there? Our spyware could give us messages: "Warning this boy might be corrupted. Recommendation — Do Not Proceed." And we could have emails that we send out to our friends, you know? "This boy has been known to break the hearts of multiple girls. Once downloaded, he takes over the girl's thoughts and then erases their memory and self esteem while overriding any other previous boys — er, files —. Please fwd to your closest friends so that they don't download him."

Although, let's face it — that would probably just end up increasing his downloads.

Nakedly Typing

Sometimes it gets really hot in my apartment, and it takes a lot of energy for me to move the couch to turn off the heater. So my solution is to take off my clothes and bask in the benefits of staying home by working topless. The other day I noticed that my blinds weren't closed all the way, and as I walked over to shut them I heard someone yell "NOOOOOO!!"

Hopefully someone tripped, hurt themselves, fell out a window, or something that didn't mean they were upset at missing out on the peep show they had been enjoying.

You may be fat/desperate but at least you're smart

Katherine: Just got an email about an Ivy League Singles Holiday Party in DC. Nothing, I repeat, nothing could ever get me there. There is even an Ivy Singles PLUS party which I take to mean one of two things: either its for old ivy singles, or its for super-ivy singles, as in they have passed a proficiency exam or two in the art of being single

me: It definitely means fat.

What do you guys think?

Runaway Bridesmaid

Note: This pic doesn't necessarily make sense with the post but it came up in my google search for runaway bride and I loved it.

Apologies for being so bad at keeping up the posts lately. Last week I was enjoying my home state while reuniting with high school friends as we made fun of Riverfront while reveling in its trashtastic-ness. This week is also quite busy as I am preparing to be in my first wedding since the age of 8.

Yes, the first of my close friends is getting married. Yes, I am a bridesmaid. No, I cannot handle it. Yes, I am making her wedding entirely about me. Of course.

It is that wedding. You know the one. The one where you realize you are getting older and a person who danced with you in college while screaming country music and crying about boys, whose hair you held back in the bathroom while laughing about "bottle service" at K-town, who watched you drop pizza all over yourself and the floor then posed to take a pic of it, is GETTING MARRIED. (Addendum: these situations are all theoretical. Obviously.) And let me be clear, in case this post makes me seem like I think otherwise: she is totally and thoroughly ready to be married. They are wonderful together, and we have a blast whenever we all see each other. Much love and happiness and everything. And I'm extremely pumped about the wedding it will be a wonderful party, total craziness, I honestly can't wait. I just don't think I'M ready for it.

And so as I make the wedding about myself and lament about getting older, I really have no time for posts. I already have to deal with the typical questions you get asked when you live with your boyfriend of 2.5 years, and I'd rather just enjoy my relationship without the extra dose of anxiety. My friend Jamie called me the other day and revealed that whenever I call and don't leave a voicemail she thinks it is because I'm going to announce my engagement. Don't give me a heart attack. I reassured her I am not even ready to handle my friends getting married, let alone myself.

So again, apologies for the lack of posting. I'm throwing myself a panic attack party about the wedding on Saturday. Because really, I am the perfect, supportive, bridesmaid.

From the mouths of parents...

"We have a new Christmas tree this year. I have to warn you ... it's aneroxic." -my Mom

"I signed up for a Facebook account but dont worry. I know I have no 'Friends' in this family." - my Dad

E-Tu Gmail?

Gmail- WTF!? I look at my screen to respond to a gchat — my most beloved feature since I gave up AIM — and all of a sudden everything is light blue. Why are you so scary? It's not even a drastic change right away — that I can handle. It's this weird surreal Gmail world where I think I'm going a little insane and I have to highlight things to see if its just me, and then eventually sign off because you are too much to bear.

I. hate. change.

When Facebook added Newsfeed (which admittedly is now an amazing, helpful stalker tool that I depend on), I was very upset. I joined the "Thousands against Newsfeed" group and proudly took my stance against this. And by the time "New Facebook" came about I just used "Original" as long as possible until they took that away and I quietly sulked thinking back to the days Facebook was exclusive to top schools while also being easy to use and not trashy like MySpace.

But Gmail ... WHYYYYY?

I have to say, I was curious. I wanted to change it immediately back to original but was swept in by the beach theme, and then even more astounded when I received this message after clicking on "Summer Ocean" :


OMFG! You CHANGE the screen theme BASED ON MY LOCATION!? WHO ARE YOU AND WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH MY OLD LOVE?

After clicking around I just went back to "older version" to try to calm myself down. Then I realized, something was missing. I was starting to get the shakes. Why was that? Because the older version DOESN'T HAVE GCHAT.

You freaking trickster you.

Fine. I give up. I'm putting it on Summer Ocean 33326 because I associate myself with Florida beaches over NY ones. And hey, the sentence in my top email sort of explains my current feelings.


Actually, I just went back to check it out again. I lied. I need my old Gmail back pronto. Please. I'm not good with break ups.

Flip-flops and 4 SPF Here I Come

I'm going home this weekend and my mom knows how I feel about getting as much sun as possible while I'm in Florida, because who knows when I'll see another ray of light now that Manhattan is dark and 30 degrees. She called me, all worried, and said "Honey, I think it's going to be a little cold to go to the beach. It's really cooled down today and you need to bring some sweaters."

I checked the weather:

I told her I think I can manage.

An Ode to Sexism

Me: "Rumor has it, Hillary Clinton is accepting Secretary of State today.

Friend #1: "That's a good little job for her ... secretary."

How Hot Is That Doggie In The Window?

I've been on a 'I want a furry puppy NOW' (said in the voice of Violet from Willy Wonka) kick for a while now, and the BF doesn't think it's the best idea ever. Whether it's because I'm insisting its 5lbs or less and want something with the word "poo" attached to it, or because I'm apparently "not even responsible enough to take care of myself let alone another living being" is unclear, but he has his reasons. Yesterday, I passed by a pet store and saw these two adorable puppies I've posted above. As I was holding one in my arms, I thought to myself 'this little guy better not freaking pee on my coat,' and I paused and thought to myself 'Maybe, I'm really not ready for a puppy.'

But then I realized, if I loved my dog enough I wouldn't care if it peed on me. And in order to love my dog, it needed to be super freaking cute because, let's face it, I'm that superficial. The truth is, I'm like that with people for the most part too. And before you go all 'OMG I can't BELIEVE you would say that,' on me just shut it. I've heard it all before. I was even once broken up with by an ex at a formal dinner merely because I mentioned a girl was "unfortunate" looking. I'm not kidding, it wasn't pretty — but that's a story for another rainy day.

We all would rather be speaking to gorgeous people than ugly ones. And if you wouldn't then good for you. But let me just tell you, there is reverse discrimination as well. You know, those people that judge you for being good-looking and automatically assume you are either dumb or boring, or both. I think the best compliment I've ever received was a friend telling me "you're like a really nerdy person trapped in a hot girl's body." That was nice.

But, enough narcissism, back to puppies. See, my dog has to stay looking like a puppy always because a) I was petrified of dogs until I was 14 and still get nervous around larger animals and b) because puppies are cuter than dogs. And with people, what they are lacking for in looks they can make up for with a "good personality". Slap some humor or intelligence on that sucker and call it a day. Often enough, those people are much more interesting to talk to than a sexy bimbo. But a puppy can't tell me a really good joke and make me laugh until I cry and forget all about how ugly it is. So, while most people say the reason not to get a puppy from an animal shelter is so you can see it's breeding papers and make sure it wont get sick, I don't want to get one because it might not stay cute.

The puppy also can't be one of those friends that acts too needy and doesn't understand the concept of playing hard to get (which is why I'm often attracted to cats). It can't be cooler than me and take away all my need for constant amounts of attention. It has to be just right.

Which led me to worry — how am I going to be when I have kids? I mean, not that I would ever want to genetically design my children and pick out their eye color — although blue eyes and brown hair are so attractive — but they better be freaking beautiful or we are going to have a problem. I know the saying is "only a face a mother could love" but I don't know if I have it in me to be that kind of mother. What if I don't realize my baby is ugly? Or worse — what if I do? Terrifying. Good things I have many, many years to deal with my horribleness before I have to worry about that.

By the way, I'm probably going to hell. I realize that. Please don't get upset with me. All I want is a friendly, loveable, really ridiculously good looking dog who keeps me company. Because if I'm going to be picking up his crap — he better have the best damn bedroom eyes I've ever seen.

Because lately my friends are funnier than I am...

I'm sorry I haven't posted in a week, I promise I'll write more soon! For now, here are other people saying things that make me laugh:

Friend #1: "I am currently doing psych experiments to earn extra cash."
Me: "Do you have to take any drugs?"
Friend #1: "No, I wish."

Friend #2: "How is it possible that people have trouble finding boyfriends? Seriously. I find them on accident."

Friend #3: "There's something gratifying in hearing 'She's great and all, but she's not you.' Its like I pick relationships based on the likelihood of hearing that at the end."

Boyfriend's Foreign Barber Girl: "Come back when your hair grows up!"

Amen sister

Jen:  new phones are always a biatch
 Jen:  its like learning a new boyfriend

But I would totally have a fashionable leash...

I work from home all day, by myself. And it's safe to say I'm a fairly energetic person — although very lazy, which I admit sounds like a juxtaposition, but I assure you I am both — so working from home all day with no physical communication to other people can make me a little ... pent up. And here's where the lazy part comes in, as you might have realized, I'm not very self-motivating. So it's hard for me to convince myself it is worth going through the trouble of gettting dressed and cleaning myself up just to go outside for no reason. After all, I live in Manhattan — everything can be delivered to your doorstep.

But, I digress. My boyfriend lives with me — lucky him— and so he gets the pleasure of dealing with me when he gets home, after I haven't had human contact all day. When I first started working from home, which happened to coincide with the beginning of our cohabitation, the BF would come back from work and take me out to dinners or walk with me to Trader Joe's Wine Store (aka The Greatest Place On Earth).

One day we were walking home and he turned to me and said "You know, you're like a dog."

!!!!

"Excuse me, darling?" I asked really sweetly. Okay, no I actually turned to him and screamed "WHAT?!" at the top of my lungs, appalled at being called a canine by my supposed other half.

"Well, every day I come home from work and you have been cooped up all day so you are really excited to see me. You run to the door and give me a kiss and get all worked up and require a lot of attention. So I've been taking you for walks. After work. That way, you don't keep me up until 2 AM every day talking about whatever it is you talk about. And I get the chance to watch Sportscenter and catch some sleep."

Naturally, I was completely indignant at this revelation. I had not noticed that I was being lead around NYC like a pet, I thought we were just spending more time together and enjoying the city and going out on dates. Little did I know I was equivalent to the maltese yapping around at her owner's heels we had just passed on the street. Infuriated, I denied that I needed walking and huffed home with him as he laughed at my anger. 

We got home and he went to his computer to check his email, and I laid down on the couch, turned on the TV, fumed silently at our previous conversation ...

and immediately fell asleep.

I can hear people cheering out their windows...

Yes.

Addendum

Please do not let the below post scare you away from voting. Mine might not have counted so anybody else voting would be appreciated.

As my friend Marc said: 

I like that you'll wait in that line for a burger from Shake Shack, but not to vote for the next president.

P.S. I'm eating pesto pasta for lunch. Just on damn principle.

P.P.S. I just realized I didn't get an 'I Voted' sticker! Boo! At least Tim Robbins shared my troubles.

Canada, anyone?

I am not the most patriotic person in the world. But today, I wore red, white and blue and went to the polls with a huge smile on my face and a Vince Flynn novel "Transfer of Power" in hand anxious to cast my vote.

When the 90-year-old lady behind me started screaming about how the Taliban is voting for Obama to win, I got a bit annoyed but I stayed quiet. After all, today is a glorious happy day where we show what this country stands for and nothing could bring me down.

Last year I voted absentee and so this year while I stood in line reading the directions over and over, foregoing my novel to know exactly how the levers worked. I looked upon those black covered booths with excitement — despite the fact that our district was the largest of three but had the least amount of booths — nothing could stop my overeagerness.

As I get up to the front of the line an overwhelming large lady in a "Your village called their idiot is missing" tshirt (I couldn't make this up) barked at me "What are the last three letters of your name?"

Huh? I looked at her and said "I'm sorry ma'am what did you say" "THE LAST THREE LETTERS OF YOUR NAME?!" I handed her my registration card, confused. She threw it back at me and said "I DONT NEED THAT!" I say to myself, 'Okay keep your anger in check and calmly respond to this moronic demon lady who is controlling your right to vote.' "Ma'am I think you mean the first three letters of my last name." "NO, THATS NOT WHAT I MEAN!"

So I give her the last three letters of my last name, which although it made no sense to me was what she had asked for. After all, who was I, an Ivy League college graduate, to question this lady who was chosen to run the polls? She proceeded to look up last names that started with E so I smiled politely and said, "Ma'am. I think you want the first three letters of my last name." She looked up at me, laughed, and said to the guy next to her, "This girl does not understand I want the last three" — caught herself. Looked up and said "What is your last name?" as she glared at me. So I tell her, she looks it up, points to the list and says "Are you Michael?"

"No" I tell her ever so nicely. "I am not Michael." I repeat my full name I had told/showed her at the beginning of this fiasco. "Well you aren't here check the other districts." 

At this point I am ready to strangle this woman. "Ma'am if you would look at my registration card you would see this is the district I am in." The man sitting next to her grabs my card, pushes it in front of her as she has already moved on to the next lucky voter, and points to the district. "What the hell am I supposed to do about it? I'm not the only one working here." The man yells at her "GIVE HER A PAPER BALLOT." 

Hands me one, asks if I have a pen (luckily I came prepared for the US of A to be totally messed up) and I take my paper ballot that looks like what I filled out when I voted for 7th grade class president and I fill in the bubbles. Next to me another happy citizen was getting yelled at by an electoral helper as they got into a screaming match over what her address was.

I turn in my envelope to the old man — who by the way never checked my license — and he stares at it blankly not knowing what option to check for his part he has to fill out. I helpfully say "I think I registered too late for this district and that is why you don't have me on the list" and then point to where I think he should check. He dutifully listens to me although at this point I have no idea what is going on, and then places my long awaited - heavily anticipated - sacred vote next to him on the table. I ask him what he is going to do with it and he attempts to reassure me saying he "will take care of it." As I'm about to question if there might be — you know — a ballot box for that to be put in the Village Idiot Herself starts screaming that "IF THAT VOTING MACHINE BREAKS ONE MORE F-ING TIME I AM OUT OF HERE!!!!"

Lady, I hear you. I am out of here too, although I might be going further away then out of the building.

Because I really do love my pesto pasta...

Four years ago, I was in Spain for the election. I stayed up all night to hear the results, fell asleep in front of the TV and when it was clear Bush was going to win went upstairs and broke the news to the Spanish secretary of our dorm. She said "Pero es imposible!!! IMPOSIBLE!" I don't think I have to translate that but needless to say I didn't have it in me to console the woman who was so shocked by the outcome. It was pretty eye-opening to be an American abroad that day.

Anyways, after Bush won I locked myself in my room for a few days. I ate pasta and pesto sauce, drowned myself in red wine and watched the West Wing seasons 1, 2, and 3. No joke. I think I was trying to disillusion myself that Jed Bartlett had actually won.

My point is not to vote Democrat, my point is — well actually I sort of would appreciate it if you would do that but — well I don't really have a point other then whenever I smell pesto sauce to this day I think of George Bush winning a second term. And it used to be my favorite dish... 

So in the name of all things linguine...Don't forget to vote today!

Guess I'm not the only one reading Us Weekly

I was walking down the street with the BF when we walked by a girl wearing the exact same dress as me. He turned to me and said the last thing I would expect to hear from his mouth: "Who wore it best?"

I don't think I've ever been so proud.

Stay Saber

Today is not my day. First of all, I woke up this morning and realized I sent an email yesterday (while I was at happy hour) to a coworker and although my drunken self might have thought it made perfect sense, in reality this is definitely not the case. Actually, I'm fairly positive that last sentence doesn't make sense either. Apologies for my lack of a functioning brain right now. Anyways, I decided that even though I have homework assignments from last week and the week before due today, I REALLY needed to go to Ricky's and get garter belt gun holsters for my Lara Croft costume.

So I go outside and am immediately offended by the bright light shining in my eyes. 'Why the hell is it so bright outside?' I wonder to myself. Yes, I know being hungover makes us a little more sensitive to light but I was actually stunned by my surroundings. And then it hit me — daytime. I had not been outside in the daylight since Sunday. Sunday. I'm not kidding. I realized I had only left my apartment twice this week, once to grocery shop and once to drink, and both times at night. I had been inside so long I didn't understand the concept of the sunlight?

As I laugh at myself I walk by a newsstand and read the headline "'I would make a bad President' Obama says in huge campaign blunder." I am instantly shocked, worried and dismayed simultaneously. 'Why would he say that?' I think to myself. 'Wasn't his 30 minute infomercial taped? Why didn't they edit it out? This is so... bad!' 

I am so upset by this that it takes me a little while before I realize I am reading the headline of The Onion. Wow, yes I know — I even surprise myself sometimes.

So I again, laughed at myself, went to Ricky's and bought my garter belt gun holsters. Left proudly thinking that I saved money by not purchasing the $79.99 Lara Croft costume nor the $69.99 sexy mental patient costume. A little bummed I didn't think of a witty outfit but nonetheless, proud.

I get home, only to have a flashback of talking to my friend last night who had the brilliant idea for my costume this year — a pink slip. I could wear a pink slip and obviously... be a pink slip. It was the PERFECT idea! And of course, I had forgotten all about it. Great.

In conclusion, I leave you with this picture of the message I apparently wrote to myself last night on the fridge:

Wise words, my friends. Wise words.

To slut, or not to slut?

Before we got attacked by a tree branch falling over in the hurricane force winds at Central Park, Cheyenne Jackson told me that Halloween is just an excuse to dress up like a slut. This was after he told me he once dressed up as a slutty boy scout. (Yes, he is an openly gay Broadway star). I in turn, of course quoted Mean Girls (I mean does a better movie even exist? The Original Blair Waldorf, Regina George was in it... hard to cap that) and said "Halloween is the one night a year when girls can dress like a total slut and no other girls can say anything about it."

And truth is, I fully support dressing slutty. In fact, before I went to my Ivy League college I dressed like a slut on a regular basis, and didn't even realize it. But hey, that's a whole other post about being Floridian which I will get to later.

Anyways, my point is, when does the appropriately slutty Halloween costume stop being appropriate? At what age is it not ok to wear a green bikini top, drape some leaves on yourself and say you are "Poison Ivy?" Or buy a 6-year old's firefighter's jacket wear it with a black bra and stilettos and then drunkenly pose with real firefighters?

I vote next year. When I am 25 (the most terrifying age in the history of the world...until you turn 30) then I will stop pondering whether I should be a sexy mental patient or a sexy referee or Lara Croft (who is, let's face it, just plain sexy).

Then I can concentrate on the "witty Halloween costumes." Like my friend who dressed in a black slip and wrote Freud on it and she was a Freudian slip. Or my "caught red-handed" friend who put a fishnet over his head and painted his hand red. Last year I tried to be witty by buying mouse ears and saying "Duh, I'm a mouse" but really I was Karen from Mean Girls but nobody got that and it fell flat and I found myself wishing I had dressed up as a sexy catwoman again instead. I did dress up as Bud Lite (bud shirt with glowsticks everywhere) and Bud Wiser (budweiser shirt with grey hair, beard and glasses) with the BF the night before though and that got rave reviews.

So yes... next year. You will see me completely appropriately clad.

Well, maybe.

In the spirit of bipartisanship

Sometimes I really wish I could rap. Or had rhythm.

There's something about men in uniform...

Jamie:  umm omg i went to the federal penitentiary

 Jamie:  its kind of like camp actually

Jamie:  not as scary as i imagined

except minus fun

and plus hardened high security criminals

staring at me

through their little cell windows

 Jamie:  there were a few hot ones actually

Procrastination

It should be noted that I am quite the procrastinator. In school I relished the opportunity to put off homework assignments as much as possible. I turned in a final paper from my Fall semester three days before graduating in Spring. I discovered that once I knew a professor would accept a paper late, I could simply go up to that professor on the next assignment, say 'thank you for that extension, did you want it turned in electronically or in paper form?' and although they had never in fact granted me an extension for that assignment, they would simply answer the question rather than admit they had forgotten lengthening the deadline for me.

It is not really something to be proud of though. Because the truth is, I have not perfected it. In order to really reap the benefits of a good procrastination, one must not have that pesky thing called 'guilt' or a 'nagging self-conscious'. Maybe it is because I'm Catholic — although I doubt that — but I end up worrying and constantly thinking about That Which I Did Not Do Yet for much much longer than it takes me to actually do said thing.

So in order to stop feeling so bad about myself, I make lists. And on those lists of things to do, which I have messily scattered about everywhere, I put actual procrastination on there so that I can have something to cross out and feel accomplished. For example in college a list could be:   a) write outline of book b) order dinner c) eat dinner d) REALLY start the outline of book e) take a break and gossip with sorority sisters f) finish outline of book g) watch grey's anatomy h) finish outline of book for real this time.

This way, I have accomplished multiple things to cross off, regardless of what homework I did and the fact that if I was working on the outline the paper was probably due the day before. Okay, okay, the week before.

And here's my point: I have been thinking about doing this blog since February. I have spent months talking about the blog, thinking about the blog, talking to my friends and driving them insane about the blog. I have made lists of blog posts I would write, which are probably outdated at this point. I have walked around internally writing blog posts and wishing I had some magical technology that could just transcribe my thoughts without me having to actually sit and write them. And... to be perfectly honest I walked away from this, got distracted and am now out of the writing zone so...  to be continued...