The Move, Part 2: The Rock to My Roll

I frickin' can't wait to not  live alone.

For the past five years, I've been in my "big girl" apartment, all by myself, living some version of the dream. Some of it was real swell, and I'll really miss it. But other parts of it were just plain awful and exhausting. Trust me, I'm all about being the independent woman, and I kind of rock at it, but at the same time, I'm kind of relieved to have a "person." Someone to share the load (Samwise Gamgee, anyone?) with.

There were plenty of times living alone where another person would've come in handy:

• When I needed help zipping up / buttoning a dress. We all know the hanger method, and we risk life and limb to look good, but it's a real pain.
• The times when I was sick and had no one to take care of me, so I just moped around being melodramatic. Being sick alone is like, the frickin' worst. 
• Opening jars. Sure, I have a rubber husband (that's what my ma calls those gripper things - get your head out of the gutter) and am stubborn as hell, but seriously. I've actually thrown away a jar because I couldn't get it open and was frustrated. 
• Speakkkking of frustration. Pictures for this blog. All the contortion moves to get my elbow out of view (only to end up out of focus). All those hours taking countless photos to get just one to turn out okay-ish. An assisted selfie would've been welcomed.

Hey, Elvis, you'll spot me while I hang upside down to get this pic, right?
Thanks, buddy!

And there are also plenty of reasons why living with my number one bang will be swell:

• He comes with Netflix. And Amazon Prime. And Hulu Plus. And all the streaming things. I'm not saying that's the only reason we're moving in together. But I'm just saying it sure doesn't hurt... 
• Food. He's a dang good cook - and has a Kitchen-aid! Plus, this way we'll have one fully stocked kitchen with which to prepare food, instead of the slippery slope that is the, "Oh, I didn't know you were coming over, so I only have vodka in my fridge... how about we just go out to eat?" For reference: see the ten pounds of "love weight" I gained the first year we dated (and have mercifully worked off). 
• Logistics. Finally no more back and forth. No more calling in cars for overnight parking (or forgetting to and panicking at 4 am before being like, "Screw it, I'll pay the ticket"). No more "your place or mine?" No more "shit, I forgot to grab my sunglasses / shoes / pills / life, we have to go back to my place." Hours of our lives will be saved by not having to coordinate this nonsense. AND I won't have to sound like such a pathological mama bear by following every goodbye with, "Text me when you get home safe." 
• Speaking of me being the walrus and logistics.... I started writing this post the other day and came back to just that starter line. I have literally NO clue where I was going with that, but I'm fascinated to find out some day. Huzzah open-ended thought!
• Insta-booty call! Right? That's a thing?? At least, I don't think I'll have to wait and text him (across the room) at 3 am. And if I did, what if he didn't answer? And I like saw him look down at his phone and make a sigh noise like, "UGH, not this bitch again, it's late, closed for business"?! Gah! ...I don't know, this is all new territory. 
• One set of things! No longer will I need two sets of makeup, two toothbrushes, two gym bags, two phone chargers. No more! It will all be in one place, just, with doubles of everything for awhile. But one place!
• No choking and being eaten by wild dogs! We all remember that episode of Sex and the City where Miranda starts choking to death, alone in her apartment. It scared me so bad that I ate nothing but ice cream for almost a year, just so I wouldn't accidentally die alone (or, well, that was my excuse anyways). And, as Bridget Jones so gracefully put it, living alone always comes with a risk of eventually dying, fat and alone, and being found three weeks later half-eaten by wild dogs. I'm hoping that both these scenarios can finally be avoided, just by having a live-in.
• He often treats me with the terrified kindness with which one would treat a pregnant woman. I pout for chocolate and an hour later he's like, "I got you some chocolate." And I'm like, "Wait, you left to get chocolate? When?" (pouting can cause a total disconnect from reality, as can a lack of chocolate) AKA he's the sweetest and treats me well - it'll be nice spending more time with my swell fella. 
• He balances my otherwise total chaos and high strung-ness. He's like the Mac to my Cheese. The Robin to my Batman. (Yes, I get to be Batman, I have a stronger chin.)
• The whole paranoia thing will hopefully be better. Because A) if I hear a noise in the other room, I can just assume it's him and not a serial killer and B) if that noise occurs in the other room when he is with me, I can send him to go see what it is, while I cling to the knife I hide under the bed and perch behind the door, ready to spring... so, well, okay, maybe the paranoia will actually be more dangerous than ever in this scenario, when I accidentally stab my beau. But maybe not! Maybe he'll just protect me and we'll be fiiiiiine... (Your Honor, I'd like to have this blog post stricken from any manslaughter investigations)
• Bloggin' beaus. Since we both blog, we can sit at our little kitchen table and write on our respective laptops. And I can be like, "Pass the sugar, babe." And he'll be all like, "But you're not drinking any coffee." And I'll be like, "I know..." It'll be BRILLIANT! 

In less than a week, we'll have the keys. It really is the point of no return. But luckily, that's okay, because as much as I totally loved living alone, I know living together is going to be even better... Or definitely better than being eaten by wild dogs, that's for sure! I'll set the bar there, and we'll work on stretch goals later.*

Steppin' into some unknown territory here! Putting our best foot(s) forward.

Click here for Part One: In which I totally freak the shit out.

Click here for Part Three: In which I build a rockwall.

*Seriously though, it's going to be fantastic. Don't let my snark fool you.

The Move, Part 1: Cohabitation Anxiety

I frickin' love living alone.

For the past five years, I've been in my "big girl" apartment, all by myself, living some version of the dream. This one bedroom, old school upper of a bright stuco house in the burbs has been my haven. I've lived above "my old lady" - who I'm still convinced has seances in the basement at night (or just really weird hours for laundry) - and have pulled together mismatch furniture / knickknacks into the perfect "twenty something" home.

Throughout my time here, there has been a variety of beaus, friends and family who have come and gone, stayed and went. But here I am now with one particular beau who outwitted, outlasted and outplayed the others in the game of relationship Survivor. And it's that very fella who is now scooping me up, out of the suburbs, into a new home downtown.

Cohabitation: it's the next frontier in adulthood.

That move is coming quickly, and yes, it's all very exciting and I'm stupid happy over the whole thing, but I'm also wickedly nostalgic. Granted, as a borderline pack rat, nostalgia comes in many forms (just ask the piles of old cards and movie stubs that I desperately cling to - my memories!), but this is a different kind of sentimental silliness. In this case, it's a sentiment towards my time of independence, of being young and single in a new city. A carefree existence - like a gypsy, but minus the caravan and curses...

Because moving in with someone I care about is like an awful prison?? Yeah, I know I just made it sound like that, but it's absolutely not that. It's just that living alone had such weirdly fun perks, and I'm just being honest when I say that I'll miss them. For example:

• Pants optional.
  Sure, they can be optional when living with someone too, but then I'd have to like, workout more so I don't feel self-conscious walking around naked. And ugh, working out more.
• Being able to pee with the door open.
  Again, could I do this while living with the beau? Sure. But I won't. Because I'm a g'damn lady, and the day he sees me pee is the day we break up. Sorry, modern cool couples who are totally okay with that, but it's just not my style.
• Dancing.
  With or without music. With or without vodka. Dancing around one's own place like a maniac, testing out those latest dance moves (just in case they finally call you back for that Center Stage sequel). There's nothing like busting a move when no one is watching and just groovin' your cares away. 
• Meal prep.
  Or lack there of. Feeding time runs on your schedule. You can experiment and if it doesn't work out, you can just trash it for the raccoons to fight over before anyone sees. No one is any the wiser, and no one but you will go hungry. Also, no one will eat your food in the fridge, so you'll never find your last yogurt gone. And, if you don't have food in the fridge, you can just get take out. Zero judgments, even if it is the third set of ToppersStix of the week. 
• Sickness.
  When I'm sick, I can be as lazy and disgusting as I want and not worry about getting anyone else ill. No more.
• The SIFWM factor.
  Living alone, I know where my stuff is. Things have their place and I either put them there or don't - it's up to me. Being a super paranoid and forgetful person, sometimes when living alone, I've ran into a "someone is fucking with me" situation. AKA, I put two figurines on my mantle and a week later, one of them is facing the opposite direction. There's NO way I moved it, so clearly, someone is fucking with me (my money is on the serial killer living in my attic). When there's another person cohabiting, it's a perpetual SIFWM situation. 
• Oldies but goodies.
  I listen to a lot of oldies music. My record player is typically bumpin' some golden jams of old. What happens when I no longer have a monopoly on the tunes?
• Lady time.
  Because sometimes I want to spend three hours trying to follow a hair / makeup tutorial on Youtube. And it usually involves a lot of swearing and broken dreams. Same goes for workout videos. No, I can't do a frickin' side plank and, yes, lipstick still illudes me - I'm trying!
• The bed.
  Sometimes I don't want to share. There, I said it. A good old fashioned starfish sprawl is necessary from time to time. 
• Free time, me time.
  There is nothing better than a two hour gab session on the phone, or having your girls over for some "let's eat pizza and bitch about our men" time. Do those go away when you live with the man you're gabbing about? There has to be some balance there. And you know, sometimes I just want to build a pillow fort, take the phone off the hook and disappear for awhile. Can I still do that?

You. Me. Oui.

Let's look at the root causes here. What am I really afraid of? ...Being judged? Change? Not being in control? Beyond any of that, I know what it really is that worries me: I'm terrified that I'll do something wrong, or will be a disappointment. What if I don't bring enough to the table? What if he decides, "Ugh, this bitch is crazy, I'm out"? AKA I'm freaking out. Just a smidge.

That's what happens when you're invested in another person: you want to keep them. So, all these silly worryings and nostalgia about living alone, it's really just me being afraid of moving forward and letting myself be happy with another person. Normally, I'm the only only one in control of my happiness (or sadness), and letting someone else in on that game is foreign territory. There is some serious adulting that needs to be done here. Need to put my big girl relationship pants on and grow on up.

Luckily, I know it's going to be amazing. Sure, I'll still refer to the time I lived in "that cute little upper in the village" with a big grin, and will tell a few single gal tales of my time there, but that's beside the point. What's really important is that I work through all this with the beau. Because now it's not just me who decides how this goes, it's we.

At the very least, I'm pretty sure "we" will be on board with the "pants optional" plan...


Click here for Part Two: In which I get to be Batman. 

That Little Prick

For my blogiversary, I wanted to do something super special, so... I started by not remembering it was my blogiversary, and then unintentionally made a very important life choice. That choice? It could be applied in so many ways, but at its core: I decided not to be afraid.

People are afraid all the time, for all kinds of reasons. Some are totally legitimate, some aren't. As I've mentioned previously (way back in my first post), there are two things that I'm afraid of. The second is much less ambiguous, and probably more ridiculous. Plain and simple: needles. Ever since the allergy testing of my youth (aka modern medical torture involving dozens of needle stabs and a lot of itching), I can't even see them in television (which made Grey's hard all those years) or hear people talking about them without freaking out. Not to the point of fainting, mind you, just to the point of awkward laugh and shudder sobbing - which terrifies people more than fainting usually. Crazy is scarier than harmlessly passed out.

With much resistance, I've kept updated on my basic shots over the years, but only twice have I ever "donated" blood. And by "donated," I mean, only twice have I ever allowed anyone to take a vial of the precious gold flowing through my veins. Once involved Robert Downey Jr, and the other Queen Latifah. Both involved me basically out of my mind - once with delusional illness, and the other with sheer panic. But that's a story for another day. This story is about yesterday.

The good old "annual physical" is coming up. Though lacking in many other adult duties (dentist ugh), going in for the annual check-up is one of the few I don't slack on. Health is important (and so is getting my prescriptions renewed, win-win). So, every spring I voyage to my hometown to see my doc. Yes, because I'm too lazy to have found a doctor in my actual city; plus, I trust her with my lady parts more than some stranger (there, I said it!). With the appointment looming, it was time for blood work.

After setting up an appointment with the local vampires, I immediately put it out of my mind. Didn't tell anyone about it, didn't think at all about what was coming. This was my way of preparing mentally for the task of putting aside fear. The night before, I didn't think about the fact that I had to "fast" for twelve hours in advance. Instead, I reminded myself of how one shouldn't stuff one's face after 8pm anyways, so good job me, way to adhere to a basic skinny-bitch principle. Off to bed with you!

The morning of, I put on my #bossbitch outfit and killer heels. Anytime you're feeling afraid inside, looking your best outside is essential. If you can fool everyone else, you can fool yourself!* All smiles, arriving at the lab, I made cheeky small talk with the receptionist and every other person in the waiting room. Laughter came easy: wearing a hairnet and chasing away fear with a broom. The wait wasn't awful, because I was surrounded by my now-best-friends as I chatted away.

Waiting for it to open...
Destiny's knockin' at the door of this waiting room!

The door opened, the nurse called my name. Within moments, I had recounted the tale of my previous lab encounter with Robert Downey Jr (aka her boss) and gotten her employment history. She picked this particular clinic for the flexible hours, she has a daughter at home and wants more time with her. The kid's name is Brianna, but she's not "Bri" for short. Her nickname is infinitely better - Geezer. Derived from the full length nickname of Breezer Geezer. And with that looming over her the rest of her life, that kid is bound to be a Noble Peace Prize winner, or a riverboat gypsy. No doubt in my mind.

And with that, it was already over and done. I had talked my way out of being afraid and it was done. Looking up at the nurse as she untied the band on my arm, I said, "You know, I used to be so afraid of needles. Petrified. I'd completely panic." She responded, "They really aren't so bad. When did you stop being afraid?" Putting back on my blazer, I turned at the door and smiled, "Today." A thoughtful look, well wishes to her and Geezer and a swift exit out into the new world.

There are so many more important things in life to worry about, that little fears shouldn't consume your time. You've got so much to do, and only so many hours in a day. Other people have much bigger worries, which puts silly things like a fear of needles into perspective. Just like there's no point in crying over spilt milk, there's no point in having a nervous breakdown over a tiny piece of plastic and metal that could save your life someday. Now, I'm not saying I'm "cured" of my phobia (because less than 12 hours later there was a needle scene in a movie that I pretty well lost my cool over), I'm just saying that the severity of fear can be controlled by your own optimism. Sometimes.



*Plus, someone made a fascinating comment the other day about how if you were to die today, the outfit you're wearing would be like, your ghost outfit. The outfit you're stuck in as a ghost forever. That completely blew my mind, so now I'm super self conscious about what I wear every day. And about crossing busy streets or eating expired food. Basically, I'm trying to dress better and avoid dying... It's a lot of pressure.

The Patio Paradox

Let's talk patios.

When looking for a place to live, patios tend to fall on the "nice to have" list... at first. Then, the longer you look, the more it becomes an essential component. Like the dishwasher you don't really need or the walk-in closet you know you deserve (mostly because you've run out of space for your clothes and refuse to part with any - they're like your children). But that patio. That you need.

Where else are you going to put your grill? You know, the one you'll buy specifically to put on your new patio. The one you'll get yelled at for because it's not compliment with some building rule, but that you'll sneakily use anyways. You need that for grilling out when you have friends over! On those summer nights when y'all have had a hard day at the office and want some brats and brews. It's a scenario you can perfectly picture. There will be music and good times had by all.

Then there's the furniture. It is literally designed just for the patio. For your patio. You need at least two cute chairs and a table, depending on size. The table will hold your grilled food and cocktails while you sit back and enjoy being outdoors-at-home. It will be just like all the sitcoms. You'll do all the things and make all the plans.

When not being used for meals, booze, or entertaining, it will be a space for quiet reflection. A spot to have your morning tea, and maybe crack a book. A spot to enjoy nature and reflect. Maybe get a little of the vitamin D to get ya through the day. It will be a place to reset.

Put those feet up, you deserve it!

The reality though is usually stupidly different. You use the grill twice, and realize that cleaning it is a pain and you really don't understand propane tanks / charcoal. You don't invite people over because you're exhausted after work, and everyone is busy in the summer months. The cute furniture? Yeah, well, you saw a spider on it once, so now you basically have to light it on fire and destroy it, which, you'll do... once it finally dries off from last week's rain storm. As for the morning, it's still dewy out, so it's not that warm. And getting up earlier than you absolutely need to, well, it's just torture. And heaven forbid you need to re-stain, paint, or otherwise do maintenance on the thing, it'll be out of commission for at least a year. Plus, keep in mind, in Wisconsin, you only have four to six good months to comfortably use it even.

So, there it sits, your patio that you love to tell people about, but that you neglect to enjoy.

That being said, here I am. Enjoying someone else's porch, sitting out, enjoying my cocoa and casually watching the squirrel battle royale in the nearby tree. I woke up hours before my gal-pals (we finally found a night to gather!), dug through the cupboard to find the most bitching-awesome mug I could, and settled into a deck chair. It's probably because I don't have one of my own that the novelty isn't lost yet. Which brings me to the point... don't ever let me get a patio, friends, because then it will lose the shine. That or I'll become a total alcoholic, because we all know patio drinking really is the best. So, save me from myself. Thanks in advance.

Got the world on a string, sippin' on a rainbow!

Once Upon a Jetski

If you ask the man in my life what his favorite part of our adventure to Key West was, you'll get an enthusiastic response regarding jet skis. If you then turn my way and ask how it was, you'll get a half-hearted chuckle and a quick admission that I nearly died. So, a little more about that.

First, I'd like to thank my past self for her vanity problem. Since there was bound to be a swimsuit involved (what's that walrus doing in a bikini?), I spent that month leading up to the trip working out (didn't want to try too hard, ya know). Without building that upper body strength to get those "sexy shoulders," I'd never have been able to hold onto that bucking water-horse.

Going to the Island, jet skiing was ones of a few "for sure" items on the list. The beau had gone prior and loved it; and, since I'd dragged him out four-wheeling (in the rain) a month into us dating, I really couldn't protest. (Hemingway lived on the island just fine without ever jet skiing, but whatever.) So, day two, donning the sportiest looking swimwear I own, we headed to the jet ski place. It was 75 degrees and sunny, and this porcelain goddess was slathered in approximately four layers of SPF infinity. It was go time.

Only, jokes. It turns out, if you were born in a certain set of years, you will forever need to take an exam and be certified to board a mechanical water bull. Thank goodness I hadn't hit the sauce to hard yet on Duval that day! After an oddly stressful 20 minutes, luckily, I passed. They even gave me an official slip of paper - a license to kill in my battle royale on the high seas. Now it was go time.

Just getting ready for my voyage!
(aka thankfully there are no photos of this tale) 

Our tour was to be a follow-the-leader-esque marine adventure around the Island. I opted to have my own machine, so I could be in control of my own demise (and so I wouldn't deter my beau from his fun). There was a brief explanation about signals and three vague rules were given:

1. Stay x distance away from the person in front of you, so if they fall off or stop suddenly, you don't ram into them and kill them - jet skis don't have brakes, just a killswitch and a prayer
2. Follow the bubble trail of the person in front of you - don't go rogue because the trail left by the leader is specifically avoiding reefs, obstacles, and other things that could kill you
3. Stay alert and give way to anything bigger than you on the water - because if you hit a boat, again, it'll kill you

And so our merry band set sail. Making a snarky comment to the dock guy about how it was probably just like four-wheeling, I floated my way out of port and into the ocean. My sunglasses firmly in place, I looked about for boats (hyper-alert, I was SO ready). Our instructor let us get in order and we began our island chase. 

It was easily the most terrifying 90 minutes of my life. 

Hurtling over the waves, I was immediately half blind due to the salt water on my sunglasses (when removed, I was entirely blind due to the sun, so they remained on). With jet skis in particular, if you go TOO slow, it only makes the ride choppier. If you feel like you're going to fall off, to counter that, you have to go faster. Completely counter-intuitive, but totally necessary; you hit ridiculous speeds with nothing to protect you but a flimsy "life" vest. As panic set in, I found myself with two fundamental goals: don't fall into the water and don't lose the bubble trail.

It was just about then that I realized the bubble trail was gone. There I was, flying on my floating metal stead, blind, completely alone and surrounded by water. Mostly hysterical (and throwing caution to the wind about reefs), I bee-lined in the most logical direction. My death grip tightened. Desperate to regain the bubbles, naturally, I sped up. Mercifully, the group came into view and we all then stopped for some island trivia from the guide. 

Bobbing about aimlessly while he talked, I mustered an enthusiastic fake smile for my jovial man, happily perched on his favorite toy, ensuring him that this was the best time. We were on the Gulf side and the water was fairly smooth and shallow. Stopped, I had a chance to look around and absorb the beauty of the island we were circling. It was a magical moment, and a brief one. 

The guide advised that we were about to move to the ocean side of the island, for the hard part of the journey, and needed to maintain a higher speed. If we'd wanted to lazy about and sight-see, we should've taken the canoeing adventure, he chuckled. My aching arms let out a little cry. My brain called out for a canoe.

Funny thing about the ocean, it's windier. And that means it's wavier. 

The struggle had been very real on the Gulf side, but the ocean side... let's just say, if you ever want to have your ass handed to you by mother nature, this is your chance. White knuckled, my attack on the six foot waves (the height of the waves will get bigger with each retelling of this, I assure you) started very strategic. If you followed the crest and stayed atop from wave to wave, you could make it. The second you ended up in a trough, you were screwed. Waves would hit you from the side or you would nose right into them, causing you to get completely engulfed in water, as you shot forward at 40 MPH in a floating limbo, not sure which way was up, down or over. Bubble trail damned to hell, it was a groping attempt to not crash into the island and not be carried out in Davy Jones's locker.

In a frenzy, my nervous laugh began bubbling up in me. There was no way I could hold on. My entire body was shaking as I used my thighs and knees to desperately cling to the seat (note: when too rigid, it doesn't go well for slamming on waves - just ask the jet ski shaped bruise that was on my legs for a month after). My left contact slipped after a wave to the face and I knew true blindness was almost upon me. The delirium finally hit the surface and what came out wasn't my nervous laugh at all. I began whooping and yelling loudly. If this was the end, if I was going to fly off into the ocean and die, I was going out fucking Rufio-style. 

Full speed ahead, I hit every wave with a vengeance. Ocean spray flew around me, the taste of salt on my tongue; my war cry dead on the wind, barely reaching even my ears. My muscles screamed as loudly as my voice. It was uncertain whether the blindness was caused by the sea or the tears of a desperate woman on kamikaze mission against the gods. It was an epic frickin' poem. I was basically Ishmael.

And then it was over. We came into port. My hair was a tangled mess of wind and water and the sun beamed on my hinged smile. I'd made it, I had stayed atop my beast the entire time. Despite my very best efforts, I hadn't flipped over, drowned, or died. Best of all, I'd managed not to make a total ass of myself. Floating into the dock, there was my man: lit up, happy as a clam about the experience. After a shaky dismount and stumbling onto the pier, it was over. At that point, I got hit by the final wave: relief. 

La Peste in its Native Habitat

While most of the time I like to think of myself as the embodiment of grace and poise (no matter how far from the truth that may be) - when it comes to being sick, all that goes straight to hell in a hand-basket.

After going through the various stages of sickness - denial, anger, bargaining, you know, the usual - eventually you hit acceptance. No amount of Vitamin C will save you now. The preemptive strikes have all failed and here you are: a walking plague. You're either Patient Zero in the office, or muttering curses under your breath to that cube neighbor whose kids go to daycare and bring every manner of infection home to daddy so he can breath them at you all day. Doesn't matter which, either way, you are just plain sick. 

Now it becomes a kind of miserable choose your own adventure book... Do you go to the doctor just to have them tell you to go home? Which over-the-counter meds do you want to add to your rainbow mix - and can you wash them down with brandy? Are you sick enough to stay home from work?  Do you go to work, but quarantine yourself to your cube until after your morning meeting when you finally say 'screw it' and go back home? 

When you were a child, a "sick day" was awesome. Even if you spent the day puking and your sister brought home a stack of schoolwork that you had no idea how to do since you missed class. Because as a kid, it also meant that you got to watch cartoons (or soap operas) while your Grandma made you chicken noodle soup. You got slathered in vapo-rub and could stay in your PJs all day. You got extra attention from your mom because poor you, the wee child with a sniffly nose, you need all the love and affection to feel better. 

FAST FORWARD back to you now, as you've made your pick and are skipping forward to page ten. Where you give up at 3 o'clock and shuffle past your glaring coworkers who say, "Hope you feel better. See you tomorrow... if you're better... else stay the fuck away." There's no love and affection there, only self-preservation (which is totally fair, we all hate the asshole who shows up sick and puts us all in danger, even when it's us). There's no one at home waiting to make you soup (and daytime TV sucks now anyways), so you stop at the store. Gallons of OJ and NyQuil, all the chicken soup mix you can hold, a forest worth of tissues, and plenty of judgement from the cashier. You've purchased your weapons and it's time to go home to fight.

Now, don't get me wrong, when I feel an illness coming on, I will struggle like mad to try and prevent it. BUT once it's hit, and there's no way around it. And I get home. And I'm all alone. Just me and my pestilence... I become the single most melodramatic creature on the planet. 

Donning the world's ugliest hoodie and rattiest PJs, draped in blankets, the malady monster that is me mopes about the apartment, leaving a trail of used tissues in its wake. To the couch, to the bed, to the bathtub, laying about coughing and sighing audibly. The beau calls to see if I need anything, the response is no... just leave me here to die. Cauldrons worth of soup are brewed and consumed; but, even the soup becomes a misery as I make myself eat, despite my lack of will to live. Feeling too awful to move, I still force myself to walk around - largely in part so I can glance sideways at my misery in the mirror and commiserate with the bedridden beast. No one is around to take care of me or see the ridiculousness of my theatrics, and so the feverish fire is fueled. Woe is me who lies beneath the mountain (of tissues). One foot in the grave, alone and forlorn...

Don't mind me, just walking through the valley of the shadow of death.
Or creeping - yeah, more like creeping #sorrynotsorry

Typically, this lasts until nightfall, at which point, out of sheer exhaustion (it's tiring being so over-dramatic), I throw back a swig of the Quil and go to my slumbers. Being sick is just one of those things that loses its luster as an adult. Thinking back to being ill as a kid, I only really remember the good parts. Here's hoping that later in life, I'll look back at being sick in my twenties and remember the good parts. Like how silly I looked pouting at myself in the mirror, wearing every blanket I own. Or something. Cheers, friends, and pass the pill pile! 

*Note: I could (and probably eventually will) write volumes about the misadventures of my maladies, so if any of y'all are squeamish to that talk, apologies in advance.

Girls on Film

The only thing better than a good movie: a good movie trailer. Maybe it's because of my field (marketing) or just the instant gratification of a quick fix, mini-movie begging for critique. That fabulous two minute judgement reel and glimpse into new characters gives me a thrill!

A few trailers that I saw recently, however, irked me. What bothered me most? The females.

1. How to be Single - AKA 50 shades of Moaning Myrtle mopes til comic relief pal drags her out for shenanigans, then acts awkward til she can return to her couch. Over it. Being single is amazing* - quit pouting and enjoy. No, that doesn't mean clubbing every night and waking up with strangers - that's a hazard to your health (#CuzIm90). The BFF of the film will have six STDs when they find her passed out in boozy puke in a Qdoba bathroom. NO, I haven't seen the movie. Maybe the comedy makes up for the toxic friendship in the end. Or probably not. 
2. Mike and Dave Need Wedding Dates - AKA two unladylike ladies con two bros into taking them to Hawaii where they out-bro them. Yes, I'll see this one. Love the cast and the trailer made me literally LOL. In fact, the ladies of this trailer didn't bug me until my sister pointed out: they're dirty. Not raunchy dirty, but like, filthy. They're messy and not well put together (unless in peak con). Does a gal have to live in squalor, watch porn, smoke pot from an apple (still don't get it), and excel at ATVing to be attractive? If that's the only way to win over Zefron and go to Hawaii, sure, I'll try it, but I'd rather not. 
3. The Danish Girl - AKA Actresses need not apply, Eddie Redmayne will be playing the role of "woman" going forward. Exquisite cheek bones once again allow a man to take a woman's job. Even if that job is being a woman... Okay, jokes. Really it just bothered me how much prettier Eddie Redmayne is than me. This film looks fantastic.

The main problem: I didn't see myself in any of the leading ladies above. Painfully awkward, a constant hott mess, a lady-bro, a man-lady... none quite fit. So naturally, I started trying to think of a film character who did match. It's harder than you might think.

I tried to be like Grace Kelly, but all her looks were too sad #Mika

Turning to a nearby stack of DVDs, I reviewed some possibilities:

• Hermione Granger - Intelligent female whose goodwill is taken advantage of by her male counterparts and is overlooked as being attractive due to her wit? Story of my youth. Grows up to be Emma Watson in a perfectly tailored pant suit? My blazer collection and I would like to think so. Unable to adjust to her audience and accidentally belittling? Not so much. Has the affections of a famous athlete? Will let you know when David Beckham lifts the restraining order. Able to do frickin' MAGIC? Still waiting on that letter, Hogwarts!
• Princess Leia - Badass rebel? Sometimes. Has a thing for Harrison Ford? Check. Frequently travels through space and looks good in white? Alas, no.
• Scarlett O'Hara - Feigns ignorance and helplessness to manipulate men around her? Well, sometimes. Pulls off a ballgown (or curtain) like nobody's business? Don't I wish. Charming and determined AF? Will take those. Super petty, childish and obsessive? Less so.
• Then I hit the Audrey movies:
• Holly Golightly - Chic? Looks great in a hat? Someday, friends. Social butterfly? Fo sho. Actual strumpet and borderline delusional? Not typically.
• Sabrina - Humble beginnings, working hard to improve herself? Yep. Studied in France? Yes. Loves Humphrey Bogart? Oh indeed. Nabs her man after pining over his brother for years? Um, that'd be awkward.
• Princess Ann - Can pull of short hair? Thankfully, though still unable to hack those bangs. Gullible and over-trusting of strangers? Unfortunately. Princess living in Rome? Womp womp.
• Bridget Jones - Okay, yes, she's my spirit animal: the vodka, wonky friend group, delightful meltdowns followed by gym goings, the occasional verbal malfunction, a love for Hugh Grant and Colin Firth. However... Smoker and total failure at cooking? Naw. Splendidly British and working a quirky journalism job? Gah, if only.

Finally, landed on Corie Bratter, aka Jane Fonda in Barefoot in the Park. Sure, she's over-the-top, but is also lot of fun, ridiculous, adventurous, and a total hoot. I strive to have witty banter even half as good as what she has with Robert Redford. She goes from hilarious to totally unhinged and spastic. Trying so hard to be a good wife but not even sure how to be married. Self-conscious, but head over heels in love with a man who balances her... a point that, nicely enough, rings true for me lately. So Corie Bratter is the closest match I could come up with for now. Plus, she IS the root cause for all those times I've randomly shouted out, "I want a divorce!!" and that one is always a crowd pleaser.

The park, NYC. Starring me, barefoot.

*Doesn't mean I don't also love being in a wonderful relationship!