I’m going to start charging by the hour

No, I don’t mean for wristies or blowies in the men’s room.

[VENT ON]

Everyone has  a friend or two who is an emotional leach.  The world is always ending, they can’t get ahead, nothing goes well, and all they want to do is complain about everything.  It’s emotionally draining having to hear all of their problems – all the time.  My mom is a shrink, and God only knows how she sits there day after day listening to all the nonsense people tell her.

At least she gets paid for it.

What must it be like to go through life never seeing any of the silver linings?  There’s a lesson to be learned in everything – sometimes we don’t see the lesson until later, but it’s there, you just have to look at it.  AND sometimes you need to take responsibility for stuff too.  The world isn’t against you.  That’s not the reason your job sucks, your boyfriend is the devil, or your parents are being pricks.

Maybe you don’t belong at that job because it’s not a good fit and it makes you miserable and you argue with your boss and refuse to accept any feedback.  And perhaps if you spent half the effort looking for a new job instead of bitching about your current one, life would get better.  Guess what?  Perception is reality.  If your boss thinks you have a problem communicating with clients, good luck trying to fix that – arguing about it with her isn’t going to help you – that just proves you have communication problems.  If everyone at work thinks you’re not focused at work because you’re too busy shopping online, maybe it’s time to save the online shopping for when you get home.  You’re an adult.  Act like one.

Maybe you shouldn’t be going out with that guy because he’s a fucking dick and you deserve better.  You know what?  Being on your own is 100 times better than being with someone who makes you cry all the time.  Sure, the highs may be SUPER high, but when you start having more lows than highs, it’s time to get out.  Perhaps it’s time to focus your energy on figuring out why you would want to go out with a hurtful douche bag.  He’s not going to change.  You still can.

And by this age, you should know how you parents are going to react to something.  Teenagers, that battle you have with your parents about whether or not you can stay out late or whether or not you have to clean your room?  Your parents will always win.  Adults, your mom pissed at you because you didn’t invite her to your dinner party and you posted pictures on Facebook?  That was a dick move on your part – why would you post pictures when you KNOW she’s going to be upset about it?  What the hell is wrong with you?  Pick your battles.

Stop bitching about your problems all the time and figure out a way to fix them.  You’re making yourself miserable, and you’re making everyone around you miserable.

[VENT OFF]

God, I feel so much better now.

Happy Hour Specials

You know what’s awesome?  Happy Hour.  You know what’s even better than that?  When you go out for margaritas, and the bartender remembers you and decides to give you Happy Hour prices even though it’s an hour past end time.  You know what’s even better than that?  When the bartender is hot.

Life is good, my friends.

Back in April a few of my bitches came up from Baltimore to hang out for the weekend.  Since we’re so old and can’t handle staying up past 11, we figured we needed to start drinking early.  I suggested a bar crawl in my neighborhood.  I live in a super adorable town just outside of Philadelphia.  Everything you could possibly want is within walking distance – there are about 10 bars within stumbling distance – perfect for an afternoon bar crawl.

Stop number 4 ended up being our last stop of the night.  Not because we were pussies, but because they had just rolled out their new summer drink menu, the bartenders were fun, and two of them were mighty nice to look at.  It turned into one of those nights when the bartenders would just bring over random drinks because they thought we were awesome. By the end of the night it was like we were all best friends forever.

We bonded.

They lit our drinks on fire.

We laughed.

We got drunk.

The next day I vomited.  But that’s not part of the story.

Last night was the first time I’ve been back since then.  Sure enough, one of the dreamy bartenders was there and remembered us.  It was romantic.  We should have made out.  He flirted shamelessly.

But here’s the thing with bartenders. I can never tell if a bartender is flirting with me because he wants me to give him a better tip, or because he wants me to touch his tip.  Can’t read them.  My girlfriend insisted that he was totally into it, but you’ll have to excuse me for being skeptical. Clearly there’s only one way to find: go back for more margaritas and investigate.  So who’s ready for Happy Hour?

Did I mention he was hot?  Did I also mention he wants to move to London with me?

Oh.  Did I forget to mention I was moving in the fall…?

What are you putting in your mouth?

That’s what she said…

Last night I ate half of a large pepperoni and sausage pizza.  Let’s be clear here – it’s kind of an unwritten rule that if there are two of you who order a pizza you’re obligated to eat half of it.  Sure, we could have ordered a medium pizza, or even a small (ha ha, no but seriously), but that’s what pussies do – and we are not pussies.  As I was eating the third piece of pizza, I had a little conversation with myself that went like this:

• My Inner Fatty: I wish there was more pepperoni on this pizza.
• Me: Maybe you shouldn’t eat any more pizza.  You’ve already had two huge pieces.
• My Inner Fatty: Double pepperoni would have been nice.  And maybe an order of chicken wings.
• Me: This is going to put you WAY over your Weight Watchers points for the week.
• My Inner Fatty: We already blew that by Friday.  No point in stopping now.
• Me: But we’re making such good progress!  Let’s not eat anymore pizza.  We’ll regret it in the morning.
• My Inner Fatty: No we won’t.  Besides, you’ve had a bad week.  You deserve it.  Feelings taste good.  This sauce is pretty nice, and the crust is thin.
• Me: It is kind of good.
• My Inner Fatty:  You can start over tomorrow.
• Me: I’ll grab another piece.

Fast forward to this morning and I feel like a fat hog without self control.  Stupid diet and exercise.

I see my skinny friends posting on Facebook about how they’re running a 5K, taking another spin class, doing some zumba, or their yoga and how they’ve never felt better.  Meanwhile my version of exercise is lifting my flabby arm off the couch to change the channel.  They’re reshaping their bodies while I’m checking out the latest episode of Dateline.

And then there are all the diets: Paleo, Clean Eating, Whole30.  Yes, I get the allure of it – and I do see the benefits.  But there’s no way I’m giving up alcohol, and I’m not giving up carbs.  Fuck that.

(In somewhat unrelated news I had a friend who didn’t know what the Paleo diet was and I told her it was the same thing as the caveman diet.  She’d never heard of it so I said, “You have to go out and hunt and kill your own food.”  And she was like, “REALLY?!?!” And then I laughed and laughed.  In her defense, she’s a natural blond.)

So like a typical Sunday morning after I’ve splurged like a fatty all weekend, I’ve regained my resolve to eat better and to be better to my body.  In moderation – everything in moderation.  This whole resetting of behaviors starts off the same: with me sitting on the couch looking through recipes on Pinterest and planning all my meals for the rest of the week.  And maybe pinning some drink recipes too (shh, don’t tell).  That’s balanced with checking out Facebook to see what all my friends have been up to.

I’ll tell you what, if you could lose weight by stalking people on Facebook and pinning recipes on Pinterest you probably won’t ever make, I’d be a size 2 instead of a 12.  And you know what?  Size 2 people look kind of bony and gross, so it’s just as well that I’m a 12.

Unfortunately, it’s kind of a jiggly 12.  Why won’t my fat just go away on it’s own??

It’s so depressing.

I need a cookie.

The Truth About Getting Older

Let’s take a moment to talk some truths on what it’s really like to get older.  Not talking here about how wrinkles suddenly begin appearing on your forehead, or your neck.  The neck wrinkles are what really throw me.  I have a girlfriend who is six years younger than I am but she’s got the neck of a 70 year-old.  How does that happen?  At 39, I’m proud to have the neck of a 32 year old.  But do dudes really notice that?  Don’t think I’ve ever heard a dude say, “She was hot, but her neck wrinkles were a total turnoff.”

But I digress.

Let’s talk about the important stuff: how fucking terrible hangovers are when you’re older.

It’s cute when I hear my young friends say shit about how they were hungover.  How they had a tinge of a headache, took an hour nap, and then felt so much better.  I remember those days – about 20 years ago.  A hangover in college was nothing – it literally felt like I was about to get a bit of a headache.  All it took was a glass of water, a 15 minute nap, and I was golden.  Fast forward two decades and it almost feels like I need to call 911, have a full blood transfusion, a new liver, and a lobotomy to feel better.  Fucking worst.

The really stupid part is that they’re so easily avoidable, I mean, how hard is it to just say no to that one last drink?  That delicious drink that is heaven in a glass?  My limit is four – I know it is – and yet there are times when I think to myself that as long as I drink another glass of water that I’ll be fine.  Then 3 hours later I’m laying in my bed having a panic attack because I know the hangover is going to get me.  A legitimate panic attack – not awesome.

For those of you who are still young, here are all the awesome things you have to look forward to:

• Headaches: headaches that feel like your brain will explode out of your forehead causing your eyes to pop out, and then your brain to ooze out of your eye sockets.
• Dry mouth: the Mojave dessert will reside in your mouth.  No amount of lip smacking, tongue tapping, or water will be able to quench the dryness that settles in your mouth.  You could take a match and strike it on the roof of your mouth.
• Queasiness and vomiting: you will want to vomit the world.  Your stomach will rumble, and you probably won’t be able to hold down the water that would actually help you get rid of the hangover.  There will even come a moment in the middle of the night where you might think, “I should probably just make myself get sick and I’ll feel better.”  Then while you’re vomiting last night’s half digested pepperoni pizza you come to the realization that no, vomiting is going to make you feel better.  Only God striking you dead on the bathroom floor will make you feel better.
• [And now the part that no one ever wants to talk about] Stomach cramps and the big D: get ready for (I’m struggling to actually write the word because I hate talking about it so much that I’m just procrastinating and trying to avoid it but I feel like I need to tell you how it really is so I’m talking myself into it and trying to avoid it all at the same time so I just am trying to figure out how to just write it and it’s making me nervous and grossed out at the same time but here we go so get ready…) explosive diarrhea.  It’s going to happen.  You, my friend, are going to get to a moment when you say to yourself, “I am rotting from the inside.”  It’s going to happen, and you might cry while it happens because it’s so incredibly disgusting, and you should cry.  Because you did that to yourself.  You did that – you made your body do that and it’s your fault.

Typical recovery time can be anywhere from 24 to 48 hours.  No joke.  And I’ll tell you what?  They morning you wake up after having fought off the hangover is like being totally reborn.  You could conquer the world you feel so fucking amazing.  And three days later when you’re at Happy Hour and you’re still apprehensive about whether or not you should have one more drink, I hope you remember when you were sobbing on the toilet because your insides were coming out your backside.

And that, young friends, is what you have to look forward to.

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Too. Many. Feelings.

There is a limit to how many feelings a dude should have, and that limit is four: hunger, thirst, love, and happiness.  That’s it.  That’s about all I can tolerate.  Dating a dude like this guy, is way too much…

http://www.hulu.com/watch/461010

No shit, I dated a guy like this.  At least twice.

My friends have often joked that I should have been born a dude – I have a very low tolerance for too many feelings in a relationship.  Yes, I have feelings.  No, I don’t want to talk about them.  Feelings are meant to be felt, repressed, and or eaten.  They’re not meant to wallow in, or talk about.  Nothing makes me roll my eyes faster than having some dude want to sit down and talk about his feelings.

3D thought it was necessary to tell me everyday how much he liked me BUT in return he demanded that I do the same for him.  Every. God. Damned. Day. That’s way too much.  You can’t force that kind of shit.  For reals, yo.

And then there was Hairy McBacksweat.  Jesus Christ, I swear to God that guy had more feelings than all my girlfriends combined.  When we broke up, he cornered all my friends and asked them to talk it out with him – because he needed closure.  Who knew that closure meant replaying every single instant of a relationship with all of your ex-girlfriends besties.  That’s a lot of closure.

In the end, the lesson I’ve learned is that if the dude has too many feelings, we’re better off cross stitching and watching reruns of “Sex and the City” than dating one another.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to eat my feelings about still being single while I analyze what the hell is wrong with me.

Just Let Me Die

Stomach flu.  Or food poisoning.  Either way, just let me die.  Wonder if it’s related to the Cool Whip that I take out of the freezer every night, let it soften, take two bites from, and then put back in the freezer.  Ugh.  Gross.

In half an hour I’m supposed to be leading a session for a fancy client.  That is totally not happening, mainly because I don’t want to vomit all over the floor halfway through the session.  My efforts to find a back up have totally failed.  They’re on their own.  I hate having to do that.  It’s shitty.  I do a favor for a friend and pick up this session, and then the day of I have to back out.  Horrible.  Just horrible.

I’ve never been the type of person to drag myself out of the house when I feel like dying.  Frankly, I’ve never understood how on earth people are able to do that.  How can you sit at your desk, stare at the computer screen, and get any work done while you’re also trying to hold all your puke down?  Vomiting is bad enough, but when you’re forced into a little stall and you know all your coworkers are hearing you it makes it that much worse.

No thanks, I’ll stay home, curl up on my bathroom floor, and then cry while I throw up.