LA

Dear LA Fitness,

I'm sorry I had to pass you this note rather than talk to you in person. But it's just too hard. I have so many emotions right now. I'm confused, I'm hurt, and you haven't been returning any of my text messages. And yet...I still keep running back to you, every day. What is this hold you have over me??

I know you already know what I'm upset about, but since you refuse to talk about it (you can be such a coward sometimes), and because I deserve the opportunity to express my feelings, I just need to let you hear this. On Tuesday, we were lifting weights, like we always do. We were SO HAPPY, LA. So happy. And suddenly, I felt a muscle pull in my neck. I know it's not your fault, and I don't blame you. But I just felt like you didn't care! You didn't ask how I was doing. You didn't seem concerned. And why do I feel like you were almost happy that I couldn't finish my lifting? Is it because you wanted some other, younger, prettier girl to lift with? And even though I've seen you every day since then, you haven't asked if I'm feeling better. I am...not that you care.

Just about twenty minutes after the muscle pull, we were running on the elliptical together--so carefree, making plans for the future. And suddenly, out of nowhere, the pedal fell off. LA...I could have been seriously hurt. But again, not a word from you.

You had to know I was upset, and maybe I'm overreacting, but it's just because I get so nervous when we fight. Are you going to leave me? Would you revoke my membership? Cancel spin classes? You're so unpredictable! But I guess that's what I love about you.

So where do we go from here, LA? You know I can't stay away. I could be tired, hungry, sick, or hurt, but you know I'll be there. Be honest--is there someone else? You've seemed distant, and I see the way those other girls wiggle around the gym in their teeny little shorts and overly sexualized exercise wear. Whores.

I'll be there again tomorrow. Can we talk?

xoxo

August

This just in: August 2010 has recently been renamed Saramonth. By me, which is really all that matters. Also, the arsonist has oddly shaped feet. You know what I'm saying.

First of all, August is my birthday month! I am a Leo, because I know you were wondering. I also enjoy long walks on the beach and snuggling. Oh, and throwing underwear dance parties on my bed. But more than all of those things, I enjoy making lists, so the following is irrefutable evidence that this month is obviously mine:

1. I just graduated from grad school! More on that in my next blog post, because I have more to say about it. But for now, please know that I have my Master's degree, and with that degree have become infinitely smarter. I feel like I just know more things, have the capability to spout wise statements, can converse intelligently with scholars and scientists...it's a good feeling. Also, having my Master's means a raise at work, which means I'm that much closer to being able to afford a giraffe.

2. I turn 30 this month. Probably most females would be in hysterics, but I'm kind of excited. Life seems to just get better as time goes on, so I can't even imagine what great things will happen in my thirties! Maybe I'll discover that AB is actually a duke/lord/prince/king of some unknown tropical (yet well equipped with a Tiffany's and a Sugar Factory) island so I can FINALLY marry into foreign royalty and rule over a small country.

3. We go to Jamaica in less than a week! I've never been to Jamaica. I hope I learn how to dreadlock my hair and put beads in it. I also hope I learn how to say "Mon" casually in conversations. But we're going to an all-inclusive, and I feel that it's going to be incredibly wonderful and relaxing.

4. My best friend Franny just informed me yesterday that she booked us a day at the Hershey Spa all day Sunday. I've wanted to go there forever, and now I get to spend the day with her (which we never do), take a chocolate bath (I may not like to EAT chocolate, but I sure do like the idea of bathing in it), use their gym (which sort of makes me feel like I'm cheating on LA Fitness, but LA was a giant douche to me the other day...we're kind of in a fight), have a facial, and get a manicure. It will prepare me nicely for Jamaica.

5. My parents got me a Macbook for my birthday/graduation. I'm not really sure HOW yet, but it makes me feel infinitely more fancy. Also, I like to skype people.

Is that all? I feel like it might be. But cheers to you, August/Saramonth. Here's hoping September doesn't come around and kick me in the face.

xoxo

Wine

AB and I are not engaged: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate. (thanks, Chuck D...openings have never been my thing.)

Last weekend, AB and I spent the weekend in Ocean City, NJ with my family. I consider myself a relatively well-seasoned traveler. This year alone will have taken me to Mexico, New Orleans, Las Vegas (twice), Buffalo (okay, so that one's not super thriller material, but STILL), Ft. Lauderdale, and Jamaica. But nowhere makes me as happy as OCNJ, especially when my parents, brother, aunts, and cousins are there. Probably because my family rules.

One evening, while tailgating in a parking lot waiting to be seated for dinner, my mom, who never drinks more than one cocktail every now and then, decided she wanted to play keep-up with my more alcoholically savvy brother and cousin. She downed three glasses of wine, and moments later was belting "Don't Stop Believin" across the parking lot--the Glee version. My mom loves AB, so her dance moves eventually carried her over to him. I thought nothing of it, since I'm so glad that they get along, until I overheard her listing who she wanted to invite to our wedding. I tried to divert her, to no avail. Then she danced away.

Not five minutes later, I found her cornering him, pointing out a small infant and informing him that she "wants one of those." In her next breath, she thought it would be an excellent time to remind him that once we did have children, she planned to move in with us for a few weeks...to help out. And before I had the chance to intervene, she also found it important to mention that if, in childbirth, my life were to suddenly be jeopardized, she'd have to choose my life over the baby's, and were they on the same page about that?

Over the course of one evening, my mother had me engaged, married, pregnant, was moving in with us, and aborted my hypothetical baby.

Luckily, AB is the most easy-going person I know. With most other men, the preceding conversation would have resulted in a boyfriend-shaped hole in the door the next morning, and me coming home to a half-empty house. AB, on the other hand, took it as a compliment.

I should add that my mom ended the evening by leading a conga line through our beach house, and then passing out in bed by 10:00.

Meanwhile, now that AB and I have been dating for a year and a half, apparently every single person I encounter feels that an appropriate greeting is "Hey, how are you? When's AB going to propose?" Let me answer that en masse. I DON'T KNOW. We talk about it, but I don't like the idea of planning out a marriage before one is engaged. I am the girl. Proposing is not my job. My job duties include things like: looking pretty, making our house smell nice, making our friends, and party planning. My duties do not include things like: making the first move, taking out the garbage, or proposing. You can yell at me if you want for perpetuating outdated gender roles, but I'm not making these rules up. It's science.

xoxo

Gucci

I love big sunglasses. You know the ones I mean. The REALLY big ones...preferably with a bit of fade-out in the lens. In fact, I love them so much that I recently spent a minor fortune on a pair of Gucci sunglasses that I consider to be one of my most worthwhile investments. That's them, in the picture. Go on...salivate. But I know that big sunglasses come with a certain stigma. Eyes roll, snarky comments are made. That is why I have compiled a small list of my favorite things about big sunglasses.

1. They allow me to judge you anonymously. I can stare at your appalling choice in footwear, make faces at your parenting skills (or definitive lack thereof), show my annoyance at the fact that you absolutely refuse to shower, and you'll never know. For all you know, I'm looking straight ahead, minding my own business. But I'm not. I'm judging you.

2. It makes it evident, if it wasn't already so, that I am stylistically superior. I find that a well-placed pair of expensive sunglasses can make even the most mundane outfit stand out. Yes, my sunglasses make me better than you. In turn, I tip my hat to those wearing cooler sunglasses than mine. And really, why eliminate this social hierarchy? Everyone feels more secure this way.

3. I am able to look completely put together without putting on any makeup. Now, to be honest, I have not mastered the art of wearing my sunglasses indoors...I just feel silly. But while I'm outside, makeupless, I still feel sufficiently done up.

4. It's easy to avoid eye contact. Without being able to see my eyes, I can very easily pretend I didn't see someone walking across the street, and I can continue on my journey without having to pause for an awkward conversation with that same someone I have been avoiding.

5. The eyes are the windows to the soul. My soul sometimes likes its privacy, thanks!

Pickles

If you know me, then you might have caught onto the fact that I have a teeeeensy bit of a potty mouth. If you don't know me, and you're just internet stalking me, kudos to you. If you don't already have it, I'll be happy to give you my address so you can leave me gifts on my doorstep. Note to you: I need a new tote, and I'm always happy to receive anonymous gifts from Tiffany's.

I digress. Recently I've realized that maybe I swear TOO much. Let's be honest, it's just not ladylike. And more importantly, I think it's lost its power. For instance, when I say "fuck," no one really flinches. If, say, my grandmother were to say "fuck off," I'm pretty sure she'd get some attention. Why? Because she NEVER tells people to fuck off, whereas I tell people to fuck off almost every day. Lovingly, mind you...lovingly. But it's not fair that my fuck has no power, and my grandmother's fuck has a LOT of power. I want to reclaim the power of my fuck.

Also, there's nothing interesting about a word if one says it all the time. And if there's one thing I don't like, it's the idea of not being interesting. So in the name of being interesting, here's what I propose: I will not swear for one week. Not at all. No damn, hell, shit, fuck...none of it. If I do swear, the week re-starts, until I last a week. At the end of that week (which may very well be sometime in the year 2019), I will get myself a fun little present. Yay me.

Now here's what I need from you.

1. If you're lucky enough to enjoy the presence of my company, please keep on me about the swearing. If you hear me swear, you can smack me. Gently. A love tap, really.
2. Let's discuss some "gray area" words. Like balls. That's not a swear word, but it's definitely inappropriate. Or dick. Is that a swear word, in your book?
3. I need to have a ready repertoire of replacement words, because I constantly have the need to have some form of mild outburst, and I need a lexicon for such instances. I'd like to try bring back "bonkers," as in "That is bonkers!" instead of "That is bullshit!" Or perhaps "poppycock." Also, "pickles" seems to be an acceptable substitute for "fuck."
Person A: I'm going to go to Payless and buy that pair of shoes.
Sara: What the pickles is wrong with you?!?

You see what I'm saying.

Ok...go.

Joey

AB and I have taken to spending our evenings watching marathons of Full House. Just so you know, Teen Nick runs four back-to-back episodes of this culturally cataclysmic television show every night starting at 8:00 p.m. Join us, won't you? Not only will you get a heaping dose of Tanner family love, but you will get to see every acne wash/pimple cream/face cleansing/zit busting commercial that has ever been produced--repeatedly. Teen Nick apparently knows something about teen culture that we don't...all teens care about is their complexion, and by showing the exact same set of commercials during every commercial break, you will eventually wear them down.

So, we love Full House. We learn valuable lessons, AB gets to make four cracks a night (I've limited him to one per episode) about Jodie Sweetin's meth addiction, and we have a hearty chuckle as Uncle Jesse's hair care jokes never cease to be hysterical. But there is one piece of the happy family puzzle that just doesn't fit in.

Joey.

What the fuck is this guy doing there??? I mean, I understand that when the mysterious Mrs. Tanner died, he moved in to help out his bestie, Danny. Sure. Makes sense. But he NEVER LEFT. I mean, by the end of the series, he's got to be in his early to mid thirties, and he is still just kind of leeching off of the Tanners, with absolutely no family or friends of his own. In all the years that the show ran, he never got his own girlfriend. I can count on one hand the number of Joey-centric episodes that ran. It has never appeared that he has any life outside of the Tanners. He somehow managed to get his own television show, which leads me to believe that he was making decent money, but he remained content to live in the basement (and in later episodes, a small bedroom) in this already overcrowded home.

Does he even have his own car? Is he paying Danny rent of any kind? Other than doing the occasional Bullwinkle impression, what contribution is he making to this family? This family that doesn't belong to him. At what point does Danny finally say, "Listen friend-o, it's been a nice run, but people are starting to talk." Doesn't he feel awkward at all? Like you know when you were little and you went on vacation with your best friend's family? Yeah, it was fun and all, but you were never really PART of the family, and it was always kind of relief to get back to your own house with your own food, and not that weird food that your friend's mom made.

I mean, really, Joey. Cut. It. Out.

Grownup

Well, I'm afraid I might have grown up. Or just got boring, but since I find myself to be the most interesting person I know, and I know this must be accurate since I also find myself to be an excellent judge of character, I doubt that's the case. I imagine it's much more likely that the years have caught up with me. Damn you, Time! Peter Pan would NOT find this acceptable, and he would probably mock me and send his shadow after me. I, however, am smarter than Peter Pan, and would just turn out the lights and tell him I killed his shadow. I might have grown up, but I can still be a bitch.

The Evidence:
1. I just don't feel like going out anymore. I mean, sometimes, like if I'm in Vegas or somewhere else that's actually conducive to my very high going-out standards, I'll do it. However, it should be noted that I was recently in Las Vegas for three nights...one of those nights was spent partying the sh*t out of Blush and drinking $600 champagne until 3am. The other two nights, I was happily tucked into my Bellagio bed before eleven. I digress...but I really don't feel as though getting trashed on the weekends is a productive expenditure of my time. My tummy hates it the next morning, and let's face it--it's just empty calories. Also, my decision-making skills are not awesome while intoxicated. But if I had the choice between going out to a bar with a group of friends and sitting on my couch, cuddling with Hamlet and AB and watching Full House--you guessed it. The Tanner family's shenanigans would be getting my attention. Turns out I actually don't need to be drunk to be entertaining. Who knew.

2. When people text me past 10:00 at night, I am (a) usually in bed, and (b) wonder what on earth these people are thinking with their middle of the night crises.

3. My tax return is going for two things: saving for grad school loans, and taking a fantabulous vacation with AB to a tropical location this summer. Anything left over will be spent on a Bissel SpotBot. I'm really excited about it. It's like the Michael Phelps of carpet cleaners!! Minus the giant ears and the pot.

4. Things that frequently excite me: making lists, going to the gym, planning vacations, going to bed early, cleaning, and drinking organic skim milk out of a martini glass.

5. Purchasing a house seems like a reasonable thing to do in the next year or two. Um, really? I always swore I would rent forever because I didn't like the idea of having to fix my own appliances or take care of my own lawn. I still don't like those things. However, this just in: boyfriends are good at that.

I feel like the mounting evidence speaks for itself. But the most compelling argument that I am probably an official grown up...

6. I actually don't mind it. It's nice having money to do stuff. It's kind of fun to not deal with hangovers, and to plan exotic vacations, to get enough sleep, to fall asleep and wake up to the same fantastical person every morning, to have positive and healthy friends, and to feel secure in myself. One of my students called me her Carrie Bradshaw for life. As long as she means that I am awesome, and not that I have a horse-face, that's kind of ok.

So, I expect that I will soon be receiving my "Grown-Up" card in the mail, along with a detailed instruction manual. My parents, by the way, used to insist that their reasoning behind many of their parenting decisions simply came from the "Parenting Instruction Manual." I can not WAIT to get a copy of that, because I can't even keep plants alive, so I'm hoping there are some good ideas on how to maintain a child.

Underwear

So you know what's kind of depressing? I spend all kinds of time, effort, and money making sure that I am always wearing adorable underwear. I love them. When I'm not in a hurry, I definitely spend at least 10 minutes dancing around in front of my mirrors, showing off my awesome underwear to myself. I think part of me is hoping that somehow, someone can see me and be impressed--by both my rockin dance moves and my kickass choices in high panty fashion. But the depressing part--almost no one ever gets to see them!

I mean, now and then people see them. When I'm changing at the gym, or when I'm on the treadmill and my pants are falling down (which happens way more often than I think it should--suggestions?). But as a rule, the public doesn't get to see my cute undies. And it makes me mad. Because they're CUTE. Last fall, my mom sent me a pair of underwear with a little candy corn guy on it (you all know about my candy corn obsession right?), and on the back it said "Corny." HA! And they were swell little black boy-cut underwear that made my butt look great. So I was getting really depressed, until I finally decided to make my co-worker Chelsea come over. Here's how it went:

Me: Chelsea, we're friends, right?
Chelsea: Of COURSE we are.
Me: Ok, then please come over to my office right away.
Chelsea: (arrives in my office and shuts the door)
Me: I'm going to need to show you my underwear.

And I did. And, they were super cute! This is why I know I love Chelsea. She was perfectly excited to see them. I feel that I'm too new at this new job to wander around showing off my underwear to anyone.

So instead, I propose that we drop Casual Friday and instead implement Underwear Friday. I know what you're going to say--that you have lots of co-workers who you do NOT want to see traipsing around in their unmentionables. But be honest with yourself...don't you KIND OF want to know what that woman 2 offices down, with 12 cats and stale peppermint candy has on under her girdle and shiny white orthopedic shoes?? I do.

Please join me in this endeavor.

xoxo

p.s. Yes...yes I was tempted to put a picture of myself in my OWN underwear up instead of just a picture of underwear that I happen to have. However, do we think that could get me fired? Probably. Once Underwear Friday gains momentum, I'll be much more likely to do it.

Coup

Well, I think we all knew this was going to happen. If there is anything I've learned from watching blockbuster action flicks of the mediocre variety, it's that eventually robots are going to turn against us, kill most of us, and inhabit the earth. That's why I absolutely refuse to get a Roomba vacuum. I mean PLEASE--I know it seems innocent enough, but it's a slippery slope from there. First you're having a little disc guy vacuum your living room, then you're using Rosie from the Jetsons to make your breakfast (and the occasional hilarious joke), then you're getting bound into indentured slavery to the I, Robot bitches.

Not me.

I thought we had more time, though. However, when I was sitting in spin class yesterday, I noticed the "man" in front of me. I always check out the people in front of me...what else are you supposed to do when sweat is pouring out of your face at epic rates? But I paid specific attention to his left leg...it just wasn't flowing properly. It was kind of...clicking. Jerking around the wheel a little bit. I stared, perplexed, until suddenly I realized the truth--he was a robot. Obviously. And his designers were smart! He's really kind of plain looking (my first instinct if I was going to build a robot would be to make him super hot), didn't really say much, didn't appear to be too well-built...all of that to mask the fact that he could rip my face off in a matter of seconds.

Crafty.

So, throughout the rest of the class, I had some time to digest this information. The Robot Coup is much more imminent than I had realized. I'm not really one to try to rebel against this. That seems like a lot of effort, and I'm more of a go with the flow kind of gal. Instead, I'm proposing some tips on how to make nice and live with our new robot overlords.

1. Wear witty t-shirts, probably from snorgtees.com. Robots love a good witty remark.
2. When you're on your cell phone (because you know they're listening) try to talk up the droids--say how you think R2D2 is the best Star Wars character you know of, and that he was robbed in terms of screen time.
3. Try to emulate robots yourself, as best as you can. Always be dressed nicely, don't wear wrinkled clothes, smile a lot. Pretend your life is a Miss American pagaent. Wax the important areas...robots don't approve of unsightly body hair.
4. Walk the fine line between using your gadgets (iPod, GPS, etc) and taking them for granted. Don't drop your cell phone in the toilet. Don't hit your computer if it's being slow.
5. Always carry an oil can.

Good luck! xoxo

Job

Soooo...guess who has a new job! This will be a multiple choice question:

a. Our dog Hamlet--finally got his dream job of Mulch From The Yard Eater
b. The Noid--remember him? From Dominos? Avoid the Noid? He got hired by Pizza Hut to promote their wings.
c. Zach Morris--his ability to stop time by making a "T" with his hands has launched him into reality tv superstardom.
d. Me

If you guessed "d," then you win! Please see me at a later date to collect your prize. Just so you know, your prize is a hug.

After five and a half years (why does time move so quickly??) of working in Admissions at Penn State, I've been offered a job at Harrisburg Area Community College as their Coordinator of Student Life and Multicultural Affairs. I know what you're thinking, and yes...that DOES make me kind of a big deal. But honestly, it's a huge step up in terms of responsibility, SALARY, and awesomeness. I'm really excited to get started. My first day is January 4, and my new colleagues are already e-mailing and calling me with questions!

So, here's where this inevitably leads. I've said almost since I moved here that I wanted to move away. York wasn't nearly glamorous enough for me, there wasn't enough to do, the people didn't impress me...I had a nice little list of reasons to book it out of here. But here's the thing--it's kind of grown on me. I can easily get to Philly, Baltimore, DC, and NYC. Harrisburg, Lancaster, and York all have these great little hidden artsy areas with awesome local artists and businesses. And it's so cheap to live here! If I lived in NYC, like I've always said I wanted to do, I could never afford to DO anything! Living in York will afford me the opportunity to actually have money to spend. I can travel abroad. I can buy things. I can manage to feed my expensive tastes.

So apparently it turns out I'll be sticking around here, which is good. And also, in York, I stand out. People find me endlessly stylish, quirky, and savvy. I think I might blend in a little bit more in a bigger city, and I do NOT like doing that!

"The only rule is don't be boring and dress cute wherever you go. Life is too short to blend in."
Paris Hilton

Thankful

You know what? Life is awesome. Remember how I blogged at the beginning of the year about 2009 being the year of change? It seriously has been--in fact, I believe that in December I'll probably write a blog detailing the highlights of 2009. But for now, since it's Thanksgiving, and it's what you're supposed to do, I wanted to make a list of things I'm thankful for. Because there are a lot of them. And honestly...you should too. And then when you start getting yourself all worked up over something, tossed into a panic, getting into hypothetical arguments in your head (is that just me?) you can look back and remember that things are actually pretty ok.

I'm Thankful For (in random order):

1. AB--I've dated a lot of douchebags. I've also dated some really great guys, but there have been more than a few twats. And I had kind of figured that at some point I was going to have to lower my standards just a little bit, because no one was ever going to be able to fulfill all my expectations. Wrong. AB is exactly who I always hoped I'd find but never really thought I would. And all those people who said living with a boy was going to suck and be hard--what is WRONG with you?? It's awesome!

2. My family. This is pretty much a no-brainer. I have the best family I know of, and I've met a lot of families. They're fun, funny, adorable, and my best friends.

3. My hair. It's still amazing. I think sometimes I fear that it'll turn normal or plain, but that hasn't happened yet. GO GINGERS.

4. Hamlet. Ok, he can be a real asshole sometimes, but I have the cutest dog EVER. I dare you to try to find a cuter one. And while he makes me SO mad sometimes, I love him so much, and get so proud of him. Who would have thought that pooping outside would make me want to throw a party?

5. LA Fitness. Ohhh, how I adore thee. If I could wrap LA Fitness in a little bundle and put it in my pocket forever, I would. I'm throwing spin class on this one. I sometimes wish I could hug spin class.

6. 20% off coupons from Coach. Why didn't I sign up for their e-mail list earlier??

7. My rockin' house. Have you been to visit me yet? It rocks.

8. No hospital visits in over a year! I'm sure it was smart to say that...but after three several day long hospital stays in less than two years, I was starting to think that there were little terrorists living in my body trying to sabotage me. And maybe there WERE, but luckily my Belgian mafia badassness kicked them out.

9. Gmail. I love gmail. I should write a letter to Google, because it's fantastic.

10. Cruise to Mexico in December, New Orleans for New Year's, and Vegas in February! I promise to send you all postcards! I also feel like I should start investing in some SPF 45. I would rather not come back from any of those destinations looking like a tomato.

11. IKEA. The world seems better knowing that IKEA is in it.

12. Smoothies. I haven't had one in a really long time, but I could totally go for a pineapple-strawberry smoothie right now. My throat hurts. I'm not actually sure this should make the list, but I'd be really happy if one magically appeared.

13. My friends...I started to name them, but then realized I'd probably forget someone and they'd no longer be my friend. Although...if they stop being my friend based on a blog omission, I think I question the validity of our friendship! But you know who you are! The friends I've had forever, the ones I talk to all day via email and gchat (thanks gmail!), the new friends I've made over the past few months, the ones who send me postcards from all around the country, the ones who ALWAYS make me crack up laughing, the ones who totally would have my back if I ever get into a giant street fight...you get the idea!

I think this list could go on for awhile...so rather than ramble, I'm going to suggest that each of you go out and tell someone in your life that you're thankful for them being there. If you're reading this, you're either a friend of mine or a random internet stranger who has been stalking me...in either case, I'm thankful for you!

Trainers

So we all know that aside from AB, my one true love in life is my gym (oh, and my as yet hypothetical puppy). I heart LA Fitness. It's probably because I like LA and I also enjoy fitness. When I have to go out of town, I miss my gym more than I miss my friends (sorry friends...but I can text you while I'm gone--as yet, LA Fitness has refused to respond to any of my text messages.) I miss its laugh...I miss its musk. I miss the purple walls, the clean equipment, and especially the spinning classes, to which I have become officially addicted. I do not, however, miss the trainers.

In short, the trainers at my gym (and likely at any gym) are certified twats. Since it has not been confirmed that any of them are fully literate, I'm going to assume that none of them are reading this blog. But on the off chance that one of them somehow stumbles off of a gay porn site and onto my blog, I'm offering the following has helpful insights to increase their productivity.

1. Your giant muscles do not completely negate the fact that you have bad teeth/acne/an IQ that has dipped into negative numbers. Find a dentist. Have you heard of Proactiv? R-E-A-D something!

2. No matter how many times you try to tell me that investing an additional $80/month is a sound financial move, I do not want to hire you as my personal trainer. Please stop asking. I mean, come on. Play hard to get! By constantly approaching me while I am TRYING to work out, you are just making me want to kick you in the face.

3. Guys need fitness advice too. Even though the gender mix at my gym is probably 50/50, I've never seen a trainer approach a male client and offer some extra fitness advice. Go on--show them how to do it. Grasp their waist ever so gently. Wink at them.

4. The holy grail is not hidden down my shirt. Stop looking.

5. It's evident that in fitness trainer college (wait, what? They don't have that?) you learn how to spread your arms very wide and strut. It looks silly. You kind of look constipated.

6. You might want to talk to your plumber...as far as I know, most of us shower in water, not cheap cologne. Maybe just give them a call and ask if yours is malfunctioning!

7. If I have my iPod on, am obviously working hard at whatever exercise I'm doing, and absolutely refusing to make direct eye contact with you, it's not necessary to approach me. I'm doing fine, I promise.

8. You can tell me as many times as you want that the key to getting fit is free weights and that cardio is a waste of my time. Really? REALLY? Join me, won't you, for just one spinning class.

xoxo

Confession

I'm a fraud.

As I'm sure you all know (because I assume that your daily well-being hinges on being updated on my happenings), I'm in graduate school right now. I love the program I'm in, and I find myself constantly intellectually stimulated and challenged by my classmates, and I love that. It's swell, and they're honestly really cool people. Earlier this month, I spent two weeks at Goucher College, immersed in an intensive summer writing residency. It was a quirky juxtaposition of terribly draining and wonderfully energizing. It was also two weeks of being surrounded with completely brilliant, inspiring (albeit sometimes exhausting) writers. They love things like music, art, philosophy, big words, theoretical adventures, and asking just one more question at the end of a lecture. In many ways, I identified beautifully with them. In other ways, I did not.

What follows is my confession to my fellow graduate students. Please do not eject me from the program, throw rocks at my car, or smudge my lip gloss.

1. I would much rather read the latest issue of Cosmo than the latest issue of The New Yorker.
You hate me, don't you? But it's true. I am much more interested in giggling over first-time sex bloopers, having my most embarrassing beauty questions answered, or learning more ways to score a 6th consecutive orgasm than reading about Sotomayor's trials, the health-care debate, or a Russian road trip. I'M SORRY. I will be the first to criticize Cosmo's perpetuation of the horrible, mythical female ideology that exists in America. I know it's trash...but I still like to read it.

2. I don't listen to NPR.
Gasp. I don't like it. I've tried. The people have boring voices, and I just can't pay attention to them. I know I'm in the minority, and I'm aware that all self-respecting, liberal, hip people wake up and fall asleep to the sounds of NPR, but I just can't. AB listens to it all morning every weekend. During a lecture at school, one of our professors, Laura, was talking about her love of NPR. Let me explain...this woman is awesome. Laura Wexler is not cool. Cool is Laura Wexler. I digress--she mentioned that her alarm in the morning was set to NPR, so that's what she woke up to. Everyone chucked that "Oh yes, so do I" all-inclusive chuckle. I looked around, certain that I had some kind of heathen mark flashing above me. Stupid NPR.

3. I like listening to Britney Spears.
She's catchy. She's a beautiful disaster. She Did It Again.

4. Harry Potter rules.
He does. The past decade has given us some phenomenal literature. But J.K. Rowling made billions of people care so much about the fate of a fictional little boy that on the day it was released it sold a record-breaking 8.3 million copies. IN ONE DAY. I should know. I was there, with my friends at midnight, costumed in our homemade Harry Potter attire. I will probably read the entire Harry Potter series 10 or more times in my life. I will probably read Angela's Ashes one or two more times...although I love that book. My hypothetical children will be debating the virtue of Severus Snape as they put on their pajamas and settle in for storytime at night.

5. I generally have no idea what I'm doing.
I sometimes try to guess! But the truth is that I just love to write, and I actually feel like I'm pretty good at it (most days.) But as a rule, I'm kind of just bumbling along, trying to meet deadlines and not make a complete literary ass out of myself. Just a girl who sometimes likes to play in bathtubs at parties with her friends.


xoxo

Christine

Perhaps you have noticed that I haven't posted a new blog in quite some time. I suck, admittedly. In my defense, I've been immersed in an extremely intensive graduate program for the past two weeks, and hopefully will be able to apply some of what I'm learning to making this blog extra fun and awesome.

Or perhaps you haven't even noticed my blogtastic absence, in which case we need to sit down and have a serious discussion about your priorities.

In any case, my amazingly talented friend Christine has generously stepped up to save my online ass, and has written a witty, handy, practical blog that speaks on a multigenerational level. Please look for at least two blogs of my own next week (one about the surprising and beautiful simplicity of living with AB and another that will be a virtual confessional to my grad school colleagues), but until then, what follows is all Christine:

Wardrobe Professionalism: A Brief Guide to Faking It.

You can’t deny it: we’ve all had a shitty morning (or in some cases 5,284 shitty mornings) that we can blame on a number of circumstances such as: staying up too late talking to a friend on the west coast, drinking too much, general insomnia, closing down a gay bar with a karaoke rendition of Baby Got Back, accidentally sleeping with the TV and lights on, the extended release aspect of your Adderall refusing to stop releasing, forgetting to change your BlackBerry to silent mode causing it to violently vibrate on the nightstand when Saks randomly sends a late night email, deciding that listening to Britney Spears and Coldplay repeatedly at 3am is the cure for insomnia, Benadryl, staying up late because you just HAD to watch a rerun of Nancy Grace, taking the red-eye from Vegas and failing to schedule off work the day of your arrival, the alarm forgot to beep… you know the deal.

Ladies, let’s assess the situation: you have 20 minutes to look normal and don’t know where to begin. Here are some simple suggestions that will make these mornings seem less like giant case of armageddon:

• Pretend the Guinness Book of World Records is timing you for the fastest shower record. Everything is easier when you are clean. You cannot go wrong with a ponytail as long as it looks like it’s been brushed, straightened, or attended to with some other kind of minimal grooming… a 1875 watt hair dryer and a bit of product are handy at this stage of the process.
• Invest: You are employed and need to appear professional at your place of employment, so one would assume that you’ve managed to attain a level of responsibility that would involve you participating in some kind investment activity such as stocks, mutual funds… Well forget about that business because we’re focusing solely on looks in this brief guide. Invest in CLOTHING. If you work in an office environment and occasionally need to appear particularly professional, you absolutely must begin stockpiling blouses and dresses by Diane von Furstenberg. I don’t care if you lost every penny you own when the economy crashed or you are simply a shitty poker player. Put money in a piggy bank, wait for a sale at Nordstrom, toss some adult guilt in the direction of your parents so they pay, sell yourself on Craigslist…whatever it takes. Sure Diane von Furstenberg can sometimes be on the expensive end of the blouse industry but it’s worth the money - appropriate, classy, classic, dressy, flattering, consistent, stylish and most importantly easy. Next to your stockpile of Diane Von Furstenberg blouses there should be another stockpile of dressy, knee-length pencil skirts. Essential colors: dark denim (no stitched seams) and black. You need multiples of these colors because they will match every Diane Von Furstenberg blouse you own. Choosing an outfit will now only take 30 seconds of your life and will be successful regardless of your state of consciousness.
• Shoes with high heels are a vital part of this occasion. Bare feet are for pedicures, flip flops are for the beach and plastic is for working the pole at a strip club. These things have nothing to do with your morning so they should also have nothing to do with your choice of footwear. Owning several pair of ‘comfortable’ black heels and ‘comfortable’ fancy heels in fun colors are imperative. The litmus test for comfortability: the ability to run in aforementioned shoes regardless of obstacles including, but not limited to, brick sidewalks, blisters, stairs, etc. These shoes should be stored in an easily accessible area of your closet….now grab a pair and put them on your feet.
• Accessorize: Always keep a pair of earrings and matching bracelet in your purse or desk (or both) and sunglasses in your car. I recommend sunglasses of the large, dark variety. Morning people never forget to accessorize…and now neither will you.
• Side Note: In case you are having a bad morning and you are also completely incompetent, do not forget normal activities such as: brushing your teeth, wearing panties and a bra under your clothes, deodorant, perfume…

In conclusion, practice makes perfect. Practice also makes for numerous late nights and stressful mornings. You can decide whether or not that’s your thing. Now if only you didn’t have 8 minutes to battle traffic in an anxiety-ridden quest to reach an office, it would be the perfect time for a bloody Mary.

Bitches

We all know a few. Probably more than a few, actually. Come to think of it, I know for a fact that several of you who are currently reading this are, in fact, bitches yourself. Not only are you bitches, but somewhere deep in the core of your soul, you're proud to be bitches. Maybe you even have little refrigerator magnets to celebrate your bitchiness. Don't worry. I'm not writing this to condemn you. Instead, I am writing this in the hopes of joining your evil legions.

I think my conversion idealism was brought on by a recent ongoing encounter that I've been having with a particular bitch. I'm not going to go into details, but suffice to say that I have been feeling continuously powerless against this person, and it's making me realize that I need to up my bitch quotient. Not to the point where I start terrorizing my friends and family, but to the point where I can better stand up to them when I need to.

I feel like I need some kind of a plan. Otherwise, my increasing frustration is going to erupt like a McDonald's employee's face. It's already started to happen...I was listening to a heated conversation between my mom and my aunt, and I apparently decided I needed to involve myself. I calmly began to lay out my points (which, I may add, were quite valid) and my aunt (who is the sweetest woman on the planet) kept interrupting me with "Now, Sara, no..." and finally I just turned and shrieked at her, "STOP INTERRUPTING ME! You're not allowed to just interrupt me!"

Silence.

Unsure about how to proceed following my outburst, I simply stomped back to the couch and pretended to fall asleep. But...the lesson? About ten minutes later, she came over to me, hugged me, and apologized for interrupting me. You see? Bitches might be bitchy, but people don't mess with them. In fact, once someone has developed a reputation for bitchiness, people go out of their way to avoid upsetting them. No one goes out of their way to avoid upsetting nice people! They're too nice!

I've developed a preliminary do and don't list for embarking on the bitch train. I welcome suggestions.

Do:
1. Snap at people occasionally for minor offenses. This will let them know that you will not put up with their more serious offenses.
2. Be hypersensitive to the way you are being treated. Do you feel like an injustice has occured? It probably has. You should probably yell about it.
3. Stomp. A lot.
4. Be extraordinarily nice to people sometimes. Make them love you enough that they want to keep you around despite your newfound bitchiness. Buy gifts for people.

Don't
1. Slap a ho. While funny, this is apparently a good way to land yourself in jail.
2. Tell people you're a bitch. SHOW THEM.
3. Purchase any kind of glitter graphic t-shirt proclaiming that you are a bitch.
4. Hit below the belt. You probably can come up with lots of mean things to say to people. Don't say them. You don't need to be mean to be a bitch.
5. Go overboard. Your tantrums need to be well-timed and properly executed. Doing it too much will take away some of the power.