because that shit has an expiration date, apparently.

The other morning found me on my way (crankily, and with a slight hangover. ever so slight) to an OBGYN appointment that I had successfully avoided for nearly six months, in a manner quite similar to this:

Nurse, to me: "We're just calling to let you know that your PAP results came back abnormal again, so we're going to have to take a little piece of your cervix out and send it to the lab for further analysis."

My brain to myself: "Self! This sounds important! You need that cervix for baby-having in the future! Make that appointment and don't repeatedly cancel it like you always do!"

Me, to Nurse: "Oh, um OK. I guess just put me down for the next available appointment then."

Me, to Nurse, on the day before the appointment (multiple, rescheduled appointments) "Ummmm, I've been sort of feeling under the weather/have a job interview tomorrow/have to take my dog to the vet/am going out of town/could possibly start menstruating at any moment, so we're going to need to reschedule that. Again. Sorry!" (literally, I think I rescheduled it about six times. And straight-up just missed it twice).

On the morning of the appointment that I finally decided was probably in my best interest to actually make before I turned thirty, I was running late, having overslept at NAB's place (UPDATE: having not blogged for months, readers should note that I did in fact enter a very short-lived relationship with NAB. It has since ended. By ended, I mean we are no longer 'exclusive' because we want different things. Do we still go on dates, spend significant amounts of time together, and hook-up? Naturally. But that's a blog for another day.). I was in prime walk-of-shame mode. Slightly wrinkled short, cleavage-baring dress, boots, and some serious bedhead. Complete with smeared eyeliner and serious cranky-face. There's really something special about going to get checked out at the ol' womanly doctor in the outfit and panties you wore to your booty-call the night before. And by special, I clearly mean definitely-not-something-a-girl-in-her-mid twenties-should-be-doing.

So, there, I sat, contemplating the state of my life while simultaneously wondering what this 'procedure' I was about to have would entail. I was already pretty nervous, and had been ever since I was told that 'a little piece of cervix' would be TAKEN FROM MY BODY  and analyzed. Dudes, I'm no lady-parts doctor...but it seems to me that you probably need most of your cervix for important reproductive procedures. You can probably imagine the level that my already high anxiety rocketed to when my eyes fell on the procedure tray and found that amongst the shiny, clean, sterilized equipment and iodine, alcohol, and saline bottles, there was an old, sketchy looking pair of NEEDLE NOSE PLIERS! By the time the doctor came in I had worked myself into a full blown anxious frenzy and chewed off most of my manicure. As she was explaining the procedure to me, my doctor must have somehow caught on to my high anxiety level. It was probably the fact that I was breathing heavily and sort of backing away from the stirrups and towards the door. She finally sighed and asked me if I wanted to tell her what I was so worried about, because "Frankly this is a really routine thing, you're going to be just fine, there's probably nothing seriously wrong..." At which point I interrupted her to screech "There is a pair of pliers on that tray, PLIERS!!!!" She gave me a curious look and glanced over at the tray and then turned around to look at the medical assistant who almost peed her pants from laughing as she told me that the pliers were just to tighten the broken microscope. Then they both kind of looked at me like I should be embarrassed or something. I maintain that it was a pretty legitimate worry to have crossed my mind.


Since I generally live most of my life in a constant state of obsessive-compulsive worrying, it should come as no surprise that what my doctor next told me sent me right back into an anxiety spiral. Basically, she said that I'd probably have to get my uterus removed around age forty. She said that's really not a big deal, because "You're planning on having kids before then, right?" I told her that I sure hoped so. She then said: "So you're dating someone, right? Someone serious?" When I told her I wasn't I briefly caught a look of concern (and dare I say pity) pass over her face. I pretty much knew what was coming next. She told me that at my age (Jesus, is 26 the new 35?!) I really need to start "narrowing it down, and not switching from partner to partner." Gee, thanks lady. That's some solid advice right there. Essentially I had my gyno tell me to stop slutting it up and find a mate to procreate with before she snatched my uterus away from me.


Definitely one of the most shameful walk of shames I've done lately.

N.A.B.

So I've been sort of seeing this dude recently. It's been pretty great, but also awkward in the way that only I can make things awkward. I've noticed that I have become quite skittish at any mention of commitment or seriousness and that my skittishness then leads to extreme Hales-speak, which is where whatever comes into my head immediately escapes through my mouth before I have time to decide whether or not what I am about to say is stupid, rude, or extremely offensive (and it's usually one of those, if not all three).

For example, a few months ago we had that inherently weird and painful discussion about condoms: to use or not to use? After getting all of the horrible "When were you last tested-how many partners since then-what kind of birth control are you using" bullet points out of the way, I wanted to make it clear that I'm not at a point in my life where bangin multiple people is cool. So instead of just saying that, I sort of just blurted out "Well are you sleeping with other girls? I mean if you are it's okay I don't even care at all you're an adult and you can do what you want I mean if you like me or whatever maybe you'll only sleep with me but either way just tell me so I don't catch some disease at the age of 26!!" He just looked at me and blinked, but before he blinked I caught that 'Wow this chick is a little loony' look in his eye. He then calmly said: "Um, no...definitely not sleeping around, so...there's that..."

Having gotten the sex talk out of the way, things continued on just swimmingly with only minor hiccups, caused by me, always when I caught any whiff of a transition from dating into...well, you know (I don't like that word, don't make me say it). When my neighbor introduced herself to Not-a-boyfriend (as my friend RA has aptly titled him) she said "Oh hey, you must be the new boyfriend!" I immediately began muttering "Oh...yeah, you know we're um, I mean dating...or whatever.... " before I quickly cracked open another beer to drink during the awkward silence I'd just caused.

The other night we finally had that weird talk about whether or not we're seeing other people. A few hours after Not-a-boyfriend inquired as to how I would feel "You know, not dating other people. Besides me." and got the answer he had been looking for, I suddenly panicked and felt the need to ask him "If you're my....well, you know, I don't really like saying that word, exactly. Ever." His response was that although he had been "out of the game" for a good 8 years or so, that was generally what he took "not dating other people" to mean. I guess it was sort of a stupid question.

Am I abnormally awkward or is this just the way dating is supposed to be? Because we're a solid three months in and I still act REAL spesh around this dude. I can definitely see the perks of arranged marriages.

I'm glad I love the shit out of these people, since I'm stuck with them either way.

I've always known that I have the best family in the world. I'm sure your family is pretty great too, but I'm equally sure that mine is better. Having just got back from our annual beach week vacation, I thought I'd share some of the reasons my family kills it:

- Do I want to wake up and immediately crack open a beer when I'm on vacation? Why yes, I certainly do! Does my family really give a shit that not only do I have an extremely (and probably somewhat unhealthy) tolerance and love for booze? They probably do, but hey-they're awesome enough to accept that fact about me and move on.

- Family beach week includes, but is not limited to, the following meals: champagne scallops, beer dip, duck-stuffed pork, spaghetti and meatballs, red beans and rice, etouffee, crab and shrimp cocktails, and endless cookies, cinnamon rolls, and brownies.

- You really haven't lived until your entire family has been kicked out of the wave-runner rental place for not following the rules and driving too dangerously.

- This years beach week ended with two empty Grey Goose bottles. The huge ones.

- We once had a family discussion about circumcision. This included me polling my cousins on who was and who wasn't, and my cousin Peter replying: "I don't know, ask my mom!" (By the way, he was 16 at the time).

-Most nights end in drinking games and a midnight food run.

But seriously, I don't know what I do without these people. I have always been supported unconditionally by my amazing family and taught that I could do anything and be anything...and thanks to them, I've never doubted it for a second. My family is my heart and my proof that true love really does exist.

puppy love

So there's this new dude in my life. He's sort of immature, has way more energy than I do but still loves to take naps with me, and has recently been keeping me company on my runs (side note: is running going to help me get some of my ghetto booty back? I swear it's been shrinking lately and I'm really not okay with that). If you haven't figured out by this point that I'm not talking about a human dude, than take a little gander at this picture and all will be explained:

Pretty cute, right? Don't let him fool you though, he's trouble. He can (and will) basically break out of any enclosure he finds himself in for more than half an hour. I keep him from breaking out of his crate by securing it with five carabiners and a chain. He's pretty bad ass. Other than this massive case of separation anxiety he's got going on, dude's pretty chill.

So the other day Rose and I took Charlie on a little trip to Home Depot to pick some shit for her boyfriend (you KNOW we weren't in there shopping for ourselves. So NOT our brand). There we were, waiting for some super friendly employee (ok seriously, what is WITH the people who work at that store? They're all so damn happy, it's like the Disneyland of home improvement warehouses) and Charlie decided that right there in aisle 13 was as good a place as any to take a shit. Naturally, Rose and I went straight to freak-out mode. "SHIT! Get rid of it before someone comes over here! Hurry!" So as she's yelling at me and I'm frantically digging through my purse for something to pick it up with, Charlie is kinda just hanging out, eating popcorn off the floor, scratching his balls, whatev...like it's no big thing. Naturally neither of us has anything practical on us that could be used to pick up Home Depot dog shit, so quick as a whip I empty out my purse and spy my extra pair of panties in the zip up pocket. Yes, I'm one of those girls. I like to be prepared, all right? You never know. Don't judge. Or do, it's cool. . And since I'm single, and since I've been sort of seeing someone, or whatever, they were a NICE pair. But you do what you gotta do.

I now own one less pair of sexy red panties, so thanks for that Charlie. You're lucky that you're cute as hell.

so that's awkward.

This a typical date for me:

The other day on my way to a date I decided to stop and get frozen yogurt. Kind of like a reward, because I literally had to force myself to leave my place having already agreed to this date even though I really, really just wanted to go to bed. So I show up to his apartment with a giant diet coke in one hand and a frozen yogurt in the other. Around the time I realized that isn't the sort of first impression one wants to make I also realized that my diet coke had no booze in it, which made sad and wary of how I was going to make it through the next 45 minutes (I like to keep first dates to the absolute minimum. I figure that's good either way; if they suck you haven't wasted more than an hour, and if the chemistry's there then you leave them wanting more. Or something). Not to worry, because this dude seemed to be an alcoholic of some sort. I'm just going out on a limb and making that assumption based only upon the fact that he found it necessary to down two shots of whiskey before we walked to Whole Foods for dinner. He also had one mixed drink. I didn't judge because let's be honest, we all know I poured some of that whisk into my DC.

Off we went, fueled by booze and hunger. He decided on pizza and I got a soup and salad. I told him that I was going to eat ONE bite of his pizza, but I guess he didn't believe me (I can't fault him, would you believe the chick that just showed up to meet you eating a giant Maverick frozen yogurt?) because he kind of looked at me sideways and muttered "mmmhmm". Apparently neither did the guy working at Whole Foods because he gave us the biggest slice cut into two individual slices so that I could "have my own." I shook  my head and explained that I really did only want one bite because I was so full already. Then I ended up eating almost all of it, including my soup and my salad before he even finished half of his slice. So that was super sexy. It's probably time to seriously examine my relationship with food. I think we may be a little too tight these days, food and I.

After I scarfed down my dinner like a growing baby dinosaur, a girl who used to be a patient at the residential treatment center I work up tapped me on the shoulder. So here I am, drinking a HEAVILY whiskied diet coke in the health food store at  ten on a weeknight, talking to this girl about following the rules and not staying out late on school nights and why in the world are you on your way to a party right now you're only fourteen years old please tell me you don't have a boyfriend.?! Naturally after she left, whiskey dude wants to know who she was, and for obvious reasons I can't really tell him that she was a patient in the hospital I work at, so I just muttered something about her being a girl I used to hang out with. "You often hang out with fourteen year olds....?" he asked "Um, yeah. You know. Pretty regularly. Sometimes. Just...." is literally what I said.

Is it bad that I don't want to go out with him again only because I can't understand why in the world he would ASK me out again after all that?

do I get my girl-card revoked because I don't like to cuddle? no, seriously. please stop. now.

When Mini-J, Rose, and I all lived together I ended up with the room that you had to walk through to get to the bathroom. This is how it pretty much went down:

I had been at work when Rose and Mini-J went to look at the place. Mini-J, who has powers far beyond normal and can convince almost anyone of nearly anything called me beside herself with excitement. "The house is perfect! It has hardwood and crown-moulding and ALL the original tile in the bathroom!" (trust me, when you're a renter in this city those things are all what you really, really want). She went on to describe the bedrooms: "So, since I don't like sunlight and I don't have as many clothes as you guys I thought I could take the little basement and turn part of it into the sitting room. Rose can have the big front room because it has so many windows and natural light." (Rose turns into a monster without her sunlight, true story. Often I just don't see her between December and March). I had pretty much figured out how this conversation was going to end from the moment it started. Having found the house and looked at all the pictures online already, we ALL knew that the main bedroom was the only access to the bathroom, so somone was going to be stuck having her bedroom constantly invaded by people who needed to pee, or brush their teeth, shower sex?, get ready for work, puke, etc. This is how Mini-J sold that room to me: "And you can have the room with the ceiling fan and HUGE closest!" (the closest wasn't huge. I mean, I'm sure when that house was built it was obscence but that bitch wasn't even big enough to hold my boots). But yeah, that ceiling fan was pretty sweet.

Since I ended up in the no privacy room, Mini-J, Rose, and constant others were continually invading my room, meaning they pretty much had unrestricted access to my love-life, such as it was. Most people who know me realize that I'm not a very...affectionate person. I mean yeah, when I'm in a relationship with someone I adore I love spending hours in bed snuggled up...but for the life of me, I just don't understand the NEED that so many GUYS have to continually try to spend the night, to cuddle, to hold hands, to nuzzle...ugh. Barf. Mini-J said she would frequently walk into my room at night to get ready for bed and find me curled up in the corner of my bed with no blankets, scowling in my sleep with some dude glued to my side with his finger in my hair. What is that?

I've recently been re-introduced to this practice, and I still basically hate it just as much. I'm sorry, we just met, and you're SORT OF ruining my badass reputation by continually trying to hold my hand. And what's with awkward back pats? I've been getting tons of those lately. If you're going to insist on touching me, at least make it worth my while and give me a massage or something. Geez.

At least this time there isn't an audience for my irritated sighs.

Dating is not for the weak-hearted

In honor of my recent decision to 'rip the Band-Aid off' and dive right back into the sometimes (often?) hellacious world that is dating in my lovely little mountain city, I thought I'd share some of my all-time favorite dating stories.

Rose and I were single at the same time once a few years ago. We also (although both unaware of it at the time...hindsight, right?) were both prettttty manic. It was our 'Summer of Love', and it was pure crazy mixed with a hearty dose of alcohol. To paint the picture, this Summer included me missing our flight to Portland because at 8 AM the day of the flight I was still so drunk that I couldn't stand and slept through ten to fifteen phone calls and my friend knocking on the door to rouse me. Once I finally made it up I was convinced that I could make it to the airport to catch my flight that left in forty-five minutes. Oh, and yeah...I hadn't yet packed. I ended up realizing half way through my packing job that I wasn't going to make my flight so I passed back out after booking myself on an afternoon flight. When I woke up, much more sober and refreshed, I opened my suitcase to find I had only packed fifteen pairs of panties, a camera, and every single piece of make-up I owned. Later that Summer Rose and I were outside of our favorite bar. I was drunk and crying and my purse had spilled out all over the sidewalk. A homeless man hit me up for some cash and I LOST it. That night ended with me yelling obscenities at the man as he ran away from me, telling Rose and I to "GO MASTURBATE YOURSELVES OR SOMETHING!". This was the Summer I introduced 'road vod', the handle of vodka that I kept in the trunk of my car, for emergencies? Like I said, pure crazy.

Between the non-stop partying and holding down full-time jobs as well as tutoring on the side, Rose and I were also serial daters. It never ended. Date after date after date. I should also note that this single status was newfound for both of us and came after our first very long-term relationships. We were like two innocent baby does thrown into the wild with no means of survival. No one warned us that well, to be frank, dating sucks. It sucks hard.

• I once was walked to the door (against my wishes, which I had verbalized) by a young man who literally walked into a pole and then pretended like he hadn't. He then gave me his business card.
• Rose was once followed home by a guy she had met in a bar. I was passed out in her living room, wrapped in a blanket. As she saw him walk by her window she dropped to the floor, spy-style. He came to the door and after I opened it in my blanket and confirmed with Rose that she did NOT want him coming in, I informed him that he was crazy and slammed the door in his face.
• Rose and I once had a crush on the same guy. Everything came to a head one night at a party he was throwing, when Mini-J had to referee a tear-filled argument between Rose and I over both of us liking this guy and both yelling about why we liked him so much: "But he's so smart and loves math!".
• I once had a guy tell me: "I really like you, and I want you to meet my cat, I think she's ready to meet you too!".

The saddest part? I actually dated cat guy for a few months.

Here's to another (much less drunk and dramatic) Summer O' Love!

please tell me the bed isn't a metaphor for my life

Rose has always had these weird premonitions of me falling down. And by always, I mean she's had them twice. Once, back in college, after all of us had been drinking college punch and burning incense, we came the the conclusion that we NEEDED pie. Right then and there. As we walked to the grocery store Rose kept saying things along the line of "Be careful Hales! I feel like you're going to fall, or something!" (to be fair, though, she also was really worried about us 'catching a chill' in that cold July air and insisted we huddled under the street lamp for warmth. So, maybe her worries were a little unfounded?).  Later in the grocery store I drunkenly jumped onto my boyfriend's back, laughing hysterically and tickling him, causing him to drop me. Rose then proclaimed, with all the smug certainty in the world: "I knew it! I just knew you were going to fall!".

Rose had her second Hales falling! premonition a few weeks ago after I insisted on setting my already really unstable bed frame, box spring, and mattress up on risers. Really, this wasn't a premonition so much as pure common sense, but I wanted a tall bed, damnit! When you live in the teensiest of apartments under the bed is prime time storage space you guys!

Last night as I crawled into said tall bed after several Easter mimosas, it totally collapsed. Completely. It was sort of a fitting end to a week which had involved crazy mean Ex rantings and a trip to the ER for stitches. When my little brother came over later to help me salvage it, he found me sitting in the corner of the teensiest bedroom with all of my other furniture pushed into the teensiest kitchen where my mattress and box spring were precariously perched {sidenote: brothers are the absolute best. Especially mine.}.

Upon getting the text letting her know that she was right and my bed had finally collapsed, Rose responded:

"Well, were you at least having sex when it happened?!"

I guess it's the most legitimate question that could really be asked after such an occurrence.

pure love

When you're poor and you live in what you continually try to convince people is the smallest apartment in your city (I swear you guys, it is. I mean have you ever been here? Really.) payday is the best kinda day.

That day is today and since I've lived with only my sweet little ol' self for over a month and have yet to go grocery shopping (except the occasional trip to the Mexican market for Rambo, but that's a story for another day) I decided to take my newly earned straight cash monies over to the new Sunflower Market.

Dudes, that place is BOMB.

If anyone wants to come over for some delishyness involving the redic amount of organic quinoa and fresh veggies I just bought I'm fairly certain I have enough to stave off starvation of a third world country for a few days. Since I live in the smallest apartment in this city though, you'll be eating quinoa in my bed. Also, a lady who worked there told me how amazing my hair, outfit, and homemade headband were and wished me a "Happy Earthday!" with a free sample of organic laundry detergent, which I'll never use (I like my laundry to smell like vanilla and lavender and if that hurts the environment then so be it, shoot me) but STILL.

You should all go there.

keep your chin up, baby!

As long as I can remember, my mom, aunt, and grandma have fawned over my chin (weird...I know) because I was blessed with the Dye dimple. Apparently I have the exact same chin as my maternal grandfather, whom I never met as he died when my mom was ten. I like to think that he'd find me to be  pretty great, had he ever met me. Because, well, I am sort of great. Each time someone gives me advice on my current life situation and tells me how proud they are that I was true to myself, I am also usually given  advice in the vein of "Keep that chin up, baby!". I often find myself wondering if people look at my chin when they say that and notice my little dimple and also what advice my grandfather would have to offer me.

In an effort to, ahem, "Keep my chin up", or what have you, I have recently been..rendezvousing with someone from my past. Most single girls I know have that someone. The someone that is great to pass a few hours with, the someone that makes you laugh and offers you various pleasurable distractions when dating is the last thing on your mind and anything with more emotional involvement than a few hours of stupid TV and time between the sheets is much more than you're willing to commit to. This is a someone that you tend to not talk to for long periods of time, the periods of time in your life when you're half of a couple. Then something happens and there you are staring your single self right in the eyes again, and well. You do what you have to do. This someone usually tends to be single at the same time as you. Single karma, I guess.

Last night, after a few hours of blissfully mindless and emotionless fun with that someone,  my heart apparently decided to stop pumping the right amount of blood to my brain? This led to an immediate black-out after standing up, and I shortly thereafter came to, realizing why yes, I did just blackout, fall, and slice my chin open to the bone on some guys nightstand. And yes, I am wearing only my sexy underwear (and no, I certainly was NOT drunk. No really. I wasn't). After a phone call to my friend who is a nurse ("How many glasses of wine did you have?" and "No I'm not gluing it closed! It's on your FACE, go to the ER!") and closer examination of what I must say was actually a very clean slice right down to the bone, I decided that $200 co-pay or not, I do love my pointy little dimple chin dearly and a scar-free face is worth much more than a couple hundred bucks, right? I mean after all, I do have insurance and I surely do not want to march back into the dating world with a scar on my lovely face!

As I was sitting in the ER with my beloved Mini-J, having that little dimple chin stitched right back up, laughing (and yes, I admit it, crying just a tiny bit) I turned to her and asked "Please tell me that blacking out in my panties, falling, and slicing my chin open to the bone in the apartment of the guy I'm currently screwing is the lowest point in my life right now. It's going to get better after this, right? I mean, RIGHT?". Smiling, she reassured me in only a way She, Rose, and my mom can do and I immediately felt better. We laughed about all of our misadventures in dating and decided that when we compile a book of stories regarding such topics that it should definitely have the word post-apocalyptic in the title. My nice ER doctor (side note: his name was Dr. Weed. This incident happened on April 20th. 4/20...beloved to potheads everywhere. I kid you not.) interjected to ask me why I thought I passed out, "Do you think you drank too much?". I told him no and explained that I thought it was probably a combination of a bunch of different things that had happened throughout the night and the fact that I had been having a weird heart palpitation. Then, of course, he asks me what those things may be? I literally said: (before my nearly non-existent filter had time to boot up and actually work) "Wellll, I was on this like date, or whatever. And I drank a glass of wine in the hot tub, theeeeen there was about twenty minutes of strenuous aerobic activity..." I looked over at Mini-J snickering in the corner and mouthed "Did I REALLY JUST SAY THAT TO THE ER DOCTOR?" To his credit, he just continued quietly stitching up my dimple chin and listened to Mini-J and I talk about my dating life, or lack thereof. As he stitched and listened and my chin inadvertently drooped down as I conversed, do you know what that nice man said to me?

"Keep your chin up!"

Oh, buddy. If you only knew...

this guy

Here's a story about my favorite cinnamon love, Rambo.

The day I brought this sweet chunk o' love home from the pound (he was livin on the mean city streets can you even comprehend?) he walked right on in the front door of our townhome, wagged his little bum and began to run through every room, sniffing everything along the way until he was satisfied, at which point he sat down with a sigh and looked at me as if to say "This is great. I love it here!". There was no 'adjustment period'...he fell in love with us instantly and completely as doggies tend to do.

The first night with us he tested the waters and sniffed and whined around the bed. Well let me tell you sir, we put a stop to that right quick.We were certainly not dog-in-the-bed people. Fast forward a few months to a painfully unhappy situation which found me crying and heartsick in the guest room. That dog...I swear that dog saw his opportunity and boy did he snag it. Up onto the guest bed he hopped, licked my tears off my face and promptly plopped down and passed out in a small corner of the bed.

It's been an uphill battle since then. I'm losing. I thought I gained some ground a few weeks ago in the new apartment when he spent two (forced) nights on his amazingly wonderful (seriously it has like...four blankets) dog bed. Nope. Because do you know where that doggie of ours now squishes his sleepy self when he stays at my apartment? Right next to me. Stretched out as happy as could be with his very own half of a queen bed.

You know...where someone else would be sleeping, if I weren't single as ever.

I maintain he knew exactly what he was doing since day one.

in defense of the little things

Sometimes.

When you live alone in the smallest apartment ever and you continually find yourself tripping over homeless shoes and searching for your jewelry and question straightening your hair because your bathroom is so small and the lighting makes you slightly hate your face you may wonder what happened to my life and how did I end up here?

Those times. Oh, those times. It gets hard to 'keep your chin up' and you may just want to cry because you are lonely and alone and there is no one to say how pretty you are and your bed just feels painfully empty like it is quite possibly the biggest, coldest bed in the world.

Those are the times that I feel like maybe I just shifted into reverse and kept speeding backwards and I maybe made a big mistake? Did I add years to my five year plan for all the wrong reasons? And I sort of just feel like asking the world, "World, would it be perfectly acceptable to you if I just crawled into bed and slept and dreamt and then woke up and felt amazingly better and sort of not like crying at completely random inopportune times? Those are the times when my big dreams feel slightly not-so-possible. When I don't have his eyes to mirror back my hopes and dreams to me they sort of seem silly and like they will always be imagined and never be real. And let me tell you...when I start to feel like that it is a mean, ugly feeling and I do not like it one bit no I do NOT.

There are the little things though. A snugly squish of an eighty pound dog that loves to lick my chin when I can't quite keep it up because (I swear it) he knows when I am so, so sad. There are hammock naps in the sunshine and shopping dates with my favorite loves. There are runs through my new neighborhood which if I make my eyes all squinty-like sorta reminds me of Portland...and Portland has a big piece of my heart. There are three endless months of sunshine coming my way oh-so-soon and even though I know it's bad for me I love my bronzed skin after a long, warm day. There are sundresses and strappy sandals and spinach salads to look forward to.

Maybe right now...the now where I wonder if I made a big mistake or a choice for myself that will ultimately be what I needed more than anything, maybe this now is telling me to take a deep breath, enjoy the little things as they come, and just smile.

friday night conversations

Rose: "So, basically, I have to get a second job and the first 800 dollars I make is going to my parents."

Rose and I have been friends since before I can remember. She says she was out shoveling snow with her dad in their new neighborhood, and I was across the street at my house doing the same thing with my pops. She came over, asked if I wanted to be her friend, and the rest was history. We have the relationship that only close girlfriends can share, one that is strengthened by the fact that it took root in the early stages of our life when we were completely innocent.Those were the days before we knew that broken hearts physically hurt or that life is full of amazingly diffcult decisions. Before we found out that people die, that the world stretches far beyond the boundaries of our old neighborhood, and that love is not in fact all we need.

When we lived together, our little house that was shared with the other point in our triangle of codependancy (shout out to bestie numero dos Mini-J) became a homey little den of emotions and general irresponsibility. Por ejemplo (is that real Spanish? is it??), there was the year neither of us had the money to renew the tags on our cars, so we just...didn't. This non-payment led to problems, namely, we lived on an extemely busy street and with only one driveway spot one of us ended up parked on that street everyday, which of course led to multiple parking tickets. There were also the numerous arguments and deep, irritated sighs about who got to park in the driveway ("but I got three tickets last week and I don't have ANY MONEYYYY"). As you have probably surmised, the parking tickets didn't so much get paid as forgotten about under car seats with lost diet coke bottles and used as decoys that we put back on our windshield to avoid further ticketing.

This would be why Rose now owes her parents a cool 800 bucks. I guess she never went ahead and paid any? of those tickets, got a big 'ol boot on her car, and had to shell out nearly a grand to get it removed. Let that be a lesson to all of us irresponsible car owners. Naturally, after she told me about getting a second job as some sort of homeless youth counselor I asked what that would entail. "Oh, they give me a van. So I am going to drive around in a van all day and try to convince kids to get in it." The previous statement is humorous for a number of reasons, but mainly because it was spoken without a trace of joking. "So you're keeping the refugee after-school program, too?" I asked. "Yup. The one where I walk around the halls looking for black kids and then trying to get them to talk to me."

I couldn't make this stuff up. Well, actually...I certainly could. But that would be so stupid.

Conversations with myself, among other things

Did I eat macaroni and cheese in bed yesterday for breakfast whilst watching my new secret shameful love, ABC Family's Greek? NO {insert squinty eyes looking to the left that may or may not indicate lying here} That would be so gross and lame. Incidentally, why is there a show about life in the Greek System on ABC FAMILY? I'm trying to remember which of my collegiate sorority activities would be suitable for a network with the word family in the title and I find myself...coming up with...um, nothing? Though I did hang out quite a bit with one particular family during football season...they had one of the most popular tailgates and their ten year old boys would make us all martinis.

How many diet cokes did I drink last week? And how many had vodka in them in true post-breakup Hales fashion? No one KNOWS...bahahaha.

Do I sometimes drink beer AND watch TV while studying? But maybe it's REALLY OKAY LIKE I'VE BEEN SAYING FOR MONTHS and now I don't have to say it to ANYONE anymore because there is no one judging me with sideways glances and questions about test scores (which, B to the W, are excellent. So suck that down).

If I were, say, a neurotic and emotional cleaner, I could perhaps get up at 2 AM to obsessively scrub, sweep, and re-organize the teeniest abode without having to worry about waking anyone up but the dog, and that dude sleeps like..all day, so I don't even feel bad.

you born alone, you die alone

I have recently found myself in a situation which requires me to return back to the oh-so-wonderful world of renting, after (as my best friend put it) getting a taste of the good life livin up in a swanky, new build

Townhouse brand spankin new stainless steel appliances? check. oil rubbed bronze fixtures including rain shower heads? of course. flat screen tv with instant access to netflix? mmmhmm. ginormous garden tub? oh fo sho. ice maker which gave me a sweet yet brief reprieve from a lifetime of dealing with those GD ice trays? sweet, sweet ice maker. thank you for your multiple chilly blessings. i will never forget.

At any rate, I have quickly become reacquainted with the gatekeeper of all abodes in the renter's world: the landlord. I once had a landlord tell my two best friends and I what a wonderful time we would have living in her cute old and very adorable home, and as she told us how fun it would be to decorate she reminisced about her old tenants, two male roommates. "Although I don't think they were you know, 'roommates'.", she mused. "The house was far too pulled together and stylish for that. Those gays, they sure do know how to style a house." I then began to choke on my laughter and panicked as I felt it threatening to come out of my mouth in an uncontrollable bout of giggles, so I ran into the bathroom and slammed the door, threw myself down on the toilet, laughed incredibly hard into my elbow and emerged as though nothing unusual had happened. Had I a blog then, I sure would have blogged the shiz out of that. Alas, I did not, but I now have a blog in which to offer you this gem of a landlord story.

Landlord Reed and I met at a Staples, the popular office supply chain with the 'easy button'. I sure as hell wish there had been an easy button for me to bang on in there on Monday. I sat in my car waiting for him to arrive as I quietly cried and sniffled, since I was in the apartment market again due to what else? Those pesky relationship woes. The longer I sat, the more I cried. The more I cried, the less of a grip on reality I had, and I fell into a deep cycle of financial worrying that I didn't have a toaster! Oh GOD how will I make toast? A coffee machine? NO MICROWAVE? Which one of my treasured possessions will I have to sell to purchase paint? My shoes....my boots alone have had their own closest, my poor lost homeless boots! Woe are my boots! The few seconds that I stopped my obsessive worrying were fraught with the grief that is so familiar to anyone who has ever been in a relationship that ended.

Needless to say, there were many tears. And sniffles, and full on heaving sniffle-sigh-sobby-hiccups. Now, you might think that one would put on her big girl panties before she met her potential new landlord in a Staples office supply store! That she would pull herself together! Slap on some face powder and hold her breath till she stopped crying! No no. I entered that store a full on level five emotional train wreck of a girl. My landlord of Eastern European descent who is six feet tall, very large, and whom I am vaguely certain is involved in some shady if not illegal business practices took one look at me and demanded: "What? What is wrong with you? You not want to do this or what?" Between snotty hiccups and tears I managed to squeeze out something about a boyfriend problem and nowhere to live and sharing a dog and needing an apartment. To which I was immediately given the gruff response of "Okay, we do this! You show me the money. I see the money." Yes. That's right. I was told to "show him the money" and then I litteraly had to fan out four hundred dollar bills right there on that office supply store table between us. Then came the tenuous process of filling out the blanks on a Universal Rental Agreement printed from the Internet. Despite having forced me to meet him at a Staples for the use of their Xerox machines, dude handed me a blank generic lease with instructions I am to fill my copy in with him as he fills out his copy. Tears dropping onto the page and smearing the ink and my brain in emotional overload having long since stopped functioning on a significant intellectual level, I filled out that damn Universal Rental Agreement. I then had to convince him to sign my copy and argue with him about giving me my key since I have given him a deposit but not rent yet. He relented and gave me a key, and mumbled "How long? How long it last for with boyfriend?" And mercifully, I was not placated with the plenty of fish in the sea if you love it set it free it is better to have loved and lost generic breakup advice. I was told by this tall domineering stranger who owns what is now my (very small) postage stamp of a residence: "You know...you do what you do. You born alone, you die alone. You not worry about boy or man, you do what you do."

 Fitting advice for a distraught girl who just signed up for her first EVER six months of solo livin, no?

Yesterday he called me to check in. Ya know...gave me some more of that stoic Russian advice. Told me I was "Young and beautiful girl! Not an old man. I am an old man, and fat too...and I am in same boat as you only it not going to be so easy for me as for you!"

I think 'ol landlord Reed and I are gonna do juuuuuust fine by one another.