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.

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!

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.

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.