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Six (More) Characteristics of My Future Ex-Husband

The last time I blogged about my future ex-husband, I was still not entirely free from my first ex-husband. But now that I am 9 months legally divorced and sober from marital strife, I’ve decided it is nothing short of necessary to write another personal ad to the world revealing my deepest innermost desires for love, happiness, and someone to clean up after me when I miss the toilet bowl.

Moments like this remind me of why I am single.

Anyway.

To further narrow the plethora of romantic options that bombard me on a daily basis (ha!) I am going to follow up on the original six characteristics of my future ex-husband. Let’s do this.

1. Cologne wearer of side show proportions:

My future ex-husband will undoubtedly wear cologne. But not just any cologne. Grade A douchebag cologne. Cologne sold at Hollister, Express, and Rite Aid discount bins. Cologne that conveys an overwhelming attraction to Natural Light and girls with butterfly tramp stamps.

I wish this wasn’t true.  But I can’t deny the fact, that every time a guy with pierced ears and a backwards Yankees baseball cap passes me on the street and I get a whiff of the sweet scent of bottled stupidity he bathed in earlier that morning, I shudder with physical excitement.

 2. Plays a musical instrument guitar

I’d like to say I am open-minded to whatever kind of instrument he plays, but I’m really not.  I’m not going to accept some mediocre Billy Joel-esque piano rendition of “Blowin in the Wind” when he is fulfilling his hourly requirement of serenading to me. It’s either guitar or one of the pre-approved string instruments I wet dream about.

*I will also accept a man with harmonica playing skills for reasons that have nothing to do with music.

 3. A Fan of NATURAL blondes

There is a rumor circulating through the public restrooms of America that men prefer to call blondes for a good time, than women of any other hair color. However in my experience, almost every man I have ever made acquaintance with has openly told me he prefers brunettes. Even my aforementioned ex-husband mentioned in our pre-marital counseling that his only qualms with my looks involve my Nazi hair color. He wasn’t even Jewish!

So, enough of that b***shit. If my future ex-husband is going to love my hair. He is going to worship it with passion formerly reserved for all of the hobbies I force him to give up.

4. Says no to trendy word choices

“My mancave is like, so random. But it’s soooooo awkward when my bros stop by. EPIC FAIL.”

My future ex-husband will never say this sentence. Or the word  “chillax.”

5. Won’t own an iPhone

iHate iPhones and iHate anyone who disagrees on the matter. The only benefit of owning an iPhone is that it gives you some way to entertain yourself while your iPhone lacking peers mock your inability to participate in a conversation without Googling every topic mentioned.

My future ex husband will not own an iPhone and will instead have the ability to communicate like a real live boy, spending his youth doing something

more productive than playing “Draw Something”. Like watching “Rupal’s Drag Race.”

 6. Intellectual Capabilities that Far Exceed Mine

This one will be difficult as it is has been a good 6 months since I’ve met a man who could spell the word calendar without spellcheck. Nevertheless I have faith that my future ex-husband will be such a rare form of genius, he will feel the overwhelming need to remind me of my intellectual failures on a daily basis, from my inability to recite multiples of ten to ignorance of economic policy. After all,if I’m not constantly made to feel inadequate, it’s not a real relationship.

 

This is good. The last time I wrote a blog like this, I had a difficult time imagining divorcing the man I described. But this time I’m looking forward to freshening up on Pennsylvania divorce laws.

I hope you enjoyed your venture into my neurosis and always remember: “A woman with no standards, can never get disappointed.”

Love,

The girl who wishes she read that in a Chinese fortune cookie, instead of having to claim it as her own

Relationship Status Update and a Bug Bite On My Boob

Forty-two days ago I wrote a blog entry about being at the cusp of a new and healthy relationship..  It was basically my opportunity to tell the world, “Yes, I am capable of dating someone who does not shit the bed OR have stories about the time they underwent 72 hours of psychiatric evaluation.” It was like a breath of fresh air after two years in a closet with Carrot Top. I have a feeling he smells bad. I have no factual evidence to back this up.

Well, needless to say, that relationship dropped dead about a month ago and I haven’t gotten around to blogging about it. Not necessarily out of depression because it was a mutual decision, but because it seems like a weird thing to blog about. You know, like talking about my huge boobs or how I pee when I sneeze. Oh, wait…

We haven’t spoken at all since I ended it via text message (I should be shot). The thing is, Gerard (pseudonym) was a grand chap. We had a lot of fun together but unfortunately too little in common and too far of a distance to sustain. I think and hope we both agree on this.

So now I’ve been single for about a month. Unfortunately within that month my market value has depreciated. Though my body has begrudgingly surrendered five pounds to my slightly healthier eating habits, my overall body-bettering efforts have been lost.

I got a bug bite on my right boob.

At least I think it was a bug bite.

It was red, swollen, and looked like it may have been filled with pre-historic DNA. If that’s not a bug bite, I don’t know what is.

So naturally I assaulted it. I started to pinch it and squeeze it and treat it like a third nipple. But then it started bleeding so I put alcohol on it (terrible idea). Then it turned a weird white color. Then a few days later it was all red with a tiny scab on it. Now it looks like my gingerbread man mosquito bite scar from last summer which is only cute when it is not on my right boob.

So  basically I am single with a mangled breast which isn’t even a secret anymore because I’m posting it on my blog which happens to have an international audience, with highly judgmental feelings about breasts. And as an added bonus, I am apparently a bitch, as this conversation just went down on Facebook:

So who wants to be my friend???? Let me know so I can start devaluing your existence ASAP.

Love,

The girl who has spent her morning singing a country rendition of “Crazy Bitch” by Buckcherry

My Cell Phone’s Photographic Journey Through 2011

It is January 27 and I still have yet to start any of my New Year’s Resolutions. I’d like to say it’s because I am too busy, which I often feel I am, but since I managed to devote 15 minutes today trying to learn how to finger whistle, and over an hour researching strange facts about cows, my argument is sort of beat to shit, for lack of a better term.

Therefore I have decided to restart 2012 on February 1. I’d like to commemorate 2011 and all its 13 months of glory, with a blog entry depicting its brilliance with photographs taken throughout the year. Since I can’t own an electronic without breaking it in a very dramatic and embarrassing fashion, my cell phone has been my primary photographic tool. Aside from countless pictures of my butt, in various pairs of pants, my cell phone is actually filled with some photographic gems. So I have decided to use a sampling of those and can only hope by the end of this read, family, friends, and internet bullies alike, will still find something endearing about me.

January  2011

My Old Cubicle

In 2011, my cubicle, like my existence, was a train wreck. While the Ansel Adams’ photography, saliva-scented water bottles, and countless piles of garbage may be only slight windows into my growing psychosis, the off-camera stacks of magazines, drawers filled with oatmeal, and affectionate snapshots of Bob Dylan pasted on pieces of construction paper outlined with heart doodles, show a young woman on the brink of “exhaustion” (I feel you Demi, I feel you).

(also) January 2011

My drawing of Bob Dylan

Umm…yeah, so…I was REALLY lonely in 2011. I know locking myself in my apartment, crying while drawing pictures of Bob Dylan didn’t add much to my social life, but its better than getting date raped at a Scranton bar.

February 2011

Sales Material for My Old Job

So I like, totally wrote this poem. I know. BE Jealous.

March 2011

Mah ve-hic-le gettin' effed up by a snow storm

Sometimes it snows in Pennsylvania…no big deal. Of course one might assume that if someone were to grow up in Pennsylvania, they would be adequately prepared to deal with this gigantic dump bird shit. However, I am not as bright as this blog so consistently implies, so I had to use a dustpan and an old Swiffer to dig my car out. It was so fetch.

So apparently nothing in life was worth photographing during

April 2011

or

May 2011

I know. Sad. Pathetic. You can feel sorry for me, I get it. I would too. Except I’m lying. I took lots of boring, unbloggable pictures during these months. So let’s just forget they ever existed, k?

June 2011

Wall painting at my Tennessee Apartment

I was quite the tortured artist in Tennessee. So tortured, I painted these sunflowers on my wall and drifted into a life of hard drugs and street hopscotch.

July 2011

Nashville Street Musician

This is one Bad Ass Motha-Fucka. Had he a beard, we probably would have been betrothed on the spot, and today I’d be found living under a bridge next to Willie Nelson.

August 2011

Private Office at my Tennessee Job

 I was like, so important. See that bag of carrot sticks sitting in front of the computer? All mine, baby. All mine. You can look but you can’t touch it. IF you touch it, I’ma start some drama.

And you don’t want NO drama.

No, no, Drama.

No, no, no, no, drama.

I hate the Black-Eyed Peas.

September 2011

Saliva of my Tennesse "boyfriend"

I lived in Tennessee for 4 1/2 months and for 8 weeks I dated a very nice gentleman, we’ll call him Andre. (In respect to “Andre” let me say, he was not as gay as this fictional name would imply. Far from it, if you catch my drift…this is getting weird) Anyway, one day in September Andre took me to a beautiful state park, a few hours into the Tennessee countryside, filled with beautiful waterfalls and vigorous hiking trails. Quite the panty-dropping experience. Or it would have been, had he not suffered several allergy attacks. Upon hiking to the bottom of a waterfall, Andre was overcome with a coughing/sneezing fit, and hacked up this lovely wad of saliva. Enthusiastically entertained by everything, I took a picture with my cell phone, much to the displeasure of Andre who had been trying to overcome his condition for hours to make the trip romantic. While he scoured the rock formations in search of the perfect heart-shaped stone to give me, I took pictures of his spit and made him help me clean up garbage people had left at the bottom of the waterfall. Is it any wonder why I am single?

September 2011

Toothpaste in my contact case!

One of the greatest mysteries of 2011 took place one September morning when I tried to put in my contacts. I walked to the bathroom like any other day, half-dressed and ready to defecate, when I decided to put in my contacts first. I opened the case, anxious to regain my man-made vision, when I saw what appeared to be two globs of toothpaste in lieu of my contacts. I was perplexed. My roommate was gone for the weekend and I had spent the night alone, leaving no room for foul-play. Utilizing the safety precautions learned in high school Chemistry, I jammed my fingers into the unknown substance, anxious to determine what it was. The gritty texture did not feel like toothpaste, nor did it smell like anything that could reduce bad breath. After much deliberation, I decided that my contacts somehow disintegrated overnight, turning back into their liquid form, which is evidently, toothpaste-colored gobbledygook.

September 2011

Everything that's wrong with America...or something less dramatic

During one of my bi-weekly grocery trips, I spotted this painfully obnoxious vehicle. My first instinct was to throw a shopping cart through the window and run away screaming, but I decided taking a picture would be less illegal and unfortunately less awesome.

September 2011

Road Sign Outside of Nashville

So, apparently all I did in September was take really stupid pictures, of really stupid things. This is another. While living in Tennessee, my fictional ADD was in high gear. One afternoon I found myself aimlessly driving around the outskirts of Nashville and nearly flipped my car, (by calmly pulling over) when I saw this sign. The Band is probably my favorite band, and the song “Up On Cripple Creek” validates my existence.

October 2011

A fake tattoo that only made me look cool in the mirror and my imagination

Not only is this the 3rd reference to Bob Dylan made in this blog post; as the text of this fake tattoo is a Bob Dylan song title. But it is also quite possibly the lamest picture ever taken in this history of photographic technology. In October I was packing my belongings, readying myself to move back to Pennsylvania. Since I’m the most bad ass 23 year old alive, I thought it’d be totally bitchin’ to draw a fake tattoo on my arm with black liquid eye liner, then take a picture of it to commemorate how cool it was. I almost want to stuff myself in a locker, for this.

October 2011

Puppy Hate

Trying to make something love me, that doesn’t, is the tagline of my life. Exhibit A, taking a picture with Molly as she violently squirms out of my arms, desperate to free herself from my overbearing grip. And I had only been home for three days. Where is the love?

…The love

…The love

I still hate the Black-Eyed Peas

November 2011

Meal worms...in the fridge...yeah

Right next to the organic orange juice, a brown paper bag of meal worms. This is what happens when your mom is a high school biology teacher. Or a fisherman.

December 2011

This is my sister, isn't she pretty?

In December my stepmother had non-invasive brain surgery that required her head to be restrained with this mask, which highly resembles a Medieval torture device. Needless to say, she was into it. So she showed us her mask and while my head was too fat and sassy to fit, my sister excitedly shoved her face into it, allowing for this Samsung moment.

Yes, my family has problems.

So that was all kinds of fun, huh? No? Screw you.

Bring on 2012…er…again!

Love,

The girl who learned today that the average cow produces 25 gallons of saliva each day, while simultaneously bringing sexy back.