the ex files, part two: the five stages of breakup

 Blame it on Darwin.  Natural selection.  Evolution.  Human beings are social creatures for a reason --we've depended on living in bonded relationships to perpetuate the species, and our brains are programmed to encourage us to form solid attachments.  Falling in love?  Intense pleasure.  Breaking up?  Serotonin and endorphin levels plummet.  Terribleness ensues.  What's meant to serve as a built-in warning system to keep us bonded and increase our survival really just ... makes you feel crummy.  And that's just the beginning of the emotional roller coaster that is a break up. 

 Some jokers out there might try to tell you that the stages of recovering from a break up go something like: Get really drunk, post sad Facebook updates, listen to Emo music, make angry phone calls to the ex, complain to all of your friends, revert to isolation and depression, and finally, drunken hookups.  Me? I like to stick to the more classic Kübler-Ross model-- the five stages of grief.

 1.  Denial.  This could mean putting on a show of false bravado, and over-exaggerate just how cavalier you are about the whole thing.  It could mean going to your "happy place" and pretending it didn't happen.  One time I didn't tell anyone about a breakup for 3 days, because I was sure it was just a problem that would go away, like a pesky cold or something.  Denial is also ignoring reality and fantasizing about scenarios in which you reunite with the ex.  Cut to dream sequence: It's a rainy and cold night, your ex shows up on your doorstep with flowers, and begs for you to take him back while you weep and compassionately tell him all is forgiven.  Denial can provide a temporary relief from sadness, but don't drown in 'de Nile, if you get what I'm saying.

2.  Anger.  It generally takes a lot to get me mad, but I have had my moments.  Moments of "Why the hell don't you love me?!"  Moments in which I am enraged by my own unlovableness.  Moments in which I am enraged at my friends for not warning me what a jerk he was.  Anger is accompanied by tears, slamming doors, and punching pillows until exhaustion takes over, or I remember it is time to go to work.  (Luckily, I am always able to rely on denial to lift my mood and allow me to get through the day).

3.  Bargaining.  Maybe if I lost weight/stopped texting so much/drank less/called less/didn't hack his email/shaved my legs we could get back together and be happy.  Maybe I can overlook his bad habits of never calling/poor sartorial choices/always being late/never paying/being a jerk/making a mess of my apartment/bad breath/not wanting to be in a relationship.  I snap myself out of the bargaining stage pretty quickly with a simple mantra:  I want to love and be loved.  This is true, so sadly I cannot allow myself to bargain, or settle.  Moving on...

4.  Depression.  Based on past breakups, I know I am prone to depression.  Laying in bed under the covers, indulging in a little too much Nyquil, refusing to eat, crying, and being that pathetic person that sobs hysterically during lame Jennifer Aniston chick flicks and/or humane shelter commercials on tv.  This time around, I weirdly have yet to experience any major signs of depression.  Just a manic abundance of energy to cardio lift, go to hot yoga, work really hard at work, shout out all of the answer to Jeopardy!, volunteer to sub at soccer, go out with friends every night, drive people to the airport multiple times a day.  I suppose this could be depression disguised as distraction.  

5.  Acceptance.  That day when you see a picture of your ex and it doesn't feel like a hamster with ADHD is running around your stomach.  When seeing their name on your gchat list doesn't make you feel like you're having a heart attack in a bad way.  The day when you see them in person and you feel a blissful... nothing.  

Obviously, I haven't gotten to stage 5 yet-- I wouldn't be sitting here writing this if I had. Part of me says "this is all for the best" while the other part of my psyche is riding the coaster of stages 1-4 more times than Single Rider Bob rode the Millennium Force this year.  I believe that acceptance will come later, and I'm thinking that as soon as I accept this break up, I can immediately call my ex and see if we can "just be friends."  And...starting with denial again!

L

the ex files, part one: defriending your ex on facebook

Dear readers,
It's been months, but I'm back...and newly single.   And to get my writing juices flowing, I'm writing a mini series on break ups-- write what you know, right?  Tune back in a couple weeks for topics that are a little more fun, or join me on my journey through the sad, the bitter, the thoughtful, and the sometimes funny moments on my road to getting over Mr. Not Quite Right:

In the olden days, breaking up meant saying farewell and putting your love letters in a shoebox hidden in the depths of your closet. But now it's 2011, and your ex is everywhere -- in your phone, in your digital camera that you lost a month ago but now found, on your desktop background, on your Gchat buddy list, and on your Facebook friends list.  You can change your desktop, block their username on Gchat, and put those pictures in a digital version of a shoebox, deep in the depths of your external hard drive.  Out of sight, out of mind.  But with Facebook, there's a lot to consider:  your ex popping up on your newsfeed, your insatiable desire to stalk your ex, various privacy settings, and the irreversible decision to unfriend.  So, fresh out of a breakup....to defriend, or not to defriend?  That is the question.

I don't know what it's like for other people, but I'm very tempted to look at my ex's profile.  And from personal experience, this is how it goes: 

• Week One:  Look at ex's profile daily hourly.  Feel relieved to see he hasn't moved on, and your statuses are wittier than his.
• Week Two:   Ex makes new facebook friend of the opposite gender.  Spend hours trying to internet search her and determine the nature of their relationship based on the tiny profile picture you can see.
• Week Three:   Ex posts picture of himself and scantily clad girl at a party.  You block him from your newsfeed.
• Week Four:  You swear to yourself you won't look at his profile.  You make it three days.  Yikes.  Pattern continues until...
• Week ___:  Ex posts his new relationship status with a really pretty girl who is 4 years younger than you.  You defriend him.  (Or for the truly masochistic, continue to torture yourself by stalking).

 The first time I defriended an ex, I debated long and hard about what that action would mean.  Unfriending someone might look like a cry for attention, and in the power struggle that a breakup can be, you don't want to be the weak one.  I was worried it would make me look like I was powerless to resist him, or that I had a hatred so strong I wouldn't even consider him a Facebook friend.   Or more importantly, that it would seem immature.

But if Facebook is holding you back from moving on from a person, then it might be a necessary move.  And is it really immature to give yourself a chance to move on with life, and let it go? I say no.  It just means that you're helping yourself get back on your feet, and on the road back to happiness and independence.  (At least that's what I told myself when I hastily defriended my most recent ex after a few too many sidecars at the office party last night.)

Perks to defriending your ex:  Not feeling any [irrational] pressure to make your status perfect in case he reads it.  Forcing them to request you as a friend, thereby outing that they tried to creep through your photos.  And most important--it is a lot harder to miss someone that you never see.

L

just say no to slut-o-ween

 "In Girl World, Halloween is the one night a year when a girl can dress up like a total slut and no other girls can say anything about it." Sorry, Cady Heron... but in my  world, I get to say something about it. I realize that it's no new trend to rant about how girls dress too slutty for Halloween, but I'd like to think my take on the topic is just a little different from your typical outraged feminist's.  You see, my main beef with the slutty costumes isn't that there's too much exposed skin, or that they're impractical for cold weather.  It's that slutty costumes-- the sexy [insert anything here]'s -- they take away from the very spirit of Halloween. 

Remember when you were a kid, and you spent weeks planning The Perfect Costume, getting every little detail Just So, so that you would be the most convincing SpiderMan/Indiana Jones/Ballerina/Little Mermaid/Dorothy on the block?  My sister Bubba carried a fork around with her and my mom let her comb her hair with it.  When I dressed up like a ballerina the year it snowed and my mom made me wear 10 layers of sweatshirts under my costume to stay warm, I cried because ballerinas aren't fat --and they don't wear snow boots, either.  It was a tragic time in the life of Lindsey Marie. 

Because the best part about Halloween is that you get to dress up as anything... your alter ego, your hero, your favorite tv character or pop culture figure, your favorite animal.  You get to escape your humdrum life, whether that means shedding your normal klutzy self for a night and becoming a beautiful ballerina, or pretending you're Lady Gaga for a night instead of a lousy office drone.  That is the spirit of Halloween.

So ladies, since when does everyone want to be a stripper or a porn star?  Because when you dress up as Sexy Dorothy, you are not dressed as Dorothy-- you are dressed like a stripper with a blue and white gingham dress on.  Sexy Teacher is a porn star character.  Real teachers don't dress like that (or at least none to my knowledge).  And stop trying to make things sexy that just aren't.  Chewbacca is just NOT sexy.  Strapping fur around your privates and holding a gun does not make you Chewie. And to be clear, it's not the sexy factor that I find so repulsive -- it's the deviation from the actual character you're dressing as.

Because I say... if you've got it, flaunt it! Last year I dressed as Katy Perry in a cupcake bra and bedazzled Daisy Dukes.  Pretty skimpy, to say the least.  But I was accurate down to the very tiniest of details.  So don't think dressing sexily requires destroying and defiling the image of a beloved childhood storybook character, animated Disney character, or a random inanimate object. Pick a costume or alter ego that is already sexy, and work the hell out of it.  Whether it's Princess Leia in her gold bikini, or Lady Gaga in one of her revealing no-pants outfits, you can be incredibly sexy without looking like a clichéd Sexy [Blank], or like a downright hooker. 

Just don't go the Emperor's New Clothes route... being too true to THAT story might get you into a little bit of legal trouble.

L

why laughing makes you pee your pants

September 11 is a day that no one will ever forget.  And on Sunday, its 10th anniversary, I added a few new reasons I'll never forget the date.  First, I got a boyfriend.  Second?  I peed my pants in public.  (Obviously, after the boyfriend part.  Too late to turn back by the time I was peeing myself, I guess).  It goes like this:

I'm standing there at Cedar Point watching SPF Ghost try to climb the impossible monkey ladders and win me a giant hot pink stuffed monkey.  I'm tired and dehydrated from a long day and late night of drinking tailgating cheering on the Michigan Wolverines against the sucky Fighting Irish the previous day.  And I'm giddy.  I'm giggling hysterically as Ghost falls off the ladder over and over and over again.  He can't even get onto the ladder completely, so he hasn't even technically had one "turn."  And I bought him three turns.  Best 5 dollars I've ever spent.  People are staring and pointing at the guy who sucks at the monkey ladder.  And I'm laughing hard.  So hard, in fact, that I lose it.  My whole body starts to go limp, and I feel a warmth between my legs-- and not in a good way.  I collapse onto the bench, and clench with all my might, hyperventilating with effort.  I need a bathroom NOW.  Ghost doesn't even notice what's happening.  He just tries to make me climb the ladder to prove hard the game is, and I refuse.  I demand my jacket from him to tie around my waist, and it dawns on him that there's been an accident.  He's literally doubled over laughing at me, which re-starts my laughter.  The problem that was barely contained has now become a huge problem.  Somehow, I manage to regain composure and make it to a bathroom to clean myself up (no thanks to the weird Dyson hand dryer), and went on to happily ride 12 more rides that afternoon.

It was not the sexiest moment of my life by any means.  The worst part?  It's not the first time I've laughed so hard I wet myself.  I have a distinct memory of peeing all over the ugly linoleum floor in the kitchen in our house in Beavercreek, Ohio when I was 5 years old and laughed too hard.  (I also remember my mom yelling at me and getting spanked for it).  And I remember dozens more times after that.  More recently, it's been the last 4 Christmases, when Kiwi and I get a little too hyper playing Phantom of the Opera piano duets.  But never in public-- I've hit a new low.

Since the most recent incident, I've done some Very Extensive Internet Research to assuage my feelings of shame.  Laughing until you pee isn't uncommon at all.  In fact, scientists in the Netherlands found that just under a fifth of the population experiences muscle weakness during laughing and other emotions.  When "funny" jokes* made people laugh, muscle response was reduced by up to 88.9%.  (This accounts for all those years during swim practice when I'd be laughing and my whole body turned into a limp noodle).  And when your muscles-- including your urethral sphincters-- go weak?  Extra pressure on the bladder from laughing plus weakened sphincters equals accidents at Cedar Point, folks. 

Short of never laughing again for fear it'll get out of control, there's really only one solution:  exercising PC muscles.  Let's just say that ever since I read a Cosmo article 18 months ago, I've been doing Kegels at my desk every time I send an email (Now you can think about that every time I email you).  So they haven't seemed to help.  I guess I'm destined to a life of occasional accidents... but I figure as long as I don't have an accident a la Charlotte York, I haven't hit rock bottom yet!

L

* "Funny" jokes such as:
         Q: Why do Belgians use such long moving trucks? 
         A:  To take along their garden hoses.
Don't ask me. Weirdo Dutch humor, I guess.

no discount love for me, please

Yesterday, SPF Ghost shared an article with me about engagement rings.  More specifically, a $1 million engagement ring from Costco.  My very first reaction?  "Get with the times, CNN!  I read about this way back in April!"  But back on point, his question for me was "How would you feel if you were ever given an engagement ring from Costco?"  My answer?  There are 4 Cs in diamond buying, and Costco is not one of them!

[I'd like to include a disclaimer here that unless I am entrusted to haul a ring to the fiery pits of Mordor tomorrow, there are exactly zero rings in my near future.  This is completely hypothetical.  If I met The One and he proposed with a Costco ring, this could all change.  Could.]

There are obvious financial reasons why buying a ring at Costco makes sense-- they're high-quality, certified diamonds, and they're not marked up with brand-name premiums (That blue box at Tiffany & Co. is the most expensive piece of cardboard you'll ever purchase).  Plus, they come with a lifetime guarantee and a full cash back return policy.  And if you're a rewards member, you can even get 2% cashback on the purchase!  It might seem like a no-brainer, maximizing your budget and getting more bling for your buck.

And on the human side of things, when he gets down on one knee, are you really looking at the brand name on the box?  My friend RoRo said yes and freaked out before she even got a glimpse of the ring.  And that's the way it should be.  The fact that the Guy of Your Dreams is asking to you to spend the rest of your life with him should be enough.  The ring is is a symbol.  It shouldn't matter whether it's a cracker jack ring, out of a vending machine, a ring pop, from Costco, or a Harry Winston.  And the rational, normal side of my brain (90%, I'd guesstimate) sees, understands, agrees with all of this. 

But that last 10% of me, the irrational Lindsey Marie H?  She's screaming "Eww!" at the idea of an engagement ring from Costco, or any other big box store for that matter.  The thought of my beloved running to the store for industrial-sized Clorox wipes and some toilet paper, and tossing an engagement ring in the cart with it?  No, thank you!  Also, buying a ring at Costco isn't nearly as personal.  There's no personal relationship with the person who sells you the ring, and if you come back to get it checked out, it's probably going to be someone else wearing a red vest behind the counter.  Shouldn't purchasing an engagement ring be one of the most personal purchases you ever make?  And if it's about saving money, or getting a bargain, divide that difference in cost over the next 50-60 years, and it's a couple candy bars a month. 

The more practical reasons to not purchase at Costco?  They don't resize them for you.  So you'll have to go to a jeweler regardless.  And once you do resize it, the return policy is moot.  Also, the diamonds themselves may be great, but the settings can leave a lot to be desired.  Looking for a happy medium?  Purchase the diamond at Costco, and get it reset at a jeweler.  Cheaper diamond, personal touch of a jeweler.  Win-win.

The value in an engagement ring isn't how large the diamond is, or how much it costs.  It's in the fact that your fiancee went to the effort of finding a symbol of your love that will last throughout your lives, and when the going gets tough, it'll be a constant reminder of that promise made years ago.  I'm not saying I could never get over a Costco ring, or that I'd flat-out reject one.  But hopefully my Prince Charming doesn't want to propose to me with something I'm only 90% sold on, something I could "get over" (but forever lie to my girlfriends about where it came from). So...

Dear Future Fiancee,

Please no discount love.  Give me the expensive, romantic stuff.
We can penny pinch for the rest of our lives together.  On other stuff.

Love,
Lindsey

PS:  I want these to be our engagement photos.  (Thank you JohnCessna for the great find!)

my favorite holiday? my birthday!

I. Love. Birthdays.  I always have--from the times of princess tea party sleepovers to pool parties to last year when I went to a casino for the first time with my Birthday Buddy.  And I don't just love my own birthday-- I love everyone else's too.  But this week is my Birthday Week, so I get to do a little navel gazing and love my own birthday the most.  It is, after all, my favorite holiday of the year!  Why?  Because...

1. I'm alive!  I am a living, breathing, walking, talking, Lindsey Marie that started out as nothing.  And celebrating another birthday means I [miraculously] survived another year.  A birthday means I'm alive, and that I get to do all the fun things that come with being alive.  And that's why I'll never understand all the moaning and groaning and loathing of birthdays.  Would you rather turn 40, or be dead?  Enough said., if you ask me.
2. You get free stuff.  Especially in Ann Arbor.  And for once, my birthday actually lands on a Saturday, which means I'll have time to run around town claiming all my goodies and getting fat and happy.
3. Birthday resolutions.  Birthdays are a natural point to make one-year timetables for goals.  It's one of the only dates next to January 1 that makes sense to make goals and wishes.  And you can bet that when I turn 23 this Saturday, I have some resolutions to make.
4. Birthday parties!  Obviously a girl like me can't leave the party off the list.  Party in my honor?  Yes, please!
5. Birthday presents.   Whether it's a postcard from Alaska, someone reading your blog very carefully and sending The Zombie Survival Guide (Thanks, G6!), flowers, chocolate, a AAA membership for your POS car, or a facebook shoutout, it feels good to be on the receiving end of things for just one day of the year.  
6. Shooting Stars to make Birthday Wishes on.  The Universe usually sends me a present too, in the form of the Perseid meteor shower, which peaks on my birthday every year that I can recall.  So whether I'm getting "stuff" or not, I always have shooting stars.  
7. You can get away with a lot on your birthday.  "Oh, the hostess only seats complete parties?  But... it's my birthday?"  Or you can demand that your mom buy you a beautiful birthday dress when you turn 4, and somehow get away with it:

Paris Hilton once said "live every day like it's your birthday," but I disagree-- you should only get one special day each year to indulge yourself and be completely narcissistic.  And for me, that's this Saturday!

L

a dating how not to

When my housemate moved out late last month, she gave me a dating book and said I might learn something from it.  Whether she was insulting my current dating methods and techniques, or just thought I would like a good read, I'm not sure.  What I am sure of?  I'm totally addicted!  Last night I read a chapter called "You're not that into him, but you slept with him anyway."  Very enlightening.

Prior to this book, I didn't have much experience with dating manuals, other than reading Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul (Volumes 1, 2, and 3).  And one time when I was working at the university library in undergrad, we came across a dating manual from the 1950s, full of gems like "Be a little gay and more interesting for him.  His boring day may need a lift and one of your duties is to provide it."  Now that I'm hooked on this more modern book, I've gone crazy and ordered basically every dating book I've ever heard of from the library.  Give me a few weeks, and I'll be a total dating guru.  Maybe I'll even write my own book then!

In the meantime, I have done my time on the dating treadmill.  Marathons worth of time, if you will.  And based on both my own and my close friends' experiences, I've produced a quick list of dating how not to's (some of these might be a little situation specific):

• Don't make out with a guy you don't like. He'll probably just keep asking you out.
• Don't give guys too much information about "that time" of the month.
• Don't share your weed stash with your roommate's girlfriend's little brother who thinks you're hot.  He'll never stop calling.
• Don't talk about marriage.  Ever.
• Don't date your roommate.
• Don't write a blog post about how he "helped himself" driving on the highway.
• Don't pretend to be interested in old cars/politics/football/whatever unless you actually are.
• Don't call him by a pet name.  Don't let him call you by a pet name.
• Don't spy on his cell phone/facebook/email. 
• Don't order anything that contains broccoli, pesto, corn, or spinach on a first date if you don't have floss in your purse.
• Don't puke in front of your date.  Or in his bed.
• Don't ever say "Oh, I never even saved your phone number to my contacts list."
• Don't date anyone younger than (your age/2) + 7 years.  Or under the age of 18.  
• Don't date anyone too old.  There's a reason they're still single.
• Don't accept a date offer to Bar Louie on a Tuesday night.
• Don't Facebook friend him until you're actually friends, or seriously dating.
• Don't tell a guy that last night's hook-up was like a sloppier version of Seth Rogen and Katherine Heigl in Knocked Up.
• Don't be stoopid.

L

things to do if you aren't having sex in a2

Once upon a time when I was a Goody Two Shoes in high school, I was a PSI Leader.  What, exactly, is a PSI leader?  Basically, I got to skip class, ride a bus across town, eat candy, and tell middle schoolers not to Do It.  Plus, we had Jimmy Johns parties with the other PSI Leaders once a semester.   Postponing Sexual Involvement* was a program run by the local hospital to encourage middle schoolers in the district to wait to have sex --because in Elkhart County, we keep it classy with the sixth highest rate of teen pregnancies in the state.  We showed lame-o movies and did awkward activities and skits with the kids, like rating what is appropriate for boyfriend and girlfriend to do on a scale of "meaningful eye contact" to sex.

Another activity was to list date ideas that don't involve sex (Mall, movies, go to the park, get coffee).  I was reminded of this when I read a pee-your-pants-its-so-funny article my friend Ro Ro sent me, "18 Things You Can Do Instead of Having Sex (If You're In A Dry Spell Like Me)."  Inspired by this HIGHlarity (love you, Perez), I created my own list of things to do when you're bored because you're not getting any-- but with an Ann Arbor twist:

1. Celebrity stalk.  They're filming AWOL in town right now, which means Aimee Teegarden and Mr. Miley Cyrus Liam Hemsworth are in town somewhere.  Go get some pictures with celebs!
2. Take advantage of the movies filming and sign up to be an extra.  My friend uses realstyleonline and it's legit-- I've seen him on television, and he's getting calls all the time for movies in the area.
3. Youtube how to open a lock, and practice...because surely the reason you're not getting any is that you lost the key to your chastity belt.  (Dare to reader:  Google Image "Chastity Belt."  Horrifying.)
4. Play pranks for fun.  My favorite? Sneaking up on high schoolers smoking pot in the Arb and pretending to be an undercover cop.  Gluing coins to the sidewalk works in a pinch, too.
5. Order some Rosetta Stone and learn a foreign language, and then take a trip to that country -- maybe you'll get lucky there.  I mean, it worked in Love Actually, right?
6. Hide from the humidity and enjoy the last night of Shark Week!
7. Steal flowers from front yards/the Diag and practice making floral arrangements.
8. Mt. Nacheesmo Challenge.  Doesn't matter if all 5 pounds of those nachos goes straight to your butt, if no one's gonna see you in your skivvies later.
9. Start the Ashley's beer tour.  Maybe the combination of beer goggles and lowered inhibitions will increase the chances of getting some action.
10. Get a new haircut and highlights.
11. Start a blog.

 I'll get back to you when I find Liam Hemsworth.... Australian accents are cute!

L


*They had a similar program in one of our neighboring school districts, but they called it Postponing Sexual Intercourse... Eww. A little too graphic for my taste, when you're looking down at the greasy little kiddos and saying "intercourse."

gettin' chum-my with it

I can still remember the first time I saw Jaws.  I had sneaked down into our basement for some illicit TV watching, and happened upon Jaws.  Face hidden under a blanket, one eye peeping out, I wanted to change the channel, but my fear paralyzed me.  And yet, a small part of me was electrified... I couldn't look away.  The everlasting impression?  Sharks were everywhere, and would strike without warning.  Any and every body of water was unsafe. (Years later, I still prefer to stick to pools and the Great Lakes)

Despite the scare factor, sharks are amazing.  Between their rows and rows of teeth, super senses ( A drop of blood from a mile away? Wowza! ), and the fact that they kicked evolution like a bad habit 100 million years ago?  I'm fascinated.  They've got me hook, line and sinker, if you will.  And that's why every summer, Discovery Channel's Shark Week is like my birthday come early.  A whole, glorious week of everything sharks! 

Why you, too, should love Shark Week:

1. Great advertising -- and I'm not talking about the scary commercials, and the shark-man billboards.  I'm talking about the great whites that are flocking to Cape Cod and Hawaii, causing beach closings.  Forget Mad Men, this is real passion for advertising!
2. It's a week!  Most celebrations get just one day -- 4th of July, Memorial Day, Birthdays, Christmas.  But sharks--all 440 kinds-- get a whole week. 
3. Rhinoceros Week just doesn't have the same ring to it.  Sure, there are a lot of fearsome predators in the animal kingdom, but few elicit the same type of fear that sharks do.
4. The Shark Week Drinking Game.  Take a drink every time you hear the phrase "apex predator," and a shot every time you're forced to look away from a video of a shark attack.  
5. Andy Samberg, the first ever appointed CSO (Chief Shark Officer), is hosting this year.  He's basically one of my favorite funny men for no particular reason, and it's going to be nothing short of amazing.
6. Shark Week is like steroids for the Discovery Channel's ratings.  Last year, almost 31 million unique viewers tuned in for Shark Week.  The Discovery Channel brings us all kinds of gems, like Cash Cab, Planet Earth, MythBusters, and Deadliest Catch.  They definitely deserve a blow-out week once a year.
7. You get to wear dorky awesome Shark Week clothes, and tell shark jokes.

It's going to be another hot week, so what better excuse do you need to set the Tivo and stay inside where it's cool?  You'll know where to find me...

L

PS: Why do sharks live in the ocean and not the sky?....The sky is Jet territory!!

confessions of a reformed husband hunter

Quick-- load up on Miss Frizzle's magic school bus, because I'm about to give you a sneak peek into my crazy brain.  Setting:  2008, spring.  Me at a party/bar.  I've just met a cute guy wearing something preppy.  We've flirtily exchanged the basics...age, where are you from, what do you do, etc.  The gears in my head are churning, turning, at the speed of light:  

Inhale.  [Montage flashing through head of picnics in the park, dinners out, sailing together, throwing snow balls at each other, kissing on the couch in front of the fire].  His parents, progressive and supportive, would find me a breath of fresh air with my country-mouse ways in their big-city existence.  I'd bake them cookies and win them over with my perfect manners. We'd wed in a small but tasteful wedding at a vineyard.  Every morning before another draining day at the office, I'd have his coffee ready just the way he liked it, and I would make sure dinner was ready before he got home.  I'd iron his shirts the way he liked them, and give him foot rubs on the weekends, and take our dog, a golden retriever named Kennedy to the vet.  We'd live just outside of the city with a big yard for our kids to run through, because I'm still scared of the city.  And that's what he'd love about me.  Exhale.

This was (a very, very, very exaggerated version of) me.  Until about a year ago, I was what you might call a "husband hunter."  Disillusioned by Disney movies and romance novels, I wanted a husband and marriage and kids, and I wanted it ASAP, by golly!  Now don't mistake me for a gold digger -- money wasn't what this is about, though certainly for some husband hunters it might be.  For me?  I wanted a husband and marriage because it would mean emotional security, and an end not only to my loneliness, but also the awful carousel that is dating.
 
On the surface, I never saw anything wrong with being a family-oriented girl who wanted to get married, settle down, start a family, have a few kids.  But there's a fundamental problem with all of this -- being "married" to the idea of being married doesn't allow for healthy relationships.  When you're forcing a guy into the role that you want without his consent, it's never going to end well.  [Cue: Awful story where Lindsey meets Harsh Reality.]

It's been a long and sometimes painful process, but I can now proudly call myself reformed.  I'm starting every type of a relationship with an open mind, and really focusing on connecting with the guys I meet.  We can choose the nature of our relationship together.  I'm enjoying my journey through life, and I'm not going to wait for the "I do" as a permission or signal for the beginning of emotional security and happiness.  Sure, I want a beautiful wedding someday, but I've already worked out a back-up plan... marrying myself!  Hopefully it doesn't come to that, but you never know.  Besides, I don't think living with myself for the rest of my life would be so bad at all!

Look for my wedding invitations in the mail circa 2025!

L<3

the beauty of brunch

Once upon a time, before the summer got absurdly busy and I wasn't in Ann Arbor for a single weekend for 2 months straight.... I had Brunch Crawl Sundays with my BFFAEAEAT (Best Friend Forever and Ever and Even After That, obviously) Harriet the Spy.  Basically, we'd meet up every Sunday for a fancy brunch, have a few too many mimosas, and begin a pub crawl.  There's really no way to say you're pub crawling on a Sunday without sounding like an alcoholic, so instead we sound like fatties who eat several brunches in a row.  I'm okay with that.

But why brunch, and not lunch?  Because brunches are perfect.  Let me count some ways:

1. Brunch feels like retirement.  Unlike the rest of the work week, when you're running around like crazy, brunch is about wasting time.  Taken out of context, driving across town, buying a newspaper, and waiting in line for an hour for food that you could have made at home seems pretty ridiculous.  But that's what's so fun about brunch-- wasting an entire morning around breakfast.
2. Brunch has unlimited alcohol.  And the menu is full of alcoholic drinks that are perfectly acceptable to drink before noon.  You're an alcoholic if you drink vodka with orange juice before noon, but champagne with orange juice or vodka and tomato juice?  You're a normal productive member of society.
3. You get to mix coffee with alcohol.  Inappropriate in nearly all social settings, this is just fun.
4. You get a fancy, creative meal for way less money than it would cost at dinner time.  
5.  Some would suggest that brunch links to getting laid.  It's a couples thing... lay in bed all morning being naughty and then go out for brunch.  Even years after someone cheats and the relationship ends, the connection is there, and it makes the quiche lorraine taste that much better. 

I'm counting down the weekends 'til my next Brunch Crawl (August 14...Birthday Brunch Crawl!), because this list just made me hungry.  Oh, and if you were wondering, my favorite brunch in Ann Arbor is at grange.

Get your brunch on this weekend!

L

a blog about blogs...

..so meta, right?  (Thank you G6 for teaching me a new word today). 

So apparently my little exercise in creativity is catching on.  Two of my friends have started blogging, obviously due to my Ever-So-Inspiring work here.  Check out Ryan Bingham's travel/life blog, and G6's funny picture blog.  [End free advertisements for friends]. Also, I've been a little slow on posts, so if there's anyone who wants a little outlet for creativity without actually creating an entire blog... let me know.  [End shameless solicitation for guest bloggers that would enable my laziness].

[End shortest blog post ever].
 
L

everyday is a great day

Well, maybe not.  But that's what our crazy high school health teacher used to tell us every day, one of his many catch phrases that you had to memorize for the final.  But today.... today is a great day.  My 4-inches-shorter-with-red-highlights hair rocks.  I'm so sparkly they can locate me in Ann Arbor from the space station without a telescope.  And I'm just feeling... happy!  I'm so blissed out on life that I'm practically levitating when I'm walking around town. 

Never mind that it's over 90 degrees and 90% humidity.  Forget that it's Art Fair and the traffic is terrible and my usual routine is thrown off.  Nothing can bring me down, because I'm walking on sunshine.  And I'm so giddy today that I'm dotting my "i"s with hearts.  Yeah, that's right, hearts. Happy Hump Day!

L <3

the magic in a haircut

My friend Third Degree and I are getting hair makeovers this week.  In fact, I'm getting my hair done in t-minus 94 minutes, and while I'm a little terrified, I'm mostly thrilled.  You see, I  believe that New Hair = New You.  And I'm not the only one-- Third Degree has decided that after a long, emotional roller coaster month, she needs a change.  A fresh start if you will.  And I've become a little bored with my party girl lifestyle.  I'm in a rut, and I feel like I'm losing my sparkle.  The solution to both of our problems, what we hope will be an impetus for change?  A new hairdo. 

For many, it's the "breakup haircut" a la Felicity, but it could just as well be the "moving on" haircut.  What you get out of the simple act of a haircut is indescribable.  It's a sense of liberation, an emancipation of that part of your life.  You're literally chopping off a part of you, and making a change.  Starting a new you-- because the old you is being swept up by the bottom-of-the-food-chain intern at the hair salon and thrown in the garbage bin.  Hasta la vista, baby.


The curious thing about the cathartic hair cut?  It seems that women are the only ones who subscribe to it.  There are slideshows dedicated to newly-single celebrity women who "Cut That Man Out Of Her Hair," but I have yet to see males changing their hairstyles because they've been dumped.  And I've pestered surveyed most of the men I know, and a new haircut doesn't even make the Top 10 List of Things to Change When Seeking Change.  (Results of the survey might be slightly skewed by one Ryan Bingham, who also admitted to never wanting to change, let alone change his hairdo).  Maybe it's because men don't have as much hair, so they generally can't lop off 6 inches for effect.  Or maybe it's because they see working on their Guns and Buns as being a better step towards change.  Give me your theories, because I really don't know.

At any rate, I'll be rocking a new look tonight, highlights and all.  (This is a Big Deal, as usually I don't even brush my hair, let alone get all fancy and color it).  And good or bad, it's just hair.  It'll grow back.  So here's hoping that having the confidence to try something new will pay off and help me reclaim my sparkle!

L

the zacklies

I'm not an adult.  I work 8-5.  I pay my car insurance.  I have retirement savings.  I pay my student loans.  I do that boring "adult" stuff.  But apparently, I also find it appropriate to go binge drinking on Hump Day.  Not so adult.  In honor of the massive hangover I'm sporting today, I present to you all the fun ways to describe/name a hangover (I'm so hungover I can't think about anything else):

1. "I feel like a homeless man spent the night in my mouth!"
2. The brown bottle flu.
3. Tap dancing on your brain
4. The Zacklies.  As in, your mouth tastes 'zackly like your butt.
5.  The morning tremblies.
6. "Did a monkey take a dump in my mouth last night?"
7. "My blood feels toxic"
8. The Irish flu
9. Punishment for not offering enough to the Great Porcelain God.
10. Run over by a truck.
11. Katzenjammer

That's all for today, folks.  I simply don't have much more in me.  I've been Katzenjammed.

L

PS:  Nice work to Third Degree, Muhammad Ali, and Rumpelstiltskin.  How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days.

but surprisingly...upbeat!!

It occurred to me last night that sometimes my friends might think of me like a little puppy-- entertaining, cuddly, funny, occasionally annoying, and (nearly) always happy.   I think my friends find my constant upbeat-ness a little irritating at times, especially when sh*ts goin' down... Please excuse my language.  But other people seem like they could use a little more happiness, even when sh*ts NOT going down.  So I'm here to share my secret theory of happiness:

Your mood doesn't have to be based on the number of good things and bad things that you're experiencing.  If you live life being content if and only if the good outweigh the bad, get ready for a long life of unhappiness-- you might not ever break even.  Abandon this method of mood determination and reclaim your happiness.  Stop waiting for the world to give you a reason to be happy, because...

You don't have to have a reason to be happy!  It might sound nutty, but take it from someone who's annoyingly happy for no reason 92% of the time (no one's perfect), this is a foolproof way to live!  Just try it-- wake up tomorrow and tell yourself that you're going to be happy.  And then when anything bad rolls your way, brush it off, instead of letting it consume you.  (Also, problems are easier to solve when you're not upset/unhappy).  So decide to be happy just because you want to be. And who doesn't want to be happy?

If this craziness is a little too much for you, take baby steps and be happy for the little things.  Be happy because 10 people read your blog post instead of just 5. If that boy you're crushing on sends you a text message, let that instant grin spread over your whole self and warm your heart, too.  Be happy because someone "liked" your Facebook status, or because it's sunny outside.  Take pleasure in the little things and use them to bolster your good mood, or turn around a bad mood.  Today, I switched my usual lunch of peanut butter and rice cakes for a salmon burger on a croissant.  And it totally recharged me from a crumby morning.

And if you're still trying to find a reason to be upbeat, come find me -- smiles are always contagious and you can bet I'm sporting one! :)

L

PS:  If you can name the movie I'm referencing with my title here, text me/call me/email me and I'll include you in my next post.  So get ready to be famous!  Just beware-- I'm the one creating the nicknames...

my battle with technophobia

I know that probably sounds weird, coming from someone who owns a Crackberry and posts fairly frequently on a blog, but it's really the truth.  I own a laptop that I haven't turned on in almost a year, and I don't use iTunes or have a real iPod -- I opt to have my sister Kiwi send me mixed CDs that I play on the boombox I used to lifeguard with, and she updates my 2nd generation iPod Shuffle at the holidays when I'm home.  I hate Kindles and I only like books.

My technological skills pretty much stopped progressing senior year of high school when I took Media Tech with our creepster "media specialist" Mr. Cupid.  Basically, it was an independent study where you learn to use Macs, Photoshop, video cameras, Final Cut Pro, Powerpoint, etc.  while occasionally being solicited to have a pizza party at your teacher's house.  I can't say that I remember much Final Cut Pro or Photoshop, but it seems easy enough to pick up when I need to.  But currently?  My skills involve word processing, surfing the world wide web, gchat, Excel, and Facebook.  And I'm happy with it staying that way.

And now... Google + happened.  I joined yesterday, but all I felt was annoyed, confused, and overwhelmed.  It looks just like Facebook to me, and has all the same functions/features with new names (+1 vs. "like", "circles" vs friend lists).  I've spent 6 years developing my Facebook page and photo albums, getting to know the system very closely, and making/blocking 1200+ facebook acquaintances friends.  Why would I want to start from scratch?  I don't.

Well, taking a step back, I'm realizing that it's not technology I don't like, it's change.  Learning how to use a new computer, a new operating system, a new phone, or a new social networking site?  Ugh.  Sign me up for a support group, this 22-year-old girl is officially a stubborn 94-year-old woman who hand writes letters and uses a land line and an ice box.  I'm still not sold on Google+ or Kindles, but I hereby vow to give new technology a chance.  Who knows? I might even do something crazy and boot up my laptop.

L

can exes be friends?

Recent events have me thinking about whether exes can truly be friends.  Demi and Bruce Willis seem to do just fine, vacationing with Ashton.  And if the crazy celebs can do it, why not us normal human beings?  My conclusion is yes -- you can be friends with your ex, but only if the following conditions are met:

1. There is no restraining order.  I don't think this needs to be explained.
2. Both parties are done breaking up, and both parties are done dating.  If there's unresolved anger/problems/feelings, it's not going to work.  The first relationship as lovers has to end before the second relationship as friends can begin.  And that also means that ...
3. You can't remember what they look like naked.  Can't be dredging up old sexual chemistry.  Even the closest of friendships don't easily survive a hook-up, or weird sexual feelings.  So why would it be any different for lovers-turned-exes-then-friends?
4. You actually want to be friends.  Too often, we think we want to be friends with an ex, but the subconscious motive is to find closure of some sort, and resolve problems/feelings.  Go back to #2 and try again.  If you truly want to be friends with your ex, it should be because you truly like him or her as a friend, not because you're avoiding moving on.  Focus on the initial attraction points --He's still got a great sense of humor, and is great to go to Tigers games with, or She is the coolest one at the office, likes the same music, and will go to dive bars 'til 3am hunting down bands with you.  It shouldn't be about the ease and familiarity. (He/She knows you watch Lifetime movies and don't shower on Sundays).

I've only had a few serious boyfriends, and friendship isn't easy to come by.  Big Blue and I are civil, and check in with each other every few months on Facebook chat to see how things are, but I suspect it's mostly out of a sense of obligation.  Voldemort and  I will probably never be friends -- there's a reason he's named the Dark Lord.  Tree and I managed to develop a great friendship.  We like to talk and visit, and we're supportive of each other's dating lives.  That said, I found out the hard way that just because you can be friends with exes doesn't mean it always works out.  Tree's new girlfriend was weirded out that we were friends, and our friendship has had to take a hiatus for the time being.  And that's the way the cookie crumbles sometimes...

And on that note, I'm peacing out like the 4th of July.  (Don't ask me what this means, because I truly don't know).

L

PS:  Something funny to follow on Monday.... I've been saving up.

the art of osculation

Kissing.  It's nature's ultimate litmus test.  Hitch got it right when he said,  "One dance, one look, one kiss, that's all we get...one shot, to make the difference between 'happily every after' and, 'Oh? He's just some guy I went to some thing with once.' "  A study at University of Albany found that 59% of men and 66% of women ended contact after a first kiss.  We've all been there before.  How many times have you really liked someone, only to kiss for the first time and be totally repulsed?  The kiss of death for the relationship, so to speak. 

So what makes for a good first kiss?  According to that same study, most men like wet, tongue-y kisses, and women ...don't.  And there are all kinds of theories that say when you swap that little bit of spit, you're trading genetic info so you know if your kisser is a good mate.  Increasing your future kids' genetic diversity, survival of the fittest, and all that.  But if you ask me, it's a simple matter of compatible kissing techniques. 

When a kiss goes awry, the blame is always, always, always placed on the other party.  You'll never hear someone describe a horrible first kiss and say "Jeez, it was horrific!  I was slobbering all over him and jamming my tongue into the back of his throat."  I say that 90% of the time, a bad kiss is actually no one's fault-- it's just about mismatched preferences.  It's all about the proportions of preference for tongue, slobber, teeth, ice cubes/hard candy/foreign objects, or whatever else you prefer.  And it's no one's fault that you don't appreciate the same things as the person you kiss.  The remaining 10% of the time? You can point fingers and blame the other party for a bad kiss if:

1. Your face is being eaten.  Om nom nom = gross and unforgivable. 
2. You are caused physical harm.  This could mean broken teeth, literal suffocation by tongue, bleeding of the lips from excessive "nibbling," or any other type of injury (if you don't like it, that is -- like I said, I'm not judging preferences here).
3. You are covered in slobber to the point you need a towel.  Keep your tongue off my chin. There's just no excuse for that.

My friend Sneakasaurus Rex once kissed a girl he liked and it was terrible, but he was too nice to cut off contact and embarked on a long-term, long-distance relationship with someone he had to get drunk to enjoy kissing.  If you like someone that much, it's possible to modify your partner's kissing technique.  You really have to like the person, because it's a long, long process but it is possible.  Trouble is, some suggest bad kissing chemistry only translates to... bad other chemistry.  Something to think about.

I'll continue Extensive Firsthand Fieldwork (anyone want to volunteer as a test subject?) on all of this and report back...

Until then,

L

dear reader, a few notes about crushes

That last post was a poor excuse to subject the world to more of the terrible MS Paint work that brings me so much joy.  My sincere apologies.  Note to self: First write, then Paint.  Because in all actuality, I had a lot of things I wanted to say about crushes, crushing, crushedness, and crushdom.

I was thinking about that scene in Sixteen Candles (my hands-down favorite coming-of-age movie from the 80's) where Sam's dad wisely imparts that "That's why they call them crushes.  If they were easy, they'd call them something else."  And don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about -- even if you haven't seen the movie, the line has been immortalized with facebook bumper stickers, t-shirts, cards, facebook statuses, facebook bumper stickers, etc.  Well guess what?  That's not why they call them crushes, Mr. Baker.

More Very Extensive Internet Research informs me that the word "crush" was first recorded being used in the sense of a person someone is infatuated with in the 1880s.  Crush as a verb took another three decades.  But why the word crush, which would normally mean to press or squeeze with force?  Turns out dance parties in the 1800's were called "crushes."  And as the main forum at which boys and girls could meet and moon over each other.... presto magico, borrowed terms.... the modern "crush" was born. Who says etymology isn't cool?

And how many types of crushes are there?  Millions.  The puppy love crush.  The friend crush.  The Hollywood crush.  The hero crush.  The internet crush.  The random stranger crush.  The work crush (which by the way, is encouraged, as it results in higher work performance and morale).  The age-inappropriate crush.  The public figure crush.  The obsessive crush.  And then there's limerence, the dark side of crushing.  Called the "stalker crush" by some, it's a crazy, dark, OCD, you-are-the-center-of-my-universe kind of crush. Eww.

Fear not, friend.  My crush is rainbows and butterflies and unicorns.  No dark obsession.  In the famous words of Jennifer Paige, "It's just a little crush."

Until next time,

L

PS:  I still maintain that my favorite kind of crushing is the kind that turns grapes into wine.  Just saying.

this is your brain on crush

I like to think that --besides some of the very obvious craziness about me-- I'm a pretty level-headed, happy person.  But recently, I've been just a little happier, and a tad more hyper.  There's an extra skip in my step, if you will.  It's because I've reverted back to my middle school self (and I don't just mean the extra acne that mysteriously appeared on my face recently)....

I have a crush.  And not the orange soda pop variety.  When a Certain Someone sends me a text message, my uber-emotive face lights up like a freaking light bulb.  It's pathetic, but it's also wonderful.  And that's why I'm proposing a new PSA (abovetheinfluence is getting old) encouraging everyone to develop a little crush (or 2!):

I just think the world would be a better place. 

L

leaves of three, let it be...

This is just not my week.  First, it's the whole post-vacation blues thing.  Then, I wore my underwear backwards.  Also, my legs are covered in bruises/a weird rash thing so I've been wearing pants every day.  In the SUMMER.  Yesterday, I slept through my alarm.  Also, my celebrity crush left town forever.  And now?  I go to the doctor about said rash thing, and the cherry on top of this poopy-flavored sundae?   I have poison ivy.

Yeah, that's right.  POISON IVY.  Also known as contact dermatitis.  Also known as a plant from the fiery pits of hell. The puzzling thing about this is that I never go outside.  The wilderness is not for me. So how did poison ivy find my skin?  The doctor thinks I picked it up while on vacation.  I can just imagine the poison ivy creeping around the Las Vegas Strip, waiting for an adorably innocent, fun-loving person to attack:

Lesson learned here?  Some things don't stay in Vegas.

L

PS: I promise this is my last Vegas post.

the post vacation blues

This morning, I woke up gasping for air, sunlight streaming through my windows, thinking "SHIIT....ake mushrooms!"  Or something like that.  I somehow managed to sleep through multiple alarms, and woke up at 7:43am, with a work start time of 8:00am.  Oops!  Miraculously, I made it through the front door of the office at 8 o'clock on the dot (and with my underwear on straight too!), so no harm done.

Only problem is that now that I'm here, I'm spiraling into despair.  All I can think about is how much fun I was having 72 hours ago.  And how I have tons of laundry to do.  And I'm tired.  And nothing is exciting.  And how I took this Friday off so I could make fabulous holiday weekend plans, but then neglected to make any.  AND I have split ends.  In the words of a certain someone within the last week or so... "What are you complaining about now?"  But in all seriousness, I'm going through some serious Post Vacation Blues.  So I wrote a song (just imagine the harmonica going along with it):

Lindsey went on a fun trip (doo do do do dooo)
Partied on the Vegas Strip! (doo do do do dooo) 
Explored the Grand Canyon (doo do do do dooo)
She had a little too much Fuuuuuun!!!

But then she came home (doo do do do doo)
Her frustration grew (doo do do do dooo)
Working life she bemoaned (doo do do do doo)
Oh Lindsey's got... the Poooooooooooost Vacation Blues...

Yeah I don't know.  That's pretty much my poor brain could come up with in 5 minutes.  If you can't picture what I'm going for with this, you just let me know-- I'll sing a private show for you, complete with fake harmonica sounds and everything. 

L

PS: Just one more photo from Vegas appeared on my phone.  I made best friends with a Mafia guy from New York.  Sweetest old man.  We lectured each other about how to be a good Catholic and being nicer to vacation boyfriends until about 4am.  And then he gave me 20 bucks to play the penny slots.  Enjoy, because I'm taking this down tomorrow:

what happened in vegas...

is staying in Vegas.  Literally.  I lost my camera and about 500 photos on it, so there's no evidence I even went to Vegas.  Except for this Blackberry picture of me playing the penny slots at 4am on Friday night/Saturday morning.  The trip was such a blur, and clear chronology has been lost with the camera.  So instead, I present to you the ABC's of our trip to Sin City--just 26 little tidbits of what may or may not have happened while we were out there:

Advil.  A necessary cocktail of Advil and Gatorade to counteract the other cocktails
Beatrice.  The name I gave to just about every new friend I made.  ("But you can call me Bee!")
Cirque du Soleil.  MINDBLOWING.  New goal is to add "Cirque du Soleil guy" to the list of guys I date.  So freaking hot.
Drugs.  I was offered party treats no less than 10 times.  In the elevator, in the pool, in the club, you name it.
Elevator.  The hotel elevator was crazier than the Tower of Terror.  But a lot happened in the elevator - making out, new friends, those creepy guys who invited me back for a foot massage...
Flabongo. We stayed at the Flamingo.  So naturally, there was flabongo-ing in the pool. 
Grand Canyon.  "Who let YOU near a giant hole?"
Hoover Dam.  We saw it. 
Injuries.  Blisters from sunburns, sprained ankles/EMT check-ups on legs from falling down a set of marble steps, bite marks, respiratory infections... I won't say which was whose, but let's just say I will be wearing pants for the rest of summer, and I owe someone plastic surgery on their neck.
Jay Sean.  Accidentally stumbled onto a live concert.
King-sized bed.  Our room reservation got all mixed up, and rather than switching rooms after the first night, we opted to share the California King all week.  So much snuggling!
Lost & Found.  Well... so far nothing's been found.  What's missing?  My sunglasses, camera, and dignity. 
Marriage proposals.  All 3 of the Planeteers were proposed to by guys from London.  My proposal: "You're so cute, I just want to pack you into my suitcase....Marry me and come back to London with me."  Fire and Heart found brothers-- they could have been sisters!!
New Friends.  SPF Ghost, my vacation boyfriend.  Nipple Rings.  Chris and Andrew.  Elevator Guys.  The Beatles.  Ben from Michigan.  Crazy Lady in Hot Pink Bikini Playing Beach Ball.  Nurse Lady From Plane.
Oxygen Bar.  I wanted it so badly, but it was always closed.
PURE.  Our favorite night club by far.  Site of the VIP table dancing and camera losing.
Queasy.  How we all woke up every morning. 
Rallying.  Also known as clawing your way out of the depths of drunken hell and and rejoining the party in full-on pimp style.  Theme of the trip.
Sugar Factory.  A candy store/bar...  Best combination ever.
Two-dollar bill.  There may or may not have been an incident where someone stole a two dollar bill from the bathroom attendant at PURE.
Underwear.  I'm so tired from this trip that I put my underwear on backwards when I got dressed for work this morning.  I felt this needed to be included.
VIP.  Fire and I got tagged into VIP by a couple of NFL players.  Dancing on the tables/sofas with Goose ensued.
Water.  Call to room service "... and could you send the biggest pitcher of water that you have with that?"
Xxx.  Kisses, x-rated action, or a terrible Vin Diesel movie?  You decide.
Yarf.  A little surprising, but no one worshiped that porcelain god all week.
Zzz's.  21-hour rage sessions with intermittent naps don't leave much time for sleep.

The verdict?  Vegas 1, Lindsey 0. 

L

1000 hits!

Today, my blog counter passed 1000 views.  Whoa!  And apparently I have viewers in Canada, Hong Kong, Belgium, Iraq, and Botswana.  I'm totally excited-- thanks to everyone who reads my rambles! So, in honor of 1000 hits, I'm going to unload 1000 facts about me:

1. Just kidding!

I leave for Vegas in 4 hours sans computer, so I won't be posting until Monday at the earliest.   (And with any luck, my writer's block will subside-- there has to be inspiration out there).  Don't cry, it's only a few days!

Until then,
L <3

city of light, here i come!

Right now, you may be thinking "Lindsey's headed to Paris?!"  I'm not.  The not-so-funny story here is that when we booked our tickets to Vegas, I got so excited I shouted out "City of Light, here we come!"  And have been teased mercilessly ever since by multiple parties.  Well, I have news for you.  Extensive Internet Research (Wikipedia) informs me that Las Vegas, better known as Sin City (oops!), is the brightest city on earth as viewed from space.  Some people do in fact refer to it as the City of Light.  Boo-yah.

In just 32 hours, I leave for Vegas.  I have yet to start packing.  And this is my packing list so far:

1. Party glasses.
2. Swim suits.
3. High heels.
4. Tylenol.
5. Wedding dress.  (Just kidding!)

Part of me is thinking this could be all I need for Vegas, but the other, more sane part of me is thinking I have a ways to go.  And the clock is ticking! My beautiful, charming, wonderful, delightful girlfriends Fire and Heart (Planeteers, of course!  I'm Water) plan to get me intoxicated and manipulate my sense of adventure to get me to do stoopid things.  I have a fool-proof plan to protect myself-- a second list, laminated to carry around, to remind me what NOT to do:

1. Get married.
2. Get a tattoo.
3. Use hallucinogens before seeing Cirque du Soleil.
4. Fall into the Grand Canyon.
5. Steal Mike Tyson's tiger.
6. Drunk dial my mom.
7. Drunk dial anyone.
8. Anything stoopid.

So here's hoping I survive the trip, and that it's the Best Trip Ever!

L

PS:  I'm a little miffed that no one seemed to notice my plans to marry Ronald McDonald in my last post.  Is that not concerning to anyone?

nicknames for guys i date

I have a hard time saying "no" when guys ask me out.  Let's just chalk it up to the romantic in me that believes in True Love-- because what IF that guy who works at the candy store was The One?  What if I said no and missed out on the Mr. Lindsey Marie of my dreams?  By saying "yes" every time, I've gone on a few too many dates, and my poor friends can't seem to keep their names straight (due in part to the fact that about 50% of Ann Arbor's male population is named Mark).  To help my friends out, I've been utilizing a genius method for creating monikers for my would-be suitors:  "_______-guy."

So far there's been PhD guy, MBA guy, professor guy, candy store guy, movie star guy,  online dating guy, Bar Louie guy, Rush Street guy, tennis pro guy, football player guy, baseball player guy, soccer ref guy, county commissioner guy, cell phone guy, and bouncer guy...to name a few.  (As you can see, I tend to chase the jerseys/academics). Thankfully, my friends have never met these guys-- their names make them sound way cooler than they are.

But where did this nickname system come from?  It all stems from "cute Jewish boy" (CJB for short).  It started when my dearest friend and housemate in undergrad, the Serena van der Woodsen to my Blair Waldorf, had a huge crush on a cute Jewish boy (no one said this naming system was rocket science).  When Serena tried to call him Harry Goldenblatt we had no clue who she was talking about.  All she had to say was "CJB" and it was crystal clear.  Sadly, nothing came of Serena and CJB, although we did name one of our Halloween decorations after him.

I suspect that any of my ___-guys will go the way of CJB-- just another guy with a story/nickname.  If I actually like a guy, I plan on making sure my friends know his name.  Otherwise, just picture it:

Me: "Hey friends, this is Ronald McDonald."  (Look expectantly at friends to recognize guy)
Friends: "Who?!?!"
Me: "Umm....Fiancee guy?"
Friends: "Oh yeaaaaaaah... Fiancee guy!"



L <3

PS:  The one _____-guy I'm hoping to never add to my list?  Married in Vegas guy.