The Password is: Taxing

I'd like to start off by assuring everyone that I had big plans to be productive tonight. I worked through lunch to leave a bit early, even. Despite the lovely weather, I came up to my room and got ready to camp out in front of my computer for the night. That's right, dudes. it's TAX TIME!!!!

Or so I thought...

Because I couldn't remember the stupid dumb idiotic combination of my user name and password - for a freakin' site I visit ONCE A YEAR - I couldn't log in. So, I clicked "I can't remember my user name and/or password" and then couldn't answer the security question right, either. BLASTED!

Eventually, I cracked the code to have them send me my info. Only they haven't yet.

All night, I put off projects because I was all "As soon as I get that email, I'm FILING MY TAXES like a boss!" So I kept waiting, kept playing DrawSomething with my aunt Sarah, kept not getting the email. Now, here it is, 9 p.m. and I've accomplished nothing. Except a nap. I got that done.

You know what would rule? NOT HAVING TO REMEMBER A BAZILLION USER NAMES AND PASSWORDS. I mean, come ON! I'm sick of changing my passwords every other time I log in somewhere. I'm sick of entering a new password only to read the error message "YOU CANNOT REPEAT AN OLD PASSWORD." What!? How many combinations of numbers, symbols, capital letters, and lowercase letters can one girl remember?! Oh, and I can use a semi-colon, but I can't use a period?! WTF?!

I once read in The Tipping Point by Malcolm Gladwell (I'm so interesting!!) that phone numbers are 7 digits long because that's the most amount of numbers one person can easily remember, while also offering the most options. So, can someone tell me WHY passwords have to be EIGHT characters long? According to my awesome mental math, that's one digit too long.

So, here I am, at the mercy of a delayed auto-generated email. Seriously?! It's been FOUR HOURS! Maybe the network administrator guy forgot his password to get into their system...

I wasted a whole night, I guess. Now I have to waste part of my weekend doing my taxes. LAME. What do YOU guys have planned this weekend? Resetting all your user name and passwords, like me? Don't be jealous...

Dear Crabby

I know, it's Wednesday. I KNOW, it's time for Dear Crabby. I KNOW I've blown it off for a couple weeks now, but listen, life doesn't STOP for crappy crabby advice. It's been exactly a month since my last attempt at changing lives in a very helpful and prolific way, so I'm sure everyone has just been a mess since then. The last time we last met Crabby, she was, uh, crabby. And unhelpful. Let's try and catch up, shall we?

Dear Crabby,
I just got a SUUUUUUUUUUUPER inappropriate picture from a guy I've been seeing for a weeks now. Like, X-rated. And COMPLETELY unwelcomed! Besides this latest thing, I thought he was pretty cool. Is this a serious red flag, or should I just let it go?

Stanks,
No ThanXXX

Hey No ThanXXX,
How do I put this delicately? RUN. Run far, far away. But listen, if you are an enterprising young lady, you, unfortunately, need to keep the picture. If this dude ever gets famous or rich, you can totes use the gnarly text against him and make millions! Consider it an investment! But first, change your number and possibly your name.

Dear Crabby,
What do you think about Botox? I'm 34 and considering it for the crow's feet I have.

Notox or Yestox?

Dear Notox or Yestox,
YOU ARE TOO YOUNG FOR BOTOX. I don't care if you have crow's feet. Seriously. Probably NO ONE cares. Injecting botulism into your face when you are in your 30s in crazy. Wait like 10 more years and look normal. I'm guessing that pretty soon there will be a Fountain of Youth pill, so yeah, wait for that. You'll look stupid with Botox in your face before then.

Dear Crabby,
I live in the same city as Jonathan Taylor Thomas. Remember him? From Home Improvement? I seriously have THE BIGGEST crush on him, and I really want to find a way to run into him and make a good impression. Any pointers?

Thanks,
I'm Down With JTT

Hello, Down With JTT,
Uh, well, so...Jonathan Taylor Thomas, eh? So that's your thing? Well, you could probably just mention that you know who he is. He'd probably like that, since no one else has said that to him in a bajillion years. I don't know. I don't know how to talk to famous - or even pseudo-famous - people. I would suggest either asking for his autograph or totally ignoring him. Gush over him or put him down. Whatevs. I don't know what to tell you. Good luck, though!

Phew! I forgot how tough that is! Have better advice? Have worse advice? Try your hand at helping out by slapping your input in the comments. Otherwise, if you have an issue that needs lickin', shoot an email to pharonsquare@gmail.com. I'll make sure it gets "solved".

It's a G Thang...I think?

Okay, so I was trying hard to stay focused at work today, but my mind kept wandering. Sometimes you just can't help it. So, to get back on track, I tuned to my fav Pandora channel and busted out work. When lunchtime came, I was walking to the lunchroom with my friend Rachel and all I could think of was "I ball so hard (*#%*#$)^)!@#s can't fine me...that @*#( cray".

That's because my favorite Pandora channel is a pseduo-hardcore rap station.

I wanted to sing it, rap it, whatever. But, obvs, I can't because the lyrics are...um...super offensive to most people. I can't help it. I LOVE HARDCORE RAP.

When I was in high school, I had a boyfriend. (Shocking, I know. But I did.) And for Valentine's Day, everyone just gave each other CDs. I gave him some cheesy love CD, and he gave me the CD I wanted SO badly but my parents wouldn't let me buy. It was Lil Kim. She is NASTY. (Dude, no WONDER my parents didn't like him!) I don't know what it was about her. I didn't understand a single thing she rapped about, but I knew I loved her.

Oh, have I mentioned I'm the squarest, whitest chick ever?

Listen, I know my parents will be disappointed in me. I do. However, I know more lyrics to NWA songs than anyone else I know. (Mom? Dad? Don't go Googling these songs or artists, K?) I had a pseudo-obsession with Eazy-E for a minute. I just really love songs about objectified women and hating the establishment, apparently.

Lately, though, my obsession has grown. I think it's because rappers are getting seriously CLEVER. Some of my faves use literary devices I still don't understand. They flip words and phrases to fit into a beat that just blows my mind. The way they play with words, use them to generate emotion, and on top of that RHYME EVERYTHING?! Excuse me while I swoon...

People can hate all they want on what they think the message of these songs are. Blah blah blah, so much swearing, so many versions of the word "b!tch", whatever. But the way I listen to rap is the way nerds read poetry. The message and lifestyle of the rappers I like most have almost nothing to do with me, but I don't care.

Can YOU think of 5 words that rhyme with "orange"? Because Eminem can. He plays with pronunciation and syllabic emphasis and ends up rhyming "orange" with "gunshot" or something.

Anyway, I think it's inspiring that there is an entire population of people who love words as much as I do, though we have almost nothing else in common.

I don't like drugs or sizzurp. Yes, I've got a rear end that won't quit, but I'm not exactly the girl in hip hop videos. The "streets" I grew up in were safe and friendly and I played tennis in them. I HATE guns, I don't enjoy hard liquor (besides vodka, dur), and I can't even say the phrase "what's up" without reenacting that stupid Budweiser commercial. I'm not the target market of these artists.

But darnit if I don't love me some wordplay and a hard beat.

My roommates Claire and Andrew got free tickets to see Lil Wayne in concert and I was CRAZY-JEALOUS. When they got home, they talked about how loud and rude people were, and how they didn't understand a word that the guy said. I was all "OMG, did he do 'She Will'? Could you see his face tats? Did he wear red jeans or talk about his jail stint?!" They looked at me like I was an alien. I don't care. The man dominates roughly 10 of my Pandora channels.

Anyway, so there ya have it. I love Kate Spade and hardcore rap. I'm a @#(%*#)^(&_* contradiction. Can YOU guys think of a word that rhymes with "contradiction"? AND tells a story?

You Do The Math

Duuuuudes. I'm so sleepy. I spent all night after work at my brother's house, helping him rearrange and reorganize some rooms. Yes, this is the brother who became a father like 7 days ago. Typical guy. Embarking on major projects while his newborn slept with his wife in the other room? Perfect timing. Luckily, my parents and Prinna were there too.

We got started by having me hold and cuddle Freya for an hour or so. I was working hard. Then we got to work on the spare bedroom. They just had their ceilings redone, so things are kind of in disarray. While Peter and my dad did manly things, like play with guns and lift heavy things, my mom and Prinna and I sat on the bed in the spare room, visualizing. After 60 or so suggestions, we decided to get started.

Prinna said "What if we move the bed there, and the dresser there. Will that fit?" I said, "Only one way to find out!" Did we fetch the measuring tape? Good lord, no. The only way to see if something will fit is to just move it and see. It's always such an adventure. Way better than MEASURING. That's for nerds and squares.

We had to move everything approx 100 times before finding the right configuration. It was heavy.

Then Peter comes in while we are attempting to hang a picture. He must have overheard our Mensa meeting regarding measuring and math. He watched skeptically as we "measured" (a.k.a. eyeballed) the height and tried to center it. Then I held the picture as Prinna drilled straight into the wall sort of where we agreed to drill. No level. No ruler. Just eyeballs. Peter was all "Uh, is that level?" We're all, "Lay off, Hitler, we're decorating here!"

Eventually we got it hung. STRAIGHT AND CENTER. Rulers? We don't need no stinkin' rulers.

When we got to baby Freya's room to hang some cute letters (F-R-E-Y-A, coincidentally) Peter started panicking. I was, apparently, way too lax in my placements and too liberal with my intended nail hole propositions for his taste. He had to leave the room to gather himself. My dad sat and said "Measure that part and that part, then add the total, divide in half and measure that far from the wall."

Exsqueeze me? I've got EYEBALLS, you know.

Instead, I followed my dad's advice. I said "Okay, the total is 14 inches plus 23.5 inches." He's all "So, add those..." My brain started throbbing. I started sweating. "Uh, 37.5 inches?" My dad said "Yes, now what's half of that?" My brain then exploded. That's, like, a FRACTION. You can't just HALVE fractions. So my dad watched as his adult(ish) daughter folded the measuring tape in half and I said "Okay, 18 and three medium lines."

Then my dad's brain exploded. Poor guy.

Anyway, after all the moving and brilliant mental math, I was pooped. Wiped out. So, I'm going to bed. I have to be up in, oh man, I don't know. Either 4 or 24 hours or something. Whatever, I'm not counting anymore today.

It's Got a Ring To It

Okay, I'm not going to be that girl who talks non-stop about her engagement. I'm not. Seriously. I'm a gal who, despite my best efforts to convince people otherwise, does not like talking about myself in person. Hence: this blog. When people are like "Hey, love your blog! I read it all the time!" I'm all "Er, thanks. It's just a blog...a monkey could do it. Don't you LOVE monkeys? I love monkeys. Let's discuss monkeys." So no, I'm not the bragging type.

But this engagement thing is proving to be quite beneficial.

Claire and I were doing some bulk shopping at Costco today. I picked out 6 pounds of Laughing Cow cheese, an enormous can of pickles, and Claire bought more garlic salt than either of us know what to do with.

As we were carting out of the store, I ran into a girl I knew in high school. She was with her husband and crazy-adorable son. She called me over and I stumbled my way through some small talk. Claire was flabbergasted by my incompetent conversational abilities.

See, in high school, this girl really intimidated me. We played soccer together, and she was a bold, strong, outspoken star on the team. I was 80 pounds and a shy and self-conscious weenie. Needless to say, I spent a lot of time just trying to make a good impression on her.

Anyhoozle, there she is, with her beautiful family, talking about the businesses she owns and the events she runs and then it came to me. She was all "So, what's up with you? What's new?"

I almost said, "Well, I live in Claire's attic, I don't have a savings account, and I am wearing a shirt with a panda on it because I don't do laundry." Instead, I dismissed it and said "I'm writing. It's pretty cool."

That's when Claire did a mini-intervention. She spoke up and was like "Well, she's writing for one of the most important companies ever, she's staying with me temporarily until she buys her house and her FIANCE is studying genetics in grad school." The girl was like "OMG, you're ENGAGED? When are you getting married?" I said "Oh, well, it only happened last week. We don't have a date. It's, you know, no biggie." But actually, it IS a biggie and I'm horrible about talking about anything even remotely "biggie".

We got in the car afterwards and Claire was like "What HAPPENED to you?! You couldn't say one cool thing about yourself?! I can't believe I had to step in like that!" The point is, even though I've been staring at my new ring for hours on end, I can't exactly bring myself to brag or dwell on it. I don't know what it is, but I will say that the instant Claire said I was engaged to an awesome dude, I felt vindicated. I hadn't showered in two days, but suddenly I couldn't care less.

My point, and I do have a point, is that um, being engaged is pretty tops. Paying one of my best friends rent suddenly doesn't seem so pathetic when I'm SAVING FOR A WEDDING. More importantly, running into a former high schooler who sometimes scared me isn't so scary anymore.

Rest assured, I will not spend a lot of blogs talking about the fact that I am engaged. I won't. It's not nearly as interesting to others as it is to me. I mean, wouldn't we ALL rather talk about how I make do on only doing laundry every 10 weeks? We would. BUT! I hereby reserve the right to discuss this when and if I ever run into someone I knew in high school who scared the bejezus out of me at some point. K? K.

"Are you serious?!"

This is real. This happened.

GEO PROPOSED TO ME IN CALIFORNIA! He talked to my dad, got down on that knee and said he loved me and held out a ring and...wait, I'm getting ahead of myself. Here are the deets:

It had been a tumultuous couple days. I hadn't seen Geo much since I was busy hiking and hanging out with his mom and sister Sanna, while he was busy golfing with his dad. The weather was COLD AND RAINY for the first couple days so activities were altered. Add to that my adorable new niece being born, and I was just a little homesick. I wasn't myself, y'all.

On the first gorgeous morning, after I had gotten over my funk (phunk?) Geo, Sanna, Sanna's friend Pat, and I decided to get some breakfast at the fancy hotel restaurant. We shoved fancy food in our mouth holes and headed out to this beautiful pond to look at the flamingos. Geo LOVES the flamingos.

So we're standing there, lookin' at the pink birds, and I'm trying to take pictures. Geo puts his arm around me and I'm all "Hey, stop it! I'm trying to take a picture! GUH!"

That was, apparently, his cue.

He spun me around, got down on one knee and I screamed. I screamed and I cried and I said "NO! OHMYGOD, ARE YOU SERIOUS?! ARE YOU SERIOUS?!?!?!?!" He laughed. I have almost no idea what he said then. I remember seeing his face, hearing him say he loves me, and then he blinded me with a diamond. A Real. Life. Diamond.

I wiped the snot from my nose (Charming!) and said "YES! YES! OHMYGOD, YES!"

We hugged, he kissed me and then I spent the afternoon blinding people with my sparkly ring.

It was amazing, dudes. I was so completely shocked and overwhelmed that I almost threw up. Swoon! There was more to the trip, but obvs this was the best moment for me. There is one more pic I'll share with you guys, because it captured the moment after the proposal and the beautiful scenery around us.

(Huge thanks to Sanna for managing to secretly photograph the entire thing!)

So yes. I'm officially engaged!!!! Can you believe it?! The only bummer is that boo, now I'm back home and Geo is back in 'bama, but I don't care. Now that I have this ring, I only KIND of miss him. JUST KIDDING.

I'm the luckiest girl in the world. Sorry to break it to everyone else. I'm seriously over-the-moon excited and can't wait to start planning a Kate Spade-themed wedding complete with teacup piglet ring bearers. Geo will probably be there too...

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! I'm engaged, you guys! I'm going to get married!

Ooooh, and also I tried In and Out Burgers for the first time too, but I'll save that for another post...have a great weekend you guys!

Little Bundle of Adorable Hair (Vacay post 1 of 2)

Remember how I said that I would try and update you guys on my trip if anything exciting happened? Turns out TOO MANY EXCITING THINGS HAPPENED. I didn't even have time to pull my thoughts together and failed miserably at sharing some great news with everyone. I am dedicating a post to each exciting thing.

First and foremost, this little lady decided to come:

This little chubby-cheeked lady was born!!! Her name is Freya Sophia Irma Lundquist. She is THE BOMB! Look at that face! Look at that hair!!

My sister-in-law Nicole had her, sans epidural (is she Wonder Woman? Is she crazy? We may never know) and I fell in love immediately. I first saw her on FaceTime, since I was still in Cali when she was born. I bawled and smiled and wanted to nuzzle her wittle teeny facey wacey immediately. She's perfect!

I went and saw her for the first time tonight. I helped my brothers build little Freya's crib and held her and snuggled her. She's a pretty amazing bundle to come back to.

So yay! New baby! New person to spoil rotten! You'd think that this would be enough excitement for one trip, right? Before I got the chance to blog about her, something else happened.

Something else SERIOUS happened. On to post 2 of 2...

I got a lot of baggage, yo

Hooray! (NOT) The pre-trip anxiety has kicked in! My very sweet mom called to give me some much-needed advice (seriously) about how to be a grown up on the actual vacay, but I'm too worried about the flying part to even start THINKING about the manners part. Earlier tonight, I was too focused on my packing and plane schedule to care about how I'd look in a bikini, so I downed my first plate of pasta in weeks. Chased it with some wine, 'cause I'm fancy like that.

Anyhoozle, in case you've been under a ROCK, I'm heading out to the desert tomorrow. The extreme change in climate - combined with the Capital-like rules (Hunger Games reference whaaaaat?!) about carry on luggage sizes and liquid product restrictions - provided a major packing challenge. In fact, I took a nap halfway through the process. I had to make some truly heartbreaking choices.

My hair dryer is staying home.
My teddy bear is staying home.
My 2nd pair of stiletto sandals are, sadly, staying at home. (Left out, because according to Geo, I'll "want to have tennis shoes, in case we go hiking." I'm sorry, I'll "WANT" to have tennis shoes??? In place of CUTE shoes??? He does NOT know me at all...)
A number of cute purses are staying home.
Claire has to stay home.
My wolf sweatshirt has to stay home.
My 2nd maxi dress has to stay home.
My hair brush has to stay home. (Who am I kidding? I won't be brushing my hair anyways.)
My body lotion has to stay home. It's in a jar, and way too hard to get into those stupid 3 oz bottles. TSA! [Shakes fist]
This bottle of wine can't come with me, so I better drink it all right now.

Okay, I know this is not the most inspiring, enlightening, thoughtful post ever, but I'm too stressed out to try and make light of it. Plus, having to choose between bringing my Kate Spade wedges and my Kate Spade purse was basically like Sophie's choice for me. And in the end, I could fit neither. Stupid tiny luggage!

I don't know how this vacay will affect my blogging next week, either. Yes, I'll have my phone and could technically write blogs on my Blogger app, but I just don't know that I WILL. It's not that I don't love you guys, 'cause I do, but I just love drinking margaritas and not thinking also. You can understand my dilemma. But dudes? I'll post fun pics and fun stories if and when they happen. There just may not be a lot of insightful commentary from me. Which is much like tonight. Turns out, I've started early...

Have a SICK weekend, Squares!

I am a baby's butt

I know, I'm supposed to do a Dear Crabby tonight. But ain't no way this uber happy chica will be able to be snarky and cynical tonight. One, it was way too nice outside - 72 and sunny! But two, and this is a big one, I got a body polish tonight. Let me do you a solid and tell you to GET THIS DONE IMMEDIATELY.

Basically, the polish is a fancy way of saying that some stranger will scrub all your dead skin layers off, along with a few others, so that you're all silky smooth. Like you just had your umbilical cord snipped off. That's what it IS, now here's it WAS...FOR ME.

My awesome mom and dad got me a gift card to the fancy shmancy salon in my hometown. Snobsville, MN. I've been there loads before when I was young, but never as a broke adult. Needless to say, my wine-stained t-shirt was, uh, frowned upon. Whatevs. So, I get to the front desk, making sure I'm covering my wine stain with my gifted Kate Spade bag, (I think I'm passing!) and check in at the front desk.

Lady: What shoe size are you?
Me: Oh, I'm just getting a body polish.
Lady: I know. What shoe size?
Me: Uh...6?

Out come my very own Small slippers. In a cloth bag. Fancy.

Lady shows me to the Spa locker room (Spocker room?). All kinds of twists and turns. Crap, I'm lost already. Panic.

Lady: Go ahead and change into this pre-warmed super soft robe. You can take all your clothes off - except your unders.
Me: [Internally] "Unders"? WTF does that mean? Is that bra? Underwear? How is someone saying an abbrevs that I don't know?!" Panic.
Me: [Externally] Totally, I know EXACTLY what you're talking about because I definitely am a fancy lady who does NOT drink warm white wine from a red Solo cup.

The woman leaves and I hightail it into the privacy of a stall. I'm furiously changing and slipping into the super soft robe and slippers, sweating and deciding what "unders" are. Then I make it out to the Spa lobby (Spobby?), kick back by the fireplace and sip cucumber water.Fancy.

My polish (not Polish) lady comes and gets me. She takes me to the room and gives me a lengthy explanation of what to expect. It's nice, actually, because nothing scares me more than strangers rubbing me unexpectedly. She leaves the room, I drop the robe and get under the blankets. She doesn't come back in for like 5 minutes. I'm panicking, rethinking my interpretation of "unders". Wondering what to do with my hair...my arms...my everything. Panic!

She finally comes back in and starts with the sloughing. So much sloughing. I think: I'm totally losing weight! She's rearranging the blankets as she goes, and I am only minimally aware of the fact that she's vigorously rubbing my fattest body parts, when she says "Oop, you left your unders on!"

OMG! WTF ARE UNDERS?!

Turns out, I shouldn't have kept the underwear on, I guess. Whatevs. She grits me all up and sends me to the shower.

polish lady: Do you want a shower cap?
Me: What, am I 100? No thanks.

I step into the shower. The hot/cold nozzle is...perplexing. I spin it on and the water comes out. From the ceiling...like rain! It is my DREAM SHOWER. Fancy! Sadly, I had to adjust it to the handheld sprayer, though, because I didn't have a shower cap and this isn't, like, a morning shower where I can prance around with wet hair. Plus, it's freezing because I can't figure out how to get it hot. Panic!

I take a freezing cold shower under the teeny nozzle before stepping out into the open locker room. Polish lady comes and gets me and my damp hair. I look like a wet, cold cat.

But my skin. MY SKIN! It's the softest thing I'd ever felt before. I'm a marble statue. A baby's butt. Cream cheese frosting. It's...AMAZING.

Back in the room, polish lady is talking about dead skin cells or something. I'm a million miles away while she rubs the moisturizer into my fattest body parts. It is wonderful.

By this time, I've been swallowed up by the fancy. The soft robes, the aromatic neck warmers, the CURRENT ISSUES of OK! Magazine in the Spobby, the complete lack of visible jars of blue disinfectant, the nostalgia of the snobby, thinly-veiled condescension of the girls behind the reception desk...it was enough for me to forget to panic at check out when it came to adding up tip.

It was a blur of pampering that I very much needed. I feel like a trillion dollars. A gajillion dollars. I've decided that I am too frugal when it comes to pampering. I don't get manicures or pedicures, I don't get my eyebrows waxed, I've never had a facial, and I'm too worried about someone touching my feet to get massages. I'm low maintenance, yo! I will, however, be getting body polishes on a regular basis now. Nothing says "I'm a low maintenance chick who is watching her pennies," more than hiring someone to scrape off your dead skin and make you take a shower.

The only problem is that Claire and Andrew are getting prettttttttttty tired of "feeling me".

What's in a name? ONLY EVERYTHING!

Okay, so I've heard both supportive and non-supportive (read: "You're Crazy") reactions about something, so I thought I'd throw it out to wide beyond - a.k.a. the Interwebs - and see what YOU guys think. You're the only ones I care about anyways.

This weekend, I met a friend of Claire's. She is suuuuuuuper sweet and fun and I loved her immediately. But she laid out a big fat Story Topper that left me bummed. I was all "La la la, I'm the most uniquely named chick in the world! I've never met a Pharon ever in my life, and I love it!"

Friend was all "Oh, my sister has a friend named Farrin." I was like "Yeah, but I'm a GIRL named Pharon." Wait for it... She's all "Yeah, so is my sister's friend."

RUUUUUUUUUUUUDE.

Never in my life have I met a chick named Pharon. Oh sure, I've HEARD that they exist, but so do narwhals. I've just never seen one and I'm okay with that. This was actually the SECOND person who was all "I know a girl named Pharon" in like 3 months. The first person was arguably a stranger, so I let it go. But now there's a chance I will MEET said Pharon/Farrin. I am crushed.

In college, my friend Freda and I were at The Vine Bar in Iowa City. We were sitting there, drinking responsibly of course, and all of a sudden we hear, "PHARON, YOU ARE SUCH A &*%#&^(%@!!" Freda and I immediately spin around, ready for a fight. No one, in the HISTORY OF TIME, has ever said "Pharon" without referring to me. Turns out, on this particular night, the "Pharon" who was a &*%#&^(%@!! was actually a dude whose LAST name was Pharon.

Phew!

That was close. "Let's just hope you never marry him", Freda said. Hilarious.

So this is why I was crushed to learn about a chick with my name. I thought I was a unicorn. A big, glittery, powerful thing that shoots rainbows out of my butt. Is this not true anymore?

Geo Some people say that I'm being a baby. He was all "Who CARES, right?" Wrong. I said "Geo, when people say my name, they are ALWAYS talking TO ME. Do you know how POWERFUL that makes me!?" He called me crazy. A crazy baby, I believe. So now I don't know what to think. I've broken barriers - like Joan of Arc, probably. I've battled against potential bosses who interviewed me and were shocked, and disappointed, that I was not a dude. I've surprised people by not being Egyptian. I've been able to foster my creativity by constantly having to make up stories about the origin of my name. It's been WORK.

I bet Farren hasn't had to do that. "Farrin" or "Farren" make sense. Phoenetic, feminine sense. "Pharon" is a mystery wrapped in a riddle wrapped in an enigma. Just like me.

Anyway, I wanted to get that off my chest because I've been in shock for about 4 days. Geo thinks I'm a crazy baby, and Claire was all "Dude, I totally get it." So, who's right?! What say you?

Packing Heat

So I really wanted to have something stellar to follow up that awesome post about the nicest compliment I've ever received, but I just really don't think stories exist to top that. Anything I write tonight will be a sad letdown for everyone, which is fine because today was kind of uneventful.

Remember how I shopped and shopped and shopped on Saturday? Well after work tonight, I shopped and shopped and shopped again. What is my problem!? This time, though, my mom and sister Prinna lent a helping hand. I almost don't want to admit this, but I will because I'm also freakishly proud of it: I have four new pairs of shoes for my trip this weekend. FOUR PAIRS.

So yeah, I got that going for me, which is nice. Four pairs of shoes. That's all I'll need, right? I really hope so because I can't figure out what else I need. Geo is almost no help in deciding what to pack. I was all "What do I need to bring?" Geo was all "I dunno, stuff for hanging out, going to dinner, whatever..."

Here is what Geo - and probably all men everywhere - fails to understand. THAT IS NOT HELPFUL. Where are we eating dinner? Are we going to fancy dinners or Taco Bell? Will we be eating outdoors or in? How much can I wear my sweatpants?

Then I asked Geo what we'd be doing during the hot, sweltering days and he said "Whatever we want!" #seriouslynothelpful

Here's what I would want to do: Drink margaritas, pass out by the pool, cry in the shower because of my sunburn, then drink margaritas in a hot tub while someone feeds me Bagel Bites. Now, if that was the case, I'd know EXACTLY what to pack (bikini, terrycloth robe, four pairs of shoes). But I have a feeling none of that will happen.

Since we'll be there with his super awesome parents and his sister, there is an additional level of panic-packing. I'm not just hanging out with total strangers. And usually I love me some low cut tanks and saggy workout shorts. But my mom helpfully pointed out that I shouldn't "look like garbage if we end up going somewhere nice." So we picked out a bunch of super nice, cute clothes and for a minute I felt great.

Then I realized I have nothing to pack that ISN'T super cute and nice and white. #spoiledpeopleproblems. I was all "I don't know how many t-shirts I should pack! How many shapeless, super comfy muscle-tees can I fit in my suitcase? Do I even have any cotton shorts to lounge around in? Do I bring jeans? Wolf sweatshirts?

Did I mention I'm not planning on checking any luggage? Riiiiiiiiiight...

Anyway, that's where I'm at right now. Any tips for a HORRIBLE packer who has NO IDEA what to expect in a place where the days are 100 degrees and the nights are 60 degrees?

Crack is NOT whack

I was trying to pick out my favorite part of this weekend. I figured it out, and it's not what you'd think.

So first, I spent Friday night with some very dear friends who I haven't seen in too long. My friends Amy and Sarah rule. I met up with them for tater tots and laughs before we were supposed to head out to see a Prince tribute band. Eeee! Sounds great, right?! But due to unforeseen drama, I ended up back home, before midnight, NOT partying like it's 1999. Still super fun. Not quite my favorite part.

During the lovely Spring day on Saturday, I shopped. All day. I bought loads of crap for my trip to Palm Springs next week. So. Many. Clothes. And Saturday night was Claire's birthday party. It was caaaarazy fun. I even put on a dress for the occasion. Still not the best part.

Today I had brunch with my great friend Ally. It was also her birthday. So, we had brunch and then decided to spend the similarly beautiful day meandering around Uptown and drinking beers. It was great, and that's when the best part of my weekend happened.

As we were leaving the trashiest bar in the whole state, we saw this serious crackhead dude sitting on this stoop. He was openly enjoying some illegal substances, and was obviously talking to himself. But as I passed him, he managed to say "Hey. We should hang out sometime. Can I call you?" I was all "Aw, I'm flattered, Crackhead, but I've got a man...surprisingly enough." He muttered something under his breath and I said "I'm sorry?? What was that?" And he says....

"I bet you'd look bangin' in a bikini."

I nearly fell over. It took all my energy to stop from saying "OMG, thank you so much! I've been working really hard, and I've been really self conscious because I'm going to the desert with my boyfriend and his family next week and I've basically been eating nothing but leafy greens and water in an attempt to lose weight because I don't want to make everyone puke when I put a bikini on, so I think it's really awesome that you'd SAY something like that!"

Instead, I said "Um. Thanks. Enjoy that crack, kind sir."

Well, okay, I didn't say EXACTLY that, but I can't remember what I said because my heart was so full of confidence and self esteem that I like blacked out. I bragged about the crackhead compliment all afternoon. Ally and Tim - who I was with at the time - nearly wet their pants laughing at how flattered I was. It was suggested at one point that the guy wasn't even able to open both of his eyes at the same time, but I don't care. I was over the moon that some stranger told me that I wasn't offensively obese, and in fact he would very much enjoy seeing my pasty white stomach.

So despite the fact that I spent so much time with wonderful friends and shopping for 2 pairs of wonderful new shoes, the best part of the weekend was when One-Eyed Willy took a break from his drug habit to tell me that I am finally bikini-ready.

It's Pharon Square! And I Helped!!

It's night 2 of babysitting my sister's kids. I was too drained to come up with a topic for tonight, so I let my my nieces help. Wait, I'm sorry..."Help".

(There IS a video below. If you can't see it on your phone or iPad, track down a regular computer to watch, because it's goooooood)

So...yeah...that's...umm...that's just lovely. Thank you, Annabelle and Eve for your sound advice! Thanks also to my uber-adorable nephew Alec who is 11 months old and stayed asleep this whole time. Have a great weekend, everyone!

P.S. Heaps of thanks to my sister Prinna who let me exploit her kids and then made the video to prove it!

The theoretical practicality of pixelated flip books (Or: Why I like cartoons)

You know what I enjoy? Animated situation comedies. Fine, I love cartoons. Sue me. Pretty much everyone makes fun of me for choosing reruns of The Simpsons over the news on an embarrassingly regular basis. Whatevs! I guess I never grew out of my childhood fascination for giant eyes and perfectly drawn ponytails. Tonight I was babysitting and, much to my horror, I learned that my nieces prefer real-life Disney tween stars to leggy rock stars with magic earrings or pizza-eating turtles. Weird.

I never had cable growing up, so I didn't have Nickelodeon or those other fancy channels (#spoiledbratproblems) so we'd always watch The Smurfs, Chip n' Dale Rescue Rangers, My Little Pony and other network-approved cartoons. They were 22 minutes of surreal characters teaching me real-life lessons. A PONY who won't SHARE?! The horror!

Now, though, as a grown woman who has a real job and owns a car and can book my own flights, I prefer a little bit more of a sophisticated genre. That means cartoons with absolutely no lesson whatsoever. I'm smart enough to know I should share and help out a friend in need, thankyouverymuch. That's why I love me some Family Guy, Simpsons, Futurama and occasionally some Aqua Teen Hunger Force. These totally valid forms of entertainment teach me nothing except how to appreciate obscure societal references. The characters never change, the plots are far out and funny, and mouths can be slapped on any ol' drawing and become a snarky sidekick. (See: Meatwad.)

[You have likely noticed that I do not fall for the hoax that is Japanimation. No thank you. I don't like creepy Pokemon creatures or wise old ninjas who fly through the air for 30 seconds before battling some chick with comically large eyes and inappropriately short skirts.]

Anyway, there's no real point to this post. Mostly, I just was sad to find that instead of watching SpongeBob SquarePants, my nieces wanted to watch a show about some unrealistically rich tweens who live on a Hollywood movie lot or some such nonsense. Talk about FAKE! At least in cartoons I KNOW nothing is real because NO ONE IS REAL ON THE SHOW. Who knows? Maybe my nieces think that it's, like, totally normal for kids to not have parents and have giant walk-in closets that have rotating shoe shelves and flattering overhead lights.

Yeah, okay, kids. Good luck with that. Meanwhile, I'll be searching Craigslist for a talking dog or a robot that smokes cigars. I'll probably find my things first.

puke

Heeeeey there, friends. Have you missed me? I apologize for the unannounced break, but I'll be honest with you. This blogger was in NO SHAPE to be funny or interesting. I was - how shall I put this delicately? - extremely and violently ill. I lost 3 pounds, though, so that was just tops.

See, I had a wonderful weekend throwing a baby shower for my sister-in-law who is due with a bouncing baby girl next month. We had pink tulle, pink lemonade rimmed with pink sugar, pink rock candy, pink EVERYTHING. It was super fun.

But when I got home, all that pink, uh came back up. At first, I cursed my sister Padrin because she had made all the nomnom food, but quickly realized that it was not her fault. (Although, oddly enough, she was the only other person who was sick.) Anyways, despite the hilarity of such a pretty shade of upchuck, I was miserable.

I feel like I was drunk on throwing up. I called Geo in tears, begging him to come home and watch over me as I prayed to the porcelain gods, and then spent 20 minutes scrubbing my bathroom hoping to wash away whatever was making me sick. Sane, right?! Alas, no amount of scrubbing helped.

Approximately an hour into my involuntary bulimia, my roommate Andrew called upstairs "Hey, Pharon? You okay?" I responded, in my best Darth Vader voice, "I'm FINE. DON'T COME UP HERE!" And he's all "Well, it's obvious that you're sick, can I get you anything??"

"OH. MY. GOD. Can you guys HEAR me down there?!"

Yes, yes they could. Claire and Andrew were eating a lovely dinner, soundtracked by my ralphing. I was MORTIFIED. There is nothing worse than audibly alerting others to your violent nausea. It's embarrassing. At least in college, everyone was puking at some point. There were even friends there to hold your hair while you said things like "Why won't the bartender give me goldschlager? Why does he hate me? My hair hurts. Let's go dance on the bar..." Whatevs, I digress.

Anyway, about 3 hours into my battle with concentrated evil, I thought "Hey Trooper, buck up. Think about how much weight you'll lose!" And that seemed to calmed me down for a while. Also, by this point Andrew and Claire were fast asleep so I was left to puke in peace.

But I made it through, guys. I pulled through like a CHAMP. Yes, I cried and begged for my mommy. And YES, I may have wrapped my blankie around my shoulders and moaned while sitting on the bathroom floor. And so WHAT if I sat reading The Hunger Games during the infrequent lulls and wished for Katniss' life? The point is, I made it. And I'm skinnier better than ever!

So, sorry about the brief break, dudes, but as you can see, I was pretty busy.

pwnd

So last night, I had my book club. It was fun, as usual, but something very disturbing happened. Two of the girls in my club are engaged. While I couldn't be more excited for them, I was seriously caught off guard when each of them showed me their beautiful rings.

They were EXACTLY the ones I thought I had always wanted.

Seeing two replicas of my dream ring rocked me to my core. How could OTHER PEOPLE have the same thing I thought I wanted? RUDE, right?! Well, I've changed my ring preferences, so as not to be a copycat, and pinned pictures accordingly.

To prevent further confusion, I would hereby like to make a list of things that I thought of first (at least to my knowledge) and therefore OWN. I don't care if other people also do/think/hate/like the same things, I am officially claiming the following things as original actions/thoughts/hates/likes because I came to them in my own crazy mind. Consider this my patent application...

* Hating Angelina Jolie
* Loving Nelly Furtado
* Adult braids
* The color green
* Kate Spade - no one will ever love her/her products like I do...NO ONE
* A baby boy name (I'd be crazy to publicize it)
* A baby girl name (Again...not telling)
* Laughing Cow cheese
* The show Happy Endings
* Feminist Ryan Gosling sites
* Pillows made out of fur
* Futurama
* Scarves with words on them
* Liking bald men (a la that Gwen Stefani in her music video with Moby)
* Being a square white chick who totally gets Lil Wayne
* Ke$ha
* Re-appreciating Britney Spears (a.k.a. never NOT appreciating Britney)
* Dance Central
* Charlie Hunnam
* Game of Thrones
* Bagels
* Jem and the Holograms
* The Amish
* Seeing right through the "gluten free" fad
* Coors Light (I'll share this claim with my dear and wonderful friends Madeline and Kelly)
* Fur
* Hating jeggings
* The color grey
* Kickboxing
* Using l33t speak...ironically
* British car shows

That's all I can think of right now. All these things/ideas/preferences hereby belong to me. Get it? Got it? GOOD.