Dear Crabby

Well, no rest for the wise and all-knowing, I guess! Here are a few more responses to your burning questions!

Hi,

I was searching online to find more info about massage therapy and I came across your information.
Can you tell me, are you still involved with massage therapy services? If you are, how are things going for you?
Please let me know as I may be able to help you get a lot more customers in a very short period of time.

Sincerely,
Chris

Dear “Chris”,
Thanks for your spam inquiry. Okay, I am still involved with massage therapy services. And by “am still involved” I, of course, mean “have never been involved”. I once got a gift certificate for a massage at a fancy spa place from an old boyfriend. I hated it, if I’m being honest with you, Chris. I spent the whole time praying the woman wouldn’t touch my feet and feeling bad for her as she kneaded my back fat. So, Chris, things are really NOT going anywhere with my massage therapy information you apparently found somewhere. But hey! Thanks for promising to get me more customers to my non-existent business! Let me know how that works for you…

Pharon Square,
Have you ever used something like Proactiv? I’m a 25 year-old girl who hates breaking out, but I don’t know if I should go to such extreme measures as ordering something the TV tells me to order.
Thanks!
-Good Skin to Win

Dear Good Skin to Win,
I am currently suffering through an odd phase of Post Adolescent Adolescence in terms of complexion. Last night, I had broken out on my cheek so quickly that I convinced myself I had the mumps. So, I’m not your go-to gal for this one. Yes, I tried Proactiv once in my early twenties, mostly because I loved Jessica Simpson, and happily did anything SHE told me to do (Note: I usually follow any advice given to me by the TV. It’s almost never steered me wrong, so I wouldn’t call listening to TV’s advice “extreme”). Two weeks later, my face was all red and itchy and, well, SO not Jessica Simpson-y. I cancelled the auto-refilling nightmare post haste. Blech. I don’t know WHAT you should do, GSW. I’m the kind of girl who will have blemishes until the day AFTER I start getting wrinkles. So if YOU find a solution, let ME know.

Dear PharonSquare,
I really want to make the most out of this Spring and Summer. Every winter I swear I'll do more fun things outside but then I get lazy and sweaty and before you know it, it's snowing again. Any tips on how to stay active and entertained with the good weather that is upon our doorstep?
Signed,
Waitin' For Spring

Dear Waitin’ for Spring,

I’m with you. I’m lazy and I hate being sweaty. That said, Spring and Summer are awesome times of year to camouflage that lazy/sweaty thing. My most important tip is to get a hammock. You can enjoy the weather while lying down and/or napping in the middle of the day. But because you’re on a HAMMOCK, no one can say squat about it. Secondly? There are lots of ways to hang out outside while also enjoying cocktails, so that’s definitely a way to get me off the couch. I suggest doing activities that combine those two things. Activities like: Golfing, happy hours, going to the park with your kids, BBQs at a lake, walking to the bar, rollerblading, reading on your hammock, going to the Farmer's Market (put a margarita in your travel mug and the Farmer's Market will turn into a Mercado Fiesta!), or just laying out catching some rays. Summer is pretty much the only time people make PLANS to go LAY DOWN, so I like to take advantage of that. As long as you try and do one of those things almost every day, you'll feel great!

Listen, people, I know you guys has some burning questions. I know you have problems, because you tell them to me all the time on the phone, or on gchat, or you post incessantly about your problemos on Facebook. So, make it easier on yourself (and all your friends) and shoot me an email at pharonsquare@gmail.com and I'll fix your problem, no charge. Unless it's like a crazy-weird problem. Then it's like $0.50 cents a sentence.

Toe Up

Last night, Liz and Kim and I spur of the moment decided to cheer ourselves up with manis and pedis! Eeee!! OMG! We are such girls! We talked about our feelings, the problems about men (will they ever learn?!), and our unusual love for drinking German beer out out glass boots at Gasthof's. Hey! What a coincidence! We've also decided to throw Kim's birthday AT GASTHOF'S! Yay! Here's to Das Boot and flickers of snuff! If you're not sure what that is, forget about it. It's something that needs to be experienced to be loved. Oh well...we ended the night with a glass of wine and pretty toes. (Just wrote "glass of toes and pretty wine" accidentally...or not.)

So, we get to the nail salon - one of those little strip mall places. Ladies, - and high-maintenence men - you know what I'm talking about. There's a mini shrine to an elephant in the corner, the walls are painted neon green, and people buzz around mopping the floor behind me and screaming at me to "Sign in!! Sign in!! What services?? PICK COLORS!". Ahh...such a relaxing atmosphere. I stared up at this enormous sign listing services like "Acr Fill, Nail Take Off, and Both Gel" and went ahead with the relatively straight-forward French Toe. Then the nerves started goin'.

In high school, my mom knew how psyched I was for my high school prom. I had the hot dress, the cute date, the best friends, everything. So she surprised me with a manicure and pedicure at the FANCY salon. I was ecstatic! I had never had a pedicure before, and sat back in the heated seats and enjoyed the soothing music, the calming colors in the room, and lilac scented eye pillow. Then, horror of all horrors, this Demon of Torture started, like, RUBBING MY FEET! She had all these crazy tools and devices of foot destruction. I writhed in my heated seat, and continually reflexively snapped my foot away from that demon like a dozen times. Finally, I gave up and stopped that evil pedicurist. "Please, you just...you just can't touch my feet anymore. You have to stop. I'm sorry. Can you just paint them without touching them?" The poor lady obliged, and a mere 5 minutes after my appointment started, I was tucking my tootsies under the heater. Sorry Mom. Turns out, I totally wasted that gift. BUT! My manicure looked bomb!

Since then, I don't get pedicures. I just don't. I can't stand the stress and anxiety of constantly resisting the urge to kick my exfoliated foot in someone's face, thereby giving them a bloody nose and resulting in a trip to the Emergency Room. Total day-ruiner. But then a few years ago, my dear friend Claire devised a wonderful plan. She called the mall nail place (which we still go to), asked them to stay open an hour later, and she'd come in with 8 girls and guaranteed a big boost in business that night. The best part? We got to bring WINE. The first time we did this, I think I was on my third glass before gingerly dipping my toes into the soapy water. I leaned back and in a haze of wine and laughter, got my very first pedicure.

Those are the only circumstances under which I've gotten pedicures. In total? I've probably gotten like 5 in my life. So last night, when I went with Kim and Liz, I was nervous again. We went during regular hours, which meant No Wine. Which meant Pharon Constantly Snapped her Feet Away From the Lady. But you guys? I MADE IT! I made it through and came outta there with some pretty toes and a BAC of 0.0. Then came another part I usually liked to block out. The payment. Turns out, when I chose my service, I made my choice based on the Worlds Biggest Sign and List of Services. Silly me - I should have KNOWN those prices were specials for HIGH SCHOOL students. She's all "Okay, $32." I'm all "Uh, it says right there $12." The woman turns and points to a faded, 8 1/2 x 11 piece of paper that just barely reads "SPA PEDICURE: $32.00." I looked at the woman, like, Are you kidding me? She looked back at me like You Sucker. So I said "Uh, I'm a high school student." She gave me a $3 discount because she thought that that was soooooooooooo funny. Rude. And Awesome.

Well now what? Kim and Liz and I all wore flip flops to the bar after our appointments for the above-mentioned girl talk, wine and awesome chicken nachos, and it was the most refreshing hour of my life. My tooties were in FLIP FLOPS again! No more scratchy wool socks and stinky winter boots. But then I got home and slipped immediately into socks in order to stave off the almost-inevitable hypothermia that comes with living in World's Coldest House. So, exactly like 5 people saw my pedicure. Remind me why I put myself through that only to shove my feet into socks the second I got home?

Oh well, I like 'em. I guess those brief 10 minutes in the morning if when I take a shower will have to suffice. Now I just need to be on the lookout for those rancid diseases people get at mall salons like that. Yay! What a refreshing, relaxing, simple experience!

Dudes: Do me a solid and have yourselves a disgustingly fun weekend, okay? And if you see my brother Peter or my sister Prinna, make sure you wish 'em a happy birthday!! Happy Birthday, Peter! Happy Birthday, Prinna!

Oh Baby

Oh yeah. Happy Hour with Lana and Valerie tonight. We meet at the same place, laugh about the same things, and order the same food every time we get together. I love it. I need it. Aside from just being a supes fun night out with my girl friends, it also just happened to be the Four Year Anniversary of Lana's successful brain surgery. She had a tumor from her brain removed four years ago. Imagine that: She was just driving home one day, and all of a sudden, she tried to turn left, and her body turned right. Cray-cray. But luckily for me (and, okay, for her too), she's back to 110% awesome! Happy Brain-iversary, Lana!!!

So the three of us sat, chatted, and drank wine (oh, and ordered a very unfortunate Panna Cotta). Then the conversation turned, as it always does, to crazy, scarring events from our adolescence. Did you guys ever get a robot baby in middle/high school? Lana did, and Valerie apparently got an Egg to take care of. I never enjoyed such an opportunity. Then, as if she took the words out of my mouth, Valerie exclaimed, "It's gotta be so hard! You can't just shove the robot baby in a locker! They like TRACK it!" I might have failed that test.

I looooooove babies. (Well, babies I KNOW - stranger's babies are weird, everyone knows that.) I love snuggling them and smelling their Johnson & Johnson No Tears-smelling heads. I love them. I have cuddled and snuggled the five most perfect nieces and nephews ever, and I get all high on their baby powdered bodies. They're so sweet. They're so perfect.

For two summers in college, I worked at a day care in Bloomington, MN. That's right, folks. I was in charge of America's Future. ME. Nevermind the fact that I couldn't even get myself dressed for the day, I presided over classes of spongy little brains that soaked up whatever nonsense I'd spill. I'd bop around from the three year-old room, to the school age kids, and back to the toddlers, but nothing was more sweet, more perfect than cradling a wee little baby in the Infants Room and rocking 'em to sleep. Nothing was more refreshing than seeing a baby smile for the first time, or being able to calm a baby down after a major tantrum. Watching those tiny little fingers work their way around a Cheerio and pop in their mouth was total icing on the cake.

So, yes. I love me some babies. I, however, am not ready to have one of my own. I like an uninterrupted sleep. I like knowing that, on a day-to-day basis, I will have nothing to do with another person's poop. At any given moment, though, I will drop absolutely everything I'm doing to go and hang out with my nieces and nephew. They're funny. They're clever. They think anything I do is funny. They're like the greatest audience ever.

The big thing here is, at the end of the night, I'm gettin' out of Dodge. I go home, watch Family Guy and fall asleep when I'm good and ready. And on some random nights, instead of chilling at home, watching TV in sweatpants, I'll squeeze into some skinny jeans and head out to meet friends for drinks. Tonight, I briefly considered how horrible I'd be at finding a babysitter on such short notice. Plus, I still hand off my sister's kids to someone else when they need changing, and when they're inconsolable, I panic and leave the room. That's like the HARD WORK that I am, at this moment, ill-equipped for.

And yet, ironically, the new season of Teen Mom is on right now. I feel waaaaay too similar to those poor, stupid girls. Except the one who's totally idiotic who literally couldn't care less about her own BABY. She should be sterilized.

Anyway, back to robot babies. I think I always WISHED I could have had that opportunity. I feel like I'd surprise myself. Like, I'd get a robot baby and turn in back in and they'd tell me that I'd just started to raise the next Einstein. I think I'd make a sick temporary parental figure. I'd probably go down in history as the best fake parent of a robot baby. As long as I could give it back eventually.

Did you guys get robot babies? Did it fan the flames of parental desire in you? I don't know. I don't think it would have helped me. I have too many incredible little kids I can hang out with whenever I want, and then just dip out when I need to. (Meanwhile, I'm posting an a-dor-a-ble video of one of my nieces playing with an iPad on the Pharon Square Facebook page...check it out for SURE!).

The consensus tonight was that not a one of us is necessarily ready to give up Happy Hour for If You're Happy and you Know It. But, if you have the opportunity, I highly suggest you encourage all your brothers and sisters to have a zillion babies. They're totally fun, when you don't have to clean up their poop.

This Is Not My Beautiful House

We’re moving in on week three of having houseguests. For a couple weeks, Geo’s brother was here staying with us and now Sanna has two friends visiting from Australia who have checked in for a week. G’day, mates. It’s fun, don’t get me wrong. Generally, I’m quite used to random people coming and going from my house at all times of day. It’s kind of like living on a Carousel. People get on, hang out for a bit, and then leave, passing the new people coming in on their way out. But if I’m really being honest, I gotta say: I’m ready to get off the ride.

I really have no idea if this is my advanced age talking, or a direct result of being surrounded by miscellaneous people constantly as of late, but I’ve been enjoying a lot of musically-backed montages of memories from when I was living alone. The sweetness of coming home to a house that looks precisely the same as when you left, the expectation of opening your front door and knowing exactly who is/is not going to be there, and the comfort of standing in your underwear in front of the fridge binge eating a brick of cheese in solitude. It feels but a dream now. You know that scene in Bridget Jones’ Diary when she’s like all depressed and drinking and singing at the top of her lungs in her pajamas?? How sad IS it that I want that?

Once upon a time when it was me and the guys living together, they went on a weeklong vacation together. I joked that, while they were gone, I would be laying around the couch in my Prom dress, drinking wine from the bottle, and watching The Notebook over and over. Oh! To have been that free! To have been that sure that I wouldn’t be disrupted!

Increasingly, I’ve been having this nagging desire to crank up some Britney and dance around while singing into a hair brush. But I have to stifle that. Much like I must stifle my urge to scream and yell and get mad when the situation comes up. Because now I can’t do those things on a whim. Someone is watching a movie. Or, the people downstairs are worried all my jumping will cave in the ceiling. Or, my shrill yelling is making me sound crazy and irrational, rather than totally justified – albeit loud. Blogger’s Non Sequitur: Just because someone is angry doesn’t mean they can’t yell. I hate when people act like they’re better at fighting just because they can keep their voice down. It’s called “Passion”, people. I must digress here.

The point is, the Grown Up train is leaving the station, and I intend to buy a ticket. Because I’ve been living with so many people for so long, I’m like this muted version of myself, I think. I don’t crank up music when I’m happy and energetic just to dance around to it, I don’t cry when I want to, I don’t just scream when I’m frustrated – which feels so incredibly good – and sheesh, I barely talk on the phone unless I can go outside. I’m typically a very loud, energetic person who laughs at the drop of a hat. Lately, though, I’m this cranky codger who likes things quiet, who didn’t even laugh at herself when she ran into a door. That’s just so not me.

I don't know, maybe I'm just suffering from major Cabin Fever. Or maybe this whole Frat Boy lifestyle ain't exactly what I thought it was. Whatever the issue is, I must remedy. Tonight, I fixed it with Happy Hours and fried appetizers. Tomorrow? Who knows? But at some point, I'm going to have figure it out for myself and take a scary step into scary Adultville. I hear it's not nearly as fun, but no one questions you when you just want to stay in to carbo-load with a loaf of bread and a good ol' fashioned book on a Kindle.

I must admit, though, I'm still torn. I came home from my 2nd Happy Hour tonight and cracked a beer with some wonderful company. I guess you choose your battles. And I'm assuming this is definitely a case of "The Grass Is Always Greener", but I'm pretty sure that doesn't mean that the grass is any less satisfying. Especially if you're old like me. We old people pretty much like anything.

Who is Lange Zyne, and How Old IS She?

You knew it was coming, didn’t you? Like I said before, I don’t typically make New Year’s Resolutions, so I guess maybe these should be considered a To Do List for 2011. Or, maybe more like “Pseudo-Challenging Goals Most People Do Anyway”. I feel like resolutions are so, I don’t know, final and scary. I would list things like “Learn Chinese” or “Shower Everyday” but everyone who knows me knows that those are impossible, and therefore won’t make any list I ever compile, unless it’s a list of things I’ll never do.

Without further ado, here’s my List of Things I Will Really Try and Do This Year, But Don’t Quote Me On It:

* As I’ve previously mentioned, learn how to put on makeup. As I write this list, I am relishing in Day Two of no makeup, and I will be sad to see these days go.

* Stop doing my laundry at my parents house. (NOTE: I KNOW how to do my own laundry. I’ve been doing it since I was 16, and in fact DO my own laundry, just at my parents house.) Here’s the thing: I HAVE a washer and dryer in my house, but I’ll admit it. I’m very afraid of our basement. It’s dark and scary and full of storage stuff. I just KNOW there are mice hiding down there. And mice are scary. It’s time I stop avoiding the little buggers and just wear football spikes down to the basement.

* Learn how to change a car tire. I don’t know why, but I have always wanted to be able to do this. I think it has something to do with the fact that I know a lot of guys who can’t do it, and need to call AAA. But how awesome would it be to pop out of the car, take off my Louboutins (which I will also buy this year), and change a tire myself? Answer: Very awesome.

* Be more spontaneous. Typically, Monday-Friday, my hours are planned out down to the minute, until 6 p.m. when I just park it on my couch and write. I have GOT to stop doing that. “Pharon, do you want to go to a movie that doesn’t START until 9:30 p.m.?” Old answer: No way, too late. New answer: Fine. Well, unless there’s one at 7:30? No? Okay, count me in.

* More happy hours. I can’t believe I have to actually WORK on this. I love Happy Hours, but as of late, I’ve really been slacking in the post-work drink arena. Must remedy this soon.

* No more roommates. I think I’m finally at the age where it’s getting a little weird to live in a house with 3 people to whom I’m not related. I really hope this is the year I move out of my favoritest house in the world into a small, crappy place in the ‘burbs probably, because I can only afford my sweet pad right now with the THREE roommates. No, I think it’s time to downsize and grow up.

* Stop watching TV marathons. Or at least limit them. I can sit and watch America’s Next Top Model marathons for 4 hours without even thinking about it. And God help me if there’s a Bridezilla or True Life marathon on. I may as well grow roots in the couch. But no, I must stop doing this.

* No. More. Clothes. From. Forever. 21. No more. They are cheap and only good for one or two wears. Unless it’s for a costume or something. Nope. I’m going to focus on QUALITY clothes over QUANTITY of clothes.

* Stop eating like a guy. I need more veggies and fruit in my diet, plain and simple.

* Keep blogging. If you guys promise to keep reading, I promise to keep blogging.

Those are my goals for 2011. What are yours? What will you change? What do you want to KEEP doing? (And HEY! If one of your resolutions is to write kick butt Cheesy Movie Storyline, don’t forget to send it to pharonsquare@gmail.com for your chance to win an authentic Pharon Square t-shirt AND your story featured on an upcoming blog!!)

Be safe out there guys. Have fun ringing in the new year, and I hope you have the night of a lifetime!! I’m sad to see 2010 go, because it was a pretty darn good year. I hope next year is as good, if not better. For me AND for you! See you all in 2011!

Sars about the video below, but it’s the only thing I could find with my favorite version of the New Year’s Song! Close your eyes and dance…

The REAL Christmas Story

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the home
This blogger sat quietly, writing this poem.
The TV was muted, my phone was on vibrate,
The silence was wonderful, peaceful, and great.
My roommates were gone, at work or with friends,
“I live alone in this castle“, this blogger pretends;

I nibbled on grapes and sipped on some wine,
Which I generously poured into a big beer stein,
When all of a sudden, I heard a loud "S@*#"!
I ran to the window, to yell at the culprit
I tripped on a shoe, the rug, and a purse ,
I reached the window before things got any worse.

The streets below were quiet, and still, and dark
Cars badly lined up, because people can‘t parallel park,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature man, falling over and drinking a beer,
He relieved himself in the snow bank out front,
I knew in a moment he was totally drunk.

He dug out his phone and drunk dialed his friends,
And he called and he texted, clearly to no ends
"Now, Jason! now, Tony! Just answer, you jerks!
Hey, Sarah! Yo Becky! I know not one of you works!”

The man fell face first in the 3-foot snow bank,
Just by looking at him, I could tell that he stank
As the winds blew hard, he swayed as he stood,
he tried to walk straight, as best as he could,
Eventually I saw as he climbed our front steps,
He slipped and he slid, but eventually crept.

And then, in a moment, I heard on the stairs
The man coming up, and muttering swears.
Before I got to the door to lock it up tight,
The man walked in and was a horrible sight.
He was dressed all in camo, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all covered in beer that was not root;

He reached in his pocket, took a swig from his flask,
And suddenly turned into a jolly man, no longer was crass.
His eyes -- they started twinkling like glitter!
I picked up my phone and signed on to Twitter.
I wanted to tweet about what I was seeing,
He was now fully jolly, no longer publicly peeing;

He lit up a pipe and held it firm in his teeth,
A fluffy moustache, his pearly whites were beneath;
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
His odor was now pleasant, and not at all smelly.
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
“Could this lush be Santa?“ I thought to myself;

With a friendly high five and a wink of his eye,
The messy drunk was now Santa, and was quite a guy;
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his task,
And held out his hand, presenting the flask,
I drank and was magically filled with holiday cheer,
And giving a nod, he announced “My cab is here“;
He sprang to the car, and gave the driver directions,
And away they drove, (he put his seatbelt on for protection)

But I heard him exclaim, ere he rode to Nicollet Mall,
"Have a wonderful weekend, and Merry Christmas to all!"

Twelve Drinks of Christmas

Seriously, can someone please just give me a sick Christmas gift idea for Geo? He’s pretty much the last person I need to shop for. I have a couple ideas, but I’m not totally stoked about either one. I hate that feeling, because there really is nothing better than finding the perfect gift for someone. It’s totally cheesy, but my favorite part of Christmas is seeing someone open a gift that I know they are going to love.

That being said, I did some shopping for myself this weekend. I had to. I’m out of clothes, and I just needed an easy shopping trip with no stress. And I always know just what to get myself. I left the house explaining to Geo that I needed new pants. I came home with 4 sweaters.

On Friday night, Kim and her boyfriend Nick came over for beers and lime vodka tonics. We threw in a game of Trivial Pursuit, which Kim and I lost interest in almost immediately. But I was inspired to go shopping the next day because Kim always has cute sweaters on. When she showed up looking all put together, I was painfully reminded that the particular sweater I was wearing was about 6 years old.

So, Saturday night I put on a new sweater and headed out to a holiday party for the Ultimate Frisbee community in Minneapolis. It was at the Surly Brewery. Drinking beer in a place where the glorious stuff is birthed? Yes please! The brewery itself was awesome. It seemed like it would be an incredible place to work. All the guys I talked to who work there really have a passion for it, and it was a super refreshing atmosphere. I don’t know a lot of people who love their job as much as those guys do. It probably helps that they have easy access to booze.

This morning, though, my appreciation for those guys was replaced with a throbbing headache. I don’t drink heavy beer all that often. I’m sort of a Coors Light kind of gal. And though the beer was delicious, it must have increased the size of my brain while shrinking the size of my skull. I went to babysit my nieces tonight, and luckily they were not offended when I dozed off while listening to them tell me what they want for Christmas.

Well, between the beers on Saturday, the lime vodka tonics Kim and I drank on Friday night, and the liters upon liters of water re-hydrating me throughout the days this weekend, I’m finally balancing out. I’m ready to take on the work week ahead. OH WAIT! I only have to work tomorrow morning, and then I’m off until 2011. I’m both stoked and nervous about having all that free time on my hands! I better stock back up on the vodka and tonic water…

Footsie

Had dinner with Kim tonight. It took forever to meet up because of all the snow and cars and idiots. First and foremost, let me tell you that Minnesota drivers are, far and away, the dumbest people on the planet. When there is snow piled on snow, piled on cars, piled on top of more snow, the solution to finding a parking spot on the street is NOT just parking in the middle of the street. I mean, I don’t know if that’s for sure on the driving test, but you’d just assume that’s a bad solution.

So, finally I meet up with Kim. She was halfway done with a beer by the time I took my coat off. It had been a loooooong day for her. She just had one of those generally really crap-filled days. She texted me this afternoon, and was frustrated and stressed out. My response? I sent her a very detailed text about how much my feet smelled. Yeah, she laughed. I was glad to have helped her out a bit.

At dinner, we both kind of loudly dumped our respective bad stories onto each other. After we had purged our bad news, we went back to discussing my feet. I explained to Kim that it is a little disturbing when you’re sitting there, wearing socks and winter boots, and you can still smell your own feet. At the time, it seemed like a bigger problem than work drama. Kim disagreed.

I don’t know what’s better, though: Enjoying a good dinner with a friend, or discussing the validity of whether or not people’s feet and armpits are in any way connected with each other, thereby distributing a finite amount of the smell glands. I explained to Kim that I must have all my sweat glands in my feet because I don't have ANY in my arms. I don’t sweat there, and I don’t smell (Perek once helpfully suggested, during an extended period of me living the single life, that maybe THAT’S why I didn’t have a boyfriend. No pheromones or something. Jerk). There are people you can smell a mile away because of their armpits. I’ve moved away from these people on the bus. Ew. No thanks. But I wonder if they sit around at home wearing their boots all night because they don’t want to offend people’s olfactory glands by taking them off. I think it just might be a trade off, then. Armpits or feet…choose your stinky weapon.

Chances are, if you’ve got cartoon stink lines coming from your armpits, you probably walk around barefoot like it’s no biggie. Is that right? Does anyone know if there’s any science behind it?

Well, back to dinner. I wish I went out to girl dinners more often. Usually, I’ll go out with a few girls, and we all get tangled up in different conversations, talking over each other, and recapping stories when one of us goes to the bathroom. But the one-on-one girly dinners are easier to manage. You’re either talking or listening. You give and take. There’s not as much interrupting, and you can end up having a really good, solid conversation about whether or not people sweat the same from their feet as they do from their armpits. We departed company and made promises to hang out again this weekend. See? That’s what I love about friends like Kim. We sat together for a couple hours, complaining and whining, and talking candidly about how much we smell, and yet? We make plans to hang out AGAIN in under 48 hours. I’m hoping by then, she’ll have had a better day at work. She’s probably hoping that by then, I will have showered.

Well, you guys? That’s all she wrote this week! Hope you all have a fabulous and fresh weekend!

P.S. No plans this weekend? How about spending some time writing an award-winning script?! Check out the current Lifetime Write Off Challenge for your shot at winning pride, glory, and your very own Pharon Square t-shirt!

Halloween Hangover

The concept of Trick-or-Treating is so rude. At this moment, we’re sitting in our house, with no lights on, TV turned down, and debating whether or not we should run out to the store and buy candy for other people's kids. We are prisoners in our own home, held captive by the fear of sticky, loud kids arriving at our door demanding free candy. Also, what kind of parent lets their kids go to a strangers house and beg for candy? You’d think they’d be dissuaded by amount of beer cans on the porch, or the fact that we kept the whole block up last night with our music and wild partying.

Last night was a crazy fun night. Our house was packed with pre-partiers. Pretty much all my lovely friends showed up, and sang Happy Birthday, and chowed down on ice cream cake. It was super fun. Unfortunately, I haven’t seen any pictures from last night yet, so I don’t have the photographic evidence of my wildly underappreciated costume. I wore the Amish bonnet, a bedazzled cross necklace, and a black dress I had initially purchased for a Snooki costume. I looked great. No one understood it though. Someone thought I was a Salem witch and suggested I hang a noose from my neck. At the bar, it became tiresome explaining what Rumspringa is.

Plus, I was competing with insanely extravagant costumes around me. My brother went as a giant box of Franzia. And it REALLY DISPENSED WINE. Geo got his hands on a giant bear head (seriously, it’s large. Almost doesn't fit through any doorways) and was a popular Bear character from the Conan O’Brien show. And Kim’s boyfriend Nick was Brett Favre. Well, HIS version of Favre. He colored his hair gray, wore the jersey, the cleats, everything. But then he attached a box to the front of himself and had a little, like, diorama with some inappropriate material that would pop out when you turned a crank. So, needless to say, no one was looking at me anyways.

I love dressing up for Halloween. I blame it on my mom. When we were little, she would make us these incredibly adorable and complicated costumes. I was a mermaid, a head on a platter, a scarecrow, and my brother and sisters went as the California Raisins one year. We always looked awesome. So I still heartily embrace Halloween, and totally appreciate a good, clever costume. As long as it doesn't involve kids coming to MY door.

Well, Happy Halloween, everyone. I’m calling it a night as I have still not recovered from the debauchery last night. I haven’t moved much from the couch, and I really don’t intend to. Thanks again to all my lovely friends for coming out last night and making it such a memorable birthday! Time to start planning NEXT year's birthday party...

Repent!

I’m going to do my best at blogging coherently tonight. I’m writing this during the Vikings game, and it’s a tight game so far. But I’ll try my best to stay focused, because I have a lot to get off my chest.

Okay, so first of all, I want to say “Sorrrrrry, Mom….” to, duh, my mom. She has planned a birthday dinner for me this coming Thursday night (have I mentioned it’s my birthday on Thursday? Probably not…I like to be really low-key about my birthdays. /sarcasm) and I crapped all over her plans. Which makes me sound like a total jerk. I’m lucky to have almost my whole ginormous family come out for my birthday, so restaurant options become limited. And when it was decided that we’d go to the private room at Olive Garden (When we’re there, we’re family!) I couldn’t get past the thought of the unlimited breadsticks that I could eat for days. The problem is, I’m about to squeeze myself into a tiny black dress for my Halloween costume next weekend, and my will power is lacking. But instead of just deciding not to eat 20 breadsticks, I complained and sounded like an ungrateful brat. So, Mom, in front of the fives and tens of people who read this, I’m sorry.

Now that we’ve gotten that ugliness out of the way, I’d now like to apologize to the fine people at Forever 21 who may have had the unhappy sight of my Minnesota-white body squeezed into a black sequined mini-dress. I don’t typically find myself in the glaringly bright store with floor-to-ceiling mirrors anymore. But, in the interest of finding an appropriate Snooki dress (yup, I’ll be dressing up as the lovable Guidette for Halloween), Kim and I made our way to Forever 21. I was reminded immediately, that I am NOT forever 21. We filled my arms with gold, black, bejeweled and ruched mini dresses and, well, it went questionably. At one point, Kim, who was waiting for me outside the dressing room as I tried on dress after dress, had to ask “Pharon, what are you laughing at!?” I mean, people, seriously. It was hilarious. There were cut-outs and elastic in places that should not have cutouts or elastic. Plus, I’m only 5’2” and these dresses were S.H.O.R.T.! Who wears that stuff?! But finally, I found one that didn't make me want to throw up. I peeked my head through the curtain and beckoned Kim in to the room with me. I stood uncomfortably in front of my dear friend, tugging at the dress, and hoped she wouldn’t start crying at the sight. Instead, she said, helpfully, “You’ll have stilettos on, and so much jewelry! Plus, the bars don’t have florescent lights in them. I think you look great!” God bless you, Kim.

Finally, I want to say “My Bad” to my liver. On Friday night, Liz, Ally and Kim came over and we did some work on some Prosecco and other various wines. Clean up on Saturday morning was really easy because all I did was collect like 8 empty bottles of wine and throw them in the garbage. But I really pushed my body to process all that, and it did a great job. So, I’m sorry and thank you, Body.

Whew! I feel better already! Now I can start the week fresh, and determined not to commit these same atrocities again. I mean, except the last one. That one just, well, my heart wasn’t really in that one.

But for realsies, I had a great weekend, and hopefully I have no more apologies like this next Sunday!

Wednesday Winner

My initial plan for the Wednesday Winner was to profess my love for all famous chicks who are (close to) my age, and talk about how awesome they all are, and how wonderfully similar I am to them. But: Beyonce and Lily Allen got themselves knocked up, or “in the family way” as some creepy old dude put it today. Kim Kardashian’s been divorced, and is now making more money than ever before. Britney’s been married twice, divorced twice, gone to rehab, and had two kids. So, I thought about all this. I thought about other chicks my age who are out there, being parents, or wives, or rich. Then I decided my Wednesday Winner is going to be:



This bottle of wine!! You know why? ‘Cause pregnant chicks can’t drink it, uber-ambitious workaholic chicks wouldn’t DARE touch it on a Wednesday night, and married chicks probably have to go do stuff for/with their husband. Take THAT age-appropriate-lifestyle-livers! I invite you to kick back and have a glass, if you can, of your favorite (or most readily-accessible) wine tonight. You deserve it, I'm sure!

Despite the push and pull of age-norms all around me this week, I keep coming back to the same thought, though. "Okay, so what's the big deal?" Because between the knowledge that my mom had like 3 kids by the time she was my age, and the ginormous lifestyle gaps between me and my 22 year-old roommates, I feel like I'm in No Man's Land. In the wise words of Miss Britney Spears, "I'm not a girl, not yet a woman."

Additionally, I'm starting to think that all these so-called mile markers in life are a total farce to begin with. You know, "go to college when you're 18, start a career at 23, get married by 28, have kids at 31, slit wrists at 35". It seems so archaic, right?! We aren't in the age when the average life expectancy depends on whether or not you get the flu. We have a lot more time than our ancestors had. What's the rush, people?!

So, I drink the wine. The wine represents an appreciation for age...for maturation. Okay, sure, the wine pictured was literally $5 at Trader Joe's and has been aged all of 2 weeks, but the principle stands. You can't rush the process. You just enjoy it when it's ready.

Also, I honor Wine tonight because I can. I was talking to my pregnant sister Prinna today, and I said how badly I wanted a drink after work. And she got jealous. My SISTER got jealous of ME! It's pretty much the only thing I can do that Prinna can't. So WHAT if she's growing a life inside her body? I get to DRINK! w00000t!

Finally, Wine wins this week because at the end of the day, this old(ish) bag o' bones is tired! My feet hurt from my ridiculously painful, but AWESOMELY HOT, shoes, my back hurts from carrying my too-big purse, and I think I'm getting arthritis or carpel tunnel in my hands from tweeting all day. So tonight, I came home and opened a bottle of wine. Geo and another roommate feasted on pizza and mac n' cheese, but I paired my wine with an awesome dinner of salad and vinaigrette, and some pasta lightly tossed with tomatoes, garlic, and olive oil. How sophisticated!

See? This $5 bottle of wine embodies all that I have been this week. Sure it's cheap, but put it in a nice glass and most people can't tell the difference. No one cares what year it was made, or how long it's been maturing, the point is It's Wine. And It's Good. And I am now going to enjoy a couple glasses of my metaphor. Congratulations, WINE! Looooove you! Cheers, y'all!

P.A.R.T.WHY? Because I'm old.

I’d like to start off by telling you that yesterday, I washed my Randy Moss jersey for the first time in, well, awhile. I washed it and the Vikings won today. Coincidence? I think not. I washed off the bad juju! You’re welcome, Vikings.

Anyway, between naps, football games, and movies this weekend, I managed to make it out to an Ultimate Frisbee party (yeah, it’s a sport. It’s got the basic premise and contact level of soccer, but with a Frisbee. And no goalie. And also, you don’t kick anything. And it’s not written in stone that every player needs to be wearing matching jerseys. Also, there are no referees). Geo plays and their season is over, so they celebrated by throwing a party. It was really fun. And I was reminded how much I love going to parties. Especially when they are at other people’s houses. I opened a beer, and casually tossed the cap on the counter, and when it fell on the ground, I looked at it and then just walked in the other room. Yay! Rebellion! I was the party-goer that I typically hate. When we have parties at our house, I always think to myself “God! What kind of person just tosses their beer caps on the floor?” Answer: People who don’t have to pick up the next day.

So we haven’t had a party here in a few months. For the past several Sunday mornings, the house looks pretty much the same as it did on Thursday morning. No sticky floors, no beer cans shoved in the book cases, no strangers on the couch, no random sock under the coffee table (this has happened like a half dozen times. Who takes off one sock and leaves it somewhere? Crazy…). It’s been nice. So, that’s why I’ve decided to export my birthday party to the exotic bars in downtown Minneapolis.

While Kim and I were watching the Iowa football game on Saturday, we were talking about what to do for my birthday party in a couple weekends. We were considering the possibility of just hosting a little get-together at my house, because we just have “that house” that has the parties. But the blur of noise violations, broken glasses, and hours of clean up kept clouding my thoughts. We decided it best, for my sake and sanity, to NOT have a party here. And I’m now officially excited to celebrate getting older AND not have to clean up after. Everybody wins!

Okay, so now that we’ve got that settled, I can just focus on keeping the depression about getting old at bay. Birthdays are fun...

AARGH! Kelly Clarkson!

Loooove me some Happy Hour. Valerie, Lana and I met up at Cause in Uptown tonight (I highly recommend this place if you love good deals and excellent service, without having to fight for your server) and had some good ol’ fashioned girl time. Out of the hundreds of topics that were brought up, the one that really got my attention was Eyebrow Waxing. We talked about the intricacies of waxing vs. no waxing vs. do-it-yourself vs. professional service. We came to the conclusion that humans have entirely too much hair on our bodies.

My first experience with shaving was when I was 12. I went away to soccer camp, where I was on a team with older girls. One in particular took one look at my pre-pubescent legs and said “EW! Why don’t you shave?!“ Then she went back to organizing her Multiples and snap bracelets. I got home from soccer camp and asked my sister Prinna “How do you shave your legs?“ She wasn’t all that interested in, like, teaching me a vital life lesson so she mumbled “You just take a razor and go zhoop zhoop zhoop up your legs.“ She made quick, upward motions with her hands. So, I went in the bathroom, found a Bic and went zhoop zhoop zhoop. I was not planning on the 4 inch long piece of skin that came off due to too much pressure and dry legs. My mom made me use an electric razor after that. Then, when I was in high school, I used to shave my arms. Like, the whole arm. I thought it made me look skinnier. At the time, I was all of 80 pounds soaking wet, so I don’t know what my problem was.

The point is, I’ve never really “gotten” shaving. I’m lazy, clumsy, busy, tired and a bunch of other things that makes it exhausting to care about it. The only times I really focus on tweezing my eyebrows is when I have insomnia and can’t sleep. Then it becomes an obsession. And the morning after, it becomes a Mistake. I look like I’m always questioning what you’re saying.

However, I LOVE beards and moustaches (on men, duh). If I had one, I’d groom it constantly. I’d make funny shapes and styles. Facial hair is like an accessory! I’m always fascinated by it. I would have a little comb, and twirl my moustache between my fingers, or tug my beard when I’m confused…stuff like that.

Now, I’m not necessarily saying guys have it easy (Okay, I KIND of am saying that) but they have a much smaller surface area to attend to. I will say this, though. Two gentleman, who shall remain nameless to preserve their dignity, decided that they wanted to wax their backs. They didn’t want to go in someplace to have it done, so they gave me money to go buy them some wax. Next thing I know, one is laying on a dining room table while the other rips off the strips with the brute force of a dinosaur. The next day, one of them had a ginormous bruise on their back from the unfortunate technique of the velociraptor he had hired for the job.

Turns out, being a human is a hairy situation. The one thing that separates us from, say, lizards, is the fine hair that covers our bodies. Also, we are warm-blooded. And we don’t eat bugs. And other stuff that makes us different. But really the relevant thing here is the hair. And yet we spend zillions of dollars and like a quadrillion hours of time removing it. Why?

Well, I don’t know what to do about it. I guess people are just fine with their razors and laser hair removers and bleach and whatever else people use. Me? I have found that if I just systematically shave off layers of skin, like when I was younger, the hair will stop growing eventually.

On that note, you hairy freaks, have a great weekend!

Braaaaains

Another weekend, another set of lessons learned. First off, fake blood is, well, not removable. But before I get to that very useful tidbit of information, I just want to say one thing. Saturday was the 3rd Angel Birthday for my niece Sophia who passed away from SIDS. I spent the day with my family at Pine Haven pumpkin patch. It was really wonderful to spend time together, enjoying the weather, and thinking of Sophia. And in addition to all this tragedy and grief, my brother-in-law is being sued and harassed by his former employer, Federated Insurance. And while I spent Saturday night with 8,000 people dressed up as zombies (again, more on that later), this disgusting excuse for a company is the real soul-less, blood-thirsty monster. I urge you, when you have the time, to check out my sisters blog at www.fedupwithfederated.com. Their actions are nothing short of merciless and evil. So, yeah, please check that out if you haven’t already.

Okay, so apparently every year for 6 years, people get dressed up as zombies and stagger around the West Bank moaning and yelling “Braaaaains!” I have never been on this Zombie Pub Crawl before, but this year, Ally and I went and bought the make up and got all zombified. Ally was a Zombie Geisha, and I was a Zombie Mental Patient. And we. Looked. Good.







Another lesson I learned was that when they advertise “drink specials for zombies” what they really mean is “No drink specials, and in fact, Pharon, beer is way more expensive than you thought.” So, my wallet is significantly lighter…and bloodier. Yeah, there was a lot of fake blood around. And it got all over me. I had some that I applied myself, but I came home with a lot more of it. It’s still on me. It like STAINED my skin. My hands, legs and stomach all looked like I was slapped repeatedly. So yeah, I don’t know how to get it off. Note to future zombies: Don’t put fake blood on anything you can’t cover up for work on Monday.

But it was a pretty fun night. Seeing 8,000 people dressed up as everything from Zombie Santas to Zombie Marilyn Monroes staggering around the city, moaning and begging for braaaains was quite a sight. And being part of it was great. One bonus of dressing as a zombie for a Saturday night was that I was really comfortable. I wore scrubs and a white t-shirt with flip flops. It was like wearing pajamas. And there was cheering going on, which I love at any event. “What do we want?” “BRAAAINNS!” “When do we want ‘em?” “BRAAAINNS!”

But, now all I want is bed. And when do I want it? Now.

In Heaven There is No Beer. In Iowa City There is Definitely Beer.

Well, the good news is that the previously mentioned blister that was eating my face went unnoticed this weekend. It didn’t end up to be nearly as bad as I had thought. Phew! The bad news is that I’m back home, and missing Iowa City and my friends already. Oh well, I’ve gotta move on.

But my God, I’m tired. It was a beautiful, fun weekend. But it was short. Geo did the math, and we were in Iowa City for all of 35 hours I guess. My body feels like it was 3 weeks though. Perek, Leah, Geo and I did some work in that short amount of time. The Hawkeyes won, we only had one minor trip n’ fall incident (not me for once), and we all made it out alive.

Now I’m just a hot mess. I ran out to Walgreens tonight and discovered very quickly upon entering the bright, mirrored store that I should NOT have been let out in public. Dirty clothes, dirty hair, no makeup. Seriously. Hot. Mess. Plus, I still had on my Hawkeye face tattoo all day, and to remove it, you take a piece of tape and rub it on the tattoo. Then, after about 10 tries, Voila! The tattoo is gone. So I did that tonight before braving the outside world, only to realize IN WALGREENS, that it leaves behind a giant red mark in the shape of a tiger hawk. So yeah, I looked horrible. Luckily, I didn’t run into any one I knew.

What is it about weekends in Iowa City that leaves me so wrecked? Is it the late nights? The long days? The horrible diet consisting of beer, late-night gyros and grilled cheese sandwiches? Yes, it’s probably all of these things. Yet, I willingly do it over and over. I look forward to it, even. Unfortunately, I don’t have any more trips to IC planned this year. It’s a pretty big bummer. A big part of me would love to live there again. I mean, I totally love Minneapolis, don’t get me wrong. But you know how some people “summer” in the Hamptons? Maybe I should “Autumn” in Iowa City. Best of both worlds…just like Hannah Montana.

But do I really have to wake up and go to work tomorrow? Really? It’s nights like these that I seriously consider playing the lottery. If I could just strike it rich, I’d stop working and sleep late every morning, in a bed made of money. Well, I’d have to get two Money Beds. One for my house in Minneapolis, and one for my 2nd home in exotic Iowa City. Dream big, people.

Well, I’ve gotta just finish chugging this gallon of water to rehydrate myself, and then it’s off to bed. In my plain ol’ bed made out of plain ol’ fabric. I’m definitely going to buy a lotto ticket tomorrow. Wish me luck!

Mama I'm Comin' Home

This weekend shall be bittersweet. The sweet? I’m going to Iowa City again for Homecoming. The bitter? I have a huge blister on my chin that is, well, unsightly. So all the pictures, if I allow any, will consist of me doing some random hand gestures that will strategically, yet not subtly, cover up said face-eating virus. So, yeah. I’m excited to go and see my friends again and hang out with a bunch of other aging college grads. I just hope they don’t cower in fear upon seeing my mangled face.

I haven’t been back for a Homecoming game since I graduated. There’s the whole parade thing and all kinds of events that college students participate in. Or so I’m told. After my freshman year, I literally did nothing special on Homecoming. But my freshman year, when I was in my sorority, we built a float for the parade, went to the pep fests, won a spirit award, and all kinds of stuff, so I know these things exist. I remember wondering if and when there would be the Homecoming Dance. We had them in high school, and I loved those. But, alas, there would be no dance. There would be awkward conversations and getting beer spilled all over me in the huge crowds at the bar, just waiting for someone to come talk to me.

I love the idea of Homecoming. They should have these in real life, like outside of schools. Imagine it: Homecoming for your favorite shoe store. For one weekend, you go in, hang out with other regulars, reminisce in the boot section about the days you came in for Birkenstocks and espadrilles. Oh, the memories! Or Homecoming at work. All the people who quit or were fired would come back, have a glass of wine, and after the awkwardness dissipated in a haze of alcohol, people would stand, arm in arm, and sing Piano Man together. Aww…everyone loves Homecoming.

Also, why aren’t I involved in more parades? I love parades. If it were at all possible, I’d put streamers, balloons, and a novelty horn in my car and drive real slowly around the city. Throwing candy out of the window. Fabulous!

But this Homecoming weekend, I’ll miss out on all that because it’s happening as we speak. By the time I get there, the streets will be littered with wet streamers and popped balloons. It’ll be like the city already has the hangover I’ll have on Sunday morning. However, the Homecoming football game (that I’m not GOING to, but simply tailgating for) is a night game. Since it doesn’t start until 7:05 p.m. I will actually have a chance to go in to downtown and shop on Saturday morning. It’s the little things, I guess…

So okay, maybe I won’t be wearing a sick body-hugging black velvet dress with a fur trim at the bust (yup, that’s the bombest dress ever that I wore to my high school senior year Homecoming dance), and I’ll miss all the crazy floats and old men playing bagpipes at the parade, but I’ll be with some of my dearest friends visiting my old stomping grounds again. If that’s not a great Homecoming, I don’t know what is. Plus, I can just buy my own 2 year-old stale butterscotch candies and I’ll just throw them around to my friends all day. I’m guessing they’ll love it. And it’ll take the attention away from my gnarly face.

Have a great weekend, everyone!

Week. End.

I am the bride left at the alter. I’m sitting here, in my Vikings jersey, cradling a can a Coors Light, and thinking about what Might Have Been, reliving what went wrong. We lost today. The Vikings lost. Two in a row. It’s getting rougher to cheer, the triumphant words getting stuck in my throat. But, we must move on. The next game is a blank slate. We can begin again.

I’m moving on like any sane woman would: by watching a movie about polygamy. Yes. Thank you, Lifetime TV. Nothing heals an open wound like a movie about multiple wives and a foreshadowed murder. Sweet, sweet catharsis.

I feel like I developed a relationship with my weekend. The Honeymoon Phase started with a late afternoon nap on Friday, and concluded with an early afternoon nap on Saturday. I was gently (abruptly) awoken by the appearance of Geo and his dad at our front door, after a round of golf. Me + snoring nap on a recliner = where’s my time machine? Gah!

Oh well, the relationship moved on, steadily. Reliably. I ran my errands, wore my sweatpants, neglected to brush my hair. Still, the weekend was good to me. Then came Temptation. I spent a night at Liz's drinking wine and envying every last detail of her perfectly-designed new apartment. I came home feeling like a frat boy. The mismatched furniture, the dirty rugs, the framed posters of celebrities hung at odd angles. I thought I wanted more. But I bought Swiffer dusters, I reorganized book shelves, I moved books around. The whole house smelled like 409 and a Clean Linen scented candle, and I felt better.

After the rush of temptation passed, the weekend and I moved into experimentation. Geo and I visited a coffee shop this morning that I had never been to. We bought gooey cinnamon rolls, something called Puppy Dog Tails and black coffee. I was glad for the new experience.

Alas, after the utter disappointment of the football game, I realize I must cut my losses. I’ve decided to officially break up with the weekend, and move on with my life. Our relationship has run it’s course. And now, sitting here in my Vikings jersey, and watching the droplets of condensation on my beer can slip onto the coffee table, I know that this was not meant to last. You know, we had our ups, our downs, our tests, and our triumphs. But I must move on. I am in search of something greater. A week-long vacation, perhaps. I want the Real Thing.

So, I welcome this coming week with open arms. We are defined by our past relationships, and this weekend has taught me that complacency does not a perfect weekend make. Sure I may have spent the majority of the weekend in a ponytail and sweatpants, but I wasn’t ready to give it my all. Next weekend, maybe. Maybe next weekend will be The One.

Randumb

Brace yourselves. I have no idea what's about to come out of this blog...I’ve truly outdone myself in way of the Procrastination Department. I have not done any of the following things I needed to do tonight: Laundry, cleaning my room, writing my blog, running a few errands, making a nice balanced dinner. Instead, I’m curled up on the couch, watching TV, drinking some wine, and eating left over giant cookie cake from Geo‘s birthday. My roommate Tina and I did run ONE errand: Trader Joe’s for some wine. Other than that, I’m a piece of blahhhhh tonight. This will really hurt me tomorrow morning when I wake up, trip over 12 pairs of shoes on my way to find something to wear to work. I loathe those mornings. And yet, still I do no laundry, I clean no room.

However, Tina and I have just had a wonderful idea. We were just talking about having babies. As in, how little we actually know about having babies. Yeah, we really don’t know very much at all. Turns out? It sounds pretty disgusting. So, we decided to have another glass of wine and try and watch a live birth. Neither of us has seen one before. And with the news of Prinna having another baby in April, I feel like, as a good aunt, I should really know a little more about this. Maybe as a woman I should know more about this…

Um, okay. So….check that off the list of things I shouldn’t have done tonight.

Thursday nights are just weird. It’s like thisclose to Friday, and I’m already ready to sleep until 11 a.m. tomorrow. I get bad ideas on Thursday nights. I’m so much more impressionable. Did you guys know that in some European countries the work week is only 32 hours long? That would mean I’d be done today. And then I’d have more time for the very European-y things I’d no doubt partake in. You know, eating some bread at a roadside bistro, not going to the dentist, wearing kicky hats, and complaining about the obnoxious yanks, things like that. Meh, I’d probably procrastinate on those things too.

I’ve gone way off topic. I’m not quite sure what the topic even is. I’ve lost focus. This is what I get for procrastinating and not thinking this blog through. Now, it’s just a random mish mash of things. Oh well, it’s basically the weekend anyway, so let’s just call it a day, shall we? Random or not, I hope you have a great weekend!

Wednesday Winner

This Wednesday’s Winner is a toughie. I was stressed out all week, and I was just not a happy camper most days. I was not a fun person to be with. Geo did the best he could, and my girl friends gave 110%, but not even the proposition of a Happy Hour with Lana and Valerie could save my sour week, and Happy Hours ALWAYS cheer me up. Anyway, so I decided that this week, my Wednesday Winner is:



Yes people, my couch. My couch and I had a pretty steamy affair this week. We were inseparable. We ate together, we took a nap together, and Couch didn’t judge me when I watched a Lifetime movie marathon. I spilled some pink Crystal Light on it, and it washed right off. It was so forgiving.

This couch is an awesome couch. I bought it, along with it’s loveseat partner, 4 years ago with Perek and Mitch. We actually went shopping and picked them out together. Our first big decision as roommates, and it was a huge success. While I’m not exactly stoked about the taupe-y, brownie color, it’s stayed in excellent condition. Tens of thousands of houseguests have crashed on the couches, and still they hold their form. That reliability really came in handy this week.

So, Couch and I have been pretty tight this week. We’ve rekindled the love we haven’t shared since my pounding headache on New Years Day. Couch has seen me on my worst days. This week, it supported me when I kicked my stilettos off after work and plopped my feet up on it’s cushiony goodness, and held me up during the rough Vikings game.

It’s all I can think about at work, sometimes. Coming home after a very long, rough day at work and seeing that lovely Couch Face just made me smile this week. The pillows said to me “Come, Pharon, lay down your head and let me hear about your day.” The blanket asked me “What can I do to make you comfortable? I’ll go anywhere you want me to go.“ And the cushions whispered, “Oh, Pharon, I love you. You’re the best. Have you lost weight? You feel like you’ve lost weight. It doesn’t matter, though. I’ll love you no matter what.” What a great friend Couch has been to me.

However, as difficult as it may be, I am realizing that I may need to take a little break from Couch. I’ve become too dependent. We’re becoming “that couple” who do everything together, and are rarely without one another. Sure it’s nice to have that one thing that you can really rely on, but one of these days, I’ll need to stand on my own two feet. But because of all it’s help and the time we spent together this week, I declare My Couch the Wednesday Winner. This week, there IS a prize. I have every intention of cleaning and vacuuming it after all it’s hard work. Who knows? Maybe I’ll buy it some new pillows to spruce it up. Well, as long as the pillows are super comfortable, and know what they’re in for.

Congrats, Couch!

Somebody Should Consider Putting Baby in A Corner

Hmph. I still haven’t made a decision on the grand, fabulous shoes I drooled over yesterday. The shopping high has waned a bit since my leisurely shopping trip yesterday turned me into a maniacal sociopath hell-bent on feeling incomplete without a pair of gray shoes. (This is not to say I won’t still buy them.)

Anyhoozle, I was thinking about World’s Best Game Ever that I made up on Friday night. Kim, Madeline, and I were hanging out at my house. The yawns were approaching quickly, we were slumped into the couches, and overall we were pretty pathetic. In order to get the blood pumping, I decided to invent said best game ever. Here’s the gist. Each person rolls a dice. The person who rolls the lowest number has to stand up in front of the other two and just dance to a randomly selected song for 30 seconds. And if the others didn’t think you danced long or hard enough, Mr. Jagermeister was waiting to punish you accordingly. Um, yeah. It’s pretty much the most hysterical thing ever. I mean, how often do you dance BY YOURSELF in front of other people!? But we did it. And it was oddly liberating. Sure, the others would laugh hysterically, but it was thrilling being forced to just let loose.

I don’t know exactly when or if it happened, but I’m concerned that I’ve turned into a bad dancer. I remember in high school cheerleading I was put at the very front for dance routines because I was actually pretty good. Also? I won a Running Man contest in 6th grade. I mean, that SAYS something, you know? I could do any dance, I could release and restrict my body parts appropriately, and I had range. Now, I just hop up and down on a beer-soaked dance floor at the bars. I do the totally skill-less “punching my arms repeatedly up and down in the air to the beat of the song”. Sometimes I’ll do two arms, other times just one. If I’m really feelin’ it, I’ll alternate. There was also a time when I thought I could pop-and-lock. No. Just, No. People probably considered bringing over a wooden spoon for me to bite on.

I don’t get it. I’ve got rhythm, I’m entirely mobile, I’m pretty good at following directions in a song (“Two hops this time, criss cross! Now, Charlie Brown. Everybody clap your hands!” - Yup, real song. Real AWESOME song!) I feel like I’ve got what it takes, Coach. Yet, when the music comes on, up go my arms and down goes any chance of being cast in Step Up: 3D.

I will offer this one explanation. A few years back, I lived by myself. I loved the freedom. I was watching So You Think You Can Dance, and I, inspired by the music, decided that Yes. I think I can dance. So I flung myself around my apartment, spinning and jumping, shaking my, well, everything. I was sweaty and laughing at myself. It was great. And then. Behind the cords of the TV were two beady eyes staring at me. Mocking me. It wasn’t until after I had silently shamed myself that I realized it was a mouse. I screamed. Whether it was the fact that it was the first mouse I had ever seen, or the humiliating feeling that the mouse was laughing at me and judging my dancing, who’s to say? But I screamed, and hopped up on my bed, and never danced like that again.

Maybe it’s like what happens in the movies. Julia Stiles gives up dancing because her mother was in a car accident in “Save the Last Dance“. Channing Tatem gives up dancing (for a second) in “Step Up” because his rep as a tough guy was seriously in jeopardy. And hello? Maureen gives up dance for L.O.V.E. love in “Center Stage” (and because the poor girl just wanted to eat a piece of pizza without the constant fear of having to wear Spanx under her tights and tutu). Perhaps I too have had to make the selfless sacrifice. I shall dance alone no more, lest I risk infesting my home with snarky, judgmental mice. The only thing my milk shake brings…is mice.

However, I’ll make an exception in the case of World’s Best Game. Yeah, I’m dancing by myself, but I’m not alone. My only regret is that I didn't perform my award-winning Running Man that night. Oh well, there's always next time. And there WILL be a next time.