Girl, You So Crazy

I try and not use this blog as a personal therapy session too often. But I'm a human, and sometimes I end up spilling my conflicted guts on here. I mean, I try to thinly veil my current problem with hilarious, relevant stories that allow me work through something, but I try and not be so obvious about it. It's like hiding a dog's heartworm medicine inside a treat so he won't even know he's eating it.

I've been driving myself CRAZY lately. I've been kind of forced persuaded to consider the phrase "Where is this going?" in regards to my relationship lately. It's just like this little tiny seed that was tossed at my brain, and somehow, it's grown roots against my will. I'm not a particularly forceful person when it comes to relationships, either. I'm more like "Whatever works, works." But all of a sudden, this question came tearing into my psyche and it Freaked. Me. Out. So, I did what any sane, modern, fabulous woman would do. I immediately dumped it on Geo while he was studying for his class. I casually tossed out the "I'm sort of interested in learning your view on the figurative directional propulsion of our current partnership status." In other words: Where is this going?

Needless to say, I had caught him off guard. He didn't have a statement prepared, and we had this messy, fumbling conversation about generalities and "organic relationship evolution" and I hate to admit this, but I mumbled the phrase "biological clock" at one point. It was not pretty. I had no idea what I wanted to actually accomplish in the conversation, and thusly had not prepared the appropriate brainwashing technique I would use. So, we were both verbally sinking and flailing, desperate for the other person to get a grip and pull the other one back on to Sanity Shore. Eventually, we managed to get back on even ground and just went about our days.

That, by no means, implies the root discussion has gone away. In FACT! The whole flailing around thing shook me up quite a bit. So now I'm all "What does this mean? What does THAT mean? Do I need to wear sweatpants less? Am I supposed to make him not play video games as much? Should I invest more in candles and strawberries? Do we need a love fern?" And it's all just grossing me out. But THAT - the fact that it's grossing me out - is probably the most disturbing part. I'm just going to come out and say this, if only to qualify myself as a Non Crazy Girlfriend. I'm a great girlfriend. I really am. I prefer to have my own set of friends, I like it when he goes out and does things he enjoys - if only so he can get out of my way when I want to eat a pint of ice cream in peace - I like his friends, I support his ambitions, I think he's funny (sometimes), I'm thoughtful without being overbearing, and I'm overall a laid back kind of gal.

So, what, I exhibit cliche girlfriend behavior ONCE and I send myself down this "Am I Crazy?!" spiral? I for one can't handle it. I think I'm allowed this. I'm pretty sure I've earned the right to have one girlie, typical reaction every once in awhile. To be fair, Geo hasn't done ANYthing to make me feel bad about bringing the whole thing up. (Oddly, he doesn't seem to really remember the conversation even happened.) But, like, he hasn't done anything to make me NOT feel bad about it. Yes, I hear myself say these things and want to stick a fork in my eye, but I can't help it. I'm powerless to the feminine instincts. I chalk it up to the natural male tendencies to avoid serious subjects at all costs. But why am I beating myself up over indulging - once! - in my own version of the banal?

I chatted with my girlfriends about this and came to this conclusion. (There's not ONE girl I know who hasn't found themselves in this position, so I was dealing with experts here.) Guys? Get over yourselves. Women are not scary, crazy aliens who are out to devour your souls and ruin your life by - gasp! - calmly asking what the dealio is. We aren't insane beasts of vengeance who want nothing more than to lock you into a committed relationship. (Okay, SOME women are like that and they give women like ME a very, very bad name. Cut that out, Crazy Women! You're ruining everything!) And most importantly, I'm not a lunatic for feeling like I want to discuss the possibilities of the next step. There's a reason some things become cliche - because lots of times it's just nature and it happens all the time. I guess I just have to remind myself that just because I may be ready to get a bit more serious, it doesn't instantly turn me into a woman who constantly ruins her man's fun and makes him stay in on weekends doing home improvement projects.

My point - and I do have one - is that I really don't think I've devolved into some maniacal girlfriend who wants to eat Geo's soul just because I brought up - again, ONCE! - the issue of our future. Geo isn't the one making me feel like this, by the way. (Sure he's not going out of his way to assure me I'm not insane, but still.) I think there's a fine line between a girl who's obsessed with getting married and a girl who just wants to know if she should start trying to get back down to her Single Girl Weight. I have convinced myself, after the fleeting thoughts of - dun dun duuuuuun! - marriage crossed my mind, that I'm of the Marriage-Obsessed type. But you know what? I'm NOT. I'm not insane. I'm really looking forward to a marriage, don't get me wrong. All those presents at the wedding!?! Sweet! But just because it's in my brain now doesn't mean it's running the show. Yay! I've discovered I'm not crazy.

Thanks for listening, doc. How much do I owe you?

Dear Crabby

Alright guys, you asked for it, I’m bringin’ it. Here are more helpful answers to your questions.

Dear Pharon Square:

I've been friends with this chick for a really long time and she is super afraid to get pedicures. Problem is, I love pedicures. In fact, it is one of my favorite past times. Hanging out, getting pedicures, maybe singing a little karaoke and sometimes drinking at the nail place. Should I continue this friendship despite such obvious differences?

Sincerely,

Pedi pal

Dear Pedi Pal,

Sounds to me like your friend has a totally natural aversion to having her feet man-handled and scrubbed until they’re sore by shockingly petite women. Despite your obvious love for said “past time”, I encourage you to kindly step off your high horse and plant your pedi’d feet firmly of Friendship Ground. Okay, so you and your friend don’t see eye-to-eye on YOUR favorite things. Do YOU go to her place and play Xbox Kinect for hours (er, or some similar activity) even if it’s not exactly on your Favorite Things To Do list? I tend to doubt it. Your poor pal! I would venture to guess that’s she has accompanied you on these ped-excursions more than once, and has even attempted to ENJOY having someone tend to her feet like a doctor to liposuction (seriously, if you’ve ever seen this procedure done, you know what I’m talking about) despite my her obvious discomfort and anxiety. My suggestion to you, Pedi Pal is to dive head first into one of HER hobbies and get a little taste for how she feels. Should you continue this friendship? I think the question here, lady, is should SHE continue the friendship? Because she’s obviously a kind, compassionate and forgiving friend, I would guess that as long as you stop making me her go to Goddess Nails, she’s definitely a friend worth keeping.

Love,
Pharon Square


Dear Pharon Square,

What are your thoughts on the situation in Libya, and how do you feel about our country’s current level of involvement?

Thank you,
Politic Chick

Dear Politic Chick,

Who invited you to this party? ‘Cause you’re kind of bringin’ it down. My thoughts on the situation in Libya? I don’t know, it sucks, I guess? Or it’s awesome? I don’t know. I’m more concerned with our country’s current level of involvement in whether or not there will be an NFL season this fall. Sheesh.

Dear Pharon Square,

I should probably start by saying I'm a guy. Sorry. But I enjoy your blog very much, and I realize I'm probably walking into dangerous territory here, but I'd like an honest opinion. I've been watching the show Mad Men a lot, and I've kind of gotten into that whole male-dominated environment. It just looks like it was SO much better back in the 60's. But I think it's having a negative impact on the way in which I interact with women. The whole "men in power" concept is, to be honest, intriguing. I'd like to know how far off base I am in envying that time period. Thoughts?

Thanks, and I'm ready for the worst.
-Pretty Interested in Genre HBO Entertainment And Don Draper


Dear PIGHEADD,

Thanks for your bravery. It takes a certain, um, man(?) to admit these kinds of thoughts. That being said, I'd like you to briefly remove your head from your hindquarters so you can hear me a little better. You Are Not Don Draper. If you were, you wouldn't make it 2 days in the current decade. You want to sit and drink scotch all day while you work and then maybe stop off for a quickie with your mistress before heading home to your wife and kids? Well, fine, Mr. Draper, go right ahead. Here's the downside, which I think you're failing to see. One: This is 2011, and syphilis is everywhere. Good luck with that. Second: If you want that life, you're not allowed to go shoe shopping or listen to Coldplay or wear any pink or drink light beer or talk to your mother, because Don Draper doesn't do that kind of "girlie" stuff. Finally: You must be prepared to suffer an inevitable mental breakdown because you won't be allowed to talk openly about any emotion besides "hungry". Good luck with that, too. Are your current relationships with women REALLY THAT DIFFICULT for you? Do you REALLY want them to never speak up or go after what they want? Do you REALLY think that women are better seen than heard? If that's truly the case, then you need therapy. Big time. Women are better than we've ever been. We're smart, hilarious, interesting, and fun, not to mention completely capable of cleaning and cooking just like your precious little Betty Draper (plus, um, don't they get DIVORCED?!) So if YOU can't handle the heat, PIGHEADD, perhaps you should consider getting out of our kitchen.

XOXOXOXOX,
Pharon Square

Okay, I'm beat. All that doling out of totally awesome advice really takes it out of a girl. Shall we say same time next week? Okay. Well, then you'd better send any questions my way at pharonsquare@gmail.com.

Sick in Stepford

Well, hello there, Martha Stewart. When did you jump into my body? Look at me - I’m all in an apron and makin’ dinner for mah man when he gets home from work. What’s gotten into me, you ask? I don’t know, guys. I think the medical term is “nesting” but I’m waiting on a second opinion. Geo’s been travelling a bunch lately, and just last night got home from a week-long “guys trip” which typically wouldn’t leave me feeling all sorry for him. A week-long funfest with your friends? Poor thing! (/sarcasm). But sadly, Geo was sick the whole time and is still sick today. Pretty much the only time I snap to Good Girlfriend Attention is when he’s sick. So, I’m making him one of his favorite dinners and I’m going to try and not make fun of him for repeatedly commenting on his “chills.”

Meanwhile, I’ve also come down with a cold. Is there anything more annoying than only having the capacity to breathe in and out of ONE nostril? Guh. It’s turned me into a mouth-breather, and that’s not a good thing. Although, I usually like to take advantage of a cold. Meaning: because my voice gets all deep and gravelly and raspy, I like to re-record all my voicemail greetings. I sound like a late-night DJ who encourages listeners to “have a sensual night while you listen to jazz…after dark.” I sound wiser or something. And instead of my shrill cackle at any old poop joke, my laugh becomes a stifled, wispy thing that says to people “I understand the humor in that amusing anecdote, but I also love Jack Kerouac.”

Plus, what with all the mouth-breathing I’m doing, my lips get chapped and I’m forced to remember to put on some lip balm. Then they’re all shiny and I look like I’ve done it to look nice, and not because I’m freaked that my lips will split open at the mere sight of a chilly wind.

But back to my nesting. Maybe it’s the light-headedness, or the fact that I’m all gravelly-voiced and lip-balmed, or maybe because I ran out of clean pants wore a nice, black Banana Republic dress to work, but I feel like it’s my duty to be all perky and Rachael Ray about everything. Birds chirping? Lovesies! Get to use my new umbrella today? Yummers! Making Geo something nummy for din-din? Zippy!

The problem, though, is that he wants chicken. And anyone who’s anyone knows that that’s pretty much one of the many the only meat I cannot cook. I like my steaks and burgers bloody, but the slightest hint of pink in a chicken breast sends me into a Salmonella Frenzy and I inevitably overcook the hell out of the little bugger. Determined (and slightly medicated), though, I’ve decided to tackle the elusive Well-Cooked Chicken Breast in the form of Chicken Cordon Bleu. Since I’m playing the role of a domestically-capable human tonight – and wearing an APRON, might I remind you! - it was destined for success.

And here's the proof!

Geo even casually mentioned, as I brought him his plate of food at the dining room table wearing an apron, "Hey, have you ever seen the show Mad Men? 'Cause back then, women did this whole dinner thing all the time..." I spit in his food.

Okay...not really, but my hacking cough probably made its way into his food at some point, so I guess we're even now.

I Didn't Realize Mars Could Be So Cold

If you could have seen me 10 minutes ago, you'd fall off your bar stool laughing, guaranteed. I just finished playing Kinect, wearing sweatpants, fleece socks, a long sleeved tshirt, fleece sweatshirt, giant abominable snowman jacket, and mittens. The good news is, I obviously look AMAZING. The bad news? It's all because our heater went out AGAIN. I grabbed the bull by the horns and called our maintenance man posthaste this morning. Good news? He came out right away. Bad news? He couldn't fix it. A "specialist" is coming...TOMORROW MORNING. So, it's a brisk 55 degrees in my stupid, old, drafty house. Sometimes I hate this place so much I would consider moving back in with my parents. But I'm not leaving tonight out of pure stubbornness.

The heater was a, uh, point of contention between Geo and me this morning. He was home when the maintenance man came, and was the unfortunate messenger of the bad news via text to me. "Heater's broken. Specialist coming tomorrow tomorrow to fix it."

Being the calm, cool, collected woman I am, I shot back "That is NOT OKAY. We can't NOT HAVE HEAT FOR A WHOLE NIGHT!" (Yes, the all caps was necessary because I was screaming inside my calm, cool, collected head.) Here's the thing: Geo is very laid back and believes there's not point in complaining about something you can't fix. I, on the other hand, believe that COMPLAINING has historically FIXED a number of problems.

Then here's where the fighting came in. Geo says "If it's too cold and you can't handle it, go to your parents house." Well, I never! I'm sorry. I must have missed the Biology class when it was explained that men's skin is made of steel and Snuggies, and women's skin is made of tissue paper and butterfly wings. (Hence, the reason I'm determined to tough it out at my house all night tonight.) Okay, so I respond to him: "Yeah, thanks for the advice." He replied with a (seemingly) patronizing explanation of how a heater works, to which I replied, "Thanks for the explanation." He told me to stop being a jerk, and I told him to stop talking to me like I was four years-old.

We had reached a stalemate. His insistence that he was just trying to make me calm down fell on deaf ears. I told him that all he needed to say was "I feel your pain" and let the whole "Hey, Crazy, you're sooooooooooo freaking out right now!" fall by the wayside. Men! I immediately dialed up Kim to vent, and SHE got it! She was all "OMG, I'd be so mad at the heater guy if I were you! I said "All I wanted was for him to just side with me and say it sucks and then act like he's upset too." She laughed and said "This whole idea was JUST on Modern Family the other night. Men just can't even PRETEND to empathize when a woman complains. A guy just launches into ways he'd fix it, or reasons why the problem wouldn't bother him like that."



I get that Geo doesn't understand the point of venting about something I can't do anything about. But what he (and the entire male population, apparently) doesn't get, is that SOMETIMES IT FEELS GOOD. I do it to express my disappointment and frustration. I like to commiserate with other people. It's fun and it makes me feel better. So I have one, teeny little outburst over a totally sucky situation, and he goes all "Operation: Immediately Point Out the Futility of Complaining".

Why, Men? WHY must you do this? Here's a hint to you: You don't sound smarter or more practical or more effective when you try to rationalize with a woman who is ranting. Sometimes, you sound like a jerk. Sometimes, it's OKAY to not have an answer/solution/response to everything I complain about. Sometimes? It's okay to just say "Ugh, that is so lame. I feel bad you have to deal with it." Or even, "I know..." paired with a sympathetic nod and maybe then like a pair of diamond earrings or something. I dunno, I'm just brainstorming here. The point is: I'm not trying to start a fight WITH you, I'm trying to get you on my side so WE can fight whatever abstract thing is ruining my day. Get on my side, would ya?

Well, Geo came home and started a fire (in the fireplace - which is, arguably, a better idea than the one I had of setting our couches on fire and breakin' out my shorts), and it's helping a great deal. I've been able to unzip my giant coat a couple inches (although he's still struttin' around in a pair of jeans and a thin hoodie, insisting it's "just not that cold"). I guess, given the great temperature gap, it only makes sense that men are indeed from Mars and women from Venus.

Miss. Elaneous

Well, for the first time in the history of this blog, I'm gonna have to phone it in. I just got home from Wine Night hanging out with Lana and Val and I'm officially exhausted of good topics. I got nothin'. Between the three of us, we solved a number of world issues. From jobs to boyfriends (I believe Valerie wins all contests because her boyf works in Hollywood and I get to enjoy the perks of free pre-released DVDs of Oscar-winning movies) to appropriate wedding etiquette, we nailed 'em all.

It's late. I'm tired, and I just had a frighteningly grown-up conversation with Geo, so I'm drained. I keep sitting here, waiting to write something all clever and/or profound and yet I continue to come up short. There's something about some good ol' female conversation that knocks the complainy/deep thought out of me.

We talked about first kisses, first time we learned what really happens during birth (EWWWW), and why there are so many TV shows that feature some fatty/lazy dude inexplicably married to a clever, hot woman. I postured that we need more shows with normal, well-rounded women married to some cutey Calvin Klein models. If this TV show exists, please do tell...

We skimmed the topic of Anonymity in a Digital World, and we all realized: Privacy is Dead. So that was a lesson learned. Also, kids raised in sterile environments develop more allergies than kids raised in normal households. Yeah, it's true. Sorry, OCD parents. You're just not really helping anything.

Okay, I'm calling it a night. Do you have any insights you'd like to share with people before we embark on the weekend? If so, please share. And try and make them very prolific. We have standards here, people.

Have a great weekend, everyone!

(In this thread of random, not-quite-giving-it-your-allness, I give you a great song to blast this weekend. It's random. It's not great, but I just love it. And it's really very catchy....)

The Cat's Away

Well, I guess I'm livin' the single life this weekend. I dropped Geo off at the airport tonight after work and he's on a plane right now, off to visit his bro in Alabama. Honestly? I got a wee bit verklempt as I sent him off. Yes, yes, that's right. This stoic blogger bid her man farewell and shed a couple tears on the car ride home. Sue me. He used to travel allllll the time when he was playing on an Elite ultimate Frisbee team, so I spent most weekends kickin' it with my friends and doing my own thing. I was used to it. But now I'm all, I don't know, NOT used to it, so I was a little surprised at my own emotions.

But he's only gone until Sunday, which leaves me man-less for a whole three nights and 2 1/2 days. So what did I do when I got home from the airport? I slapped on MY favorite - and Geo's LEAST favorite - bedazzled Vikings sweatpants and made the kind of dinner that would make a skunk blush. Yay! This weekend, I plan on living it up. And after living with Geo for the past 3 years, I'm going to try and take advantage of this "me time".

* Sweatpants. All the time. The reason this is different from any regular Sweatpant Day is that I can wear the ugly, gnarly ones that Geo usually tries to hide in garbage cans.

* There will be NO ESPN in this house at any point. No sports all weekend. No basketball, no golf, no bowling, no poker. Nope. None of it.

* I'll have the XBox all to myself. This is weird because I usually have NO desire to play XBox. But Kim and I put our heads together and discovered that I have a huge living room, but nothing to do in it. Meanwhile, KIM has an XBox Kinect, but not enough room in her house to play it. So Kim and I will be dancing our butts off in my living room all day on Saturday without any interruptions by someone wanting to play "one quick game of C.O.D."

* Clay mud masks. I love these. When my old roommate Nick lived with us, he had a dog Payton. One day I came downstairs with the mud mask on, and the dog straight FLIPPED out and started going all nutso and trying to bite off my face. Geo has a similar reaction.

* I'm thinking I'm going to turn Geo's "office" into more of a "personal spa room" while he's gone. You know, move his desk into the hallway and replace it with a comfy chair and a foot bath, and have an adorable little table stacked with all my issues of Vogue next to the Nail Polish Basket.

* Three words: Hygiene May Suffer.

* I'll probably lose a couple lbs. Without Geo here, I won't be constantly tempted to eat mac n' cheese, pizza, burgers, fries, Baja Sol, and anything else that contains Velveeta and/or 3 sticks of butter.

* I will be singing Rihanna at the top of my lungs whenever possible. Geo is, to put it mildly, a really good singer. Like, "American Idol" good. So I usually keep my karaoke-ing to a minimum. Now that he's in Alabama, he's probably far enough away for me to safely belt out any song my little heart desires. Any requests?

Okay, so maybe a couple days on my "own" won't be so bad. (Ugh. I keep forgetting I have 2 other roommates...buzzkill.) Oh well, I'm just kind of planning hoping to have a lovely, laid back weekend. I hope you have the same, dudes!

I Don't

Business, business. Big ups to my friends Miss Valerie and Miss Kim for being born this weekend 20-30something years ago. This weekend, I'll be celebrating Kim's birthday by drinking German beer from glass boots and possibly polka dancing at a German bar. But last night, I celebrated Valerie's birthday with Lana by eating zummy food, exchanging Silly Bandz (awww yeah! I gave them each a set, and I'm sure their lives will never be the same), and drinking wine while discussing everything from boutiques to whacked out female hormones. Juicy stuff, people. JUICY.

Oh GIRL TALK. You're so fun. The night started with Lana's hubby Phil making some extremely good Indian food in the kitchen while Lana and I discussed various locations at which we could find adorable jewelry. Lana made these killer Salty Sweet Brownies that I wanted to take home with me and cuddle with. When Valerie got there, Phil brought us the food (I've never scarfed down tofu quite so quickly before) and we just chatted like normal human beings. It was lovely.

Lana is the only one of us three who is married (yeah, Valerie and I are, in fact, the sane ones). And she did it in like the lowest-maintenance way possible. She and her then-fiancee were already planning a vacation to Scotland, and just straight up decided to say their I Do's amongst a couple of kilt-wearing, scotch-drinking, bagpipe-playin' Scots. Easy peezy. They've always kind of been like that, and as I told Lana last night, it's just one of the zillion reasons I love them.

Married couples. I tell ya, you can't live with 'em, you can't live without 'em. Well, I guess mostly you can't live with them because they probably only want to live in their house with each other. Anyway, I'm starting to see this weird-o line in the sand that married couples inadvertently draw. I realize that many of my readers are married. YOU must realize, therefore, that the chances are very high that you've started to, uh, suck a little bit. You may think you're all "La la la, let's merge our finances and never change." But reality check: You've changed.

I am the sole remaining survivor of Wedded Bliss Syndrome in my family. Yup, I'm the only unmarried one in the clan, and I'm pretty sure I'm the most hesitant about the whole concept. Arguably, I'm also still the most fun (according to me). Most of my friends remain untainted by a wedding band, but one by one, I see them - willingly! - flinging themselves from the safety and security of Singledom into the deep, weird abyss that is Marriage. I'm not one of those people who gives marriage a bad rap because my parents had a bad marriage or something. Nope, my parents have, from my point of view, the world's BEST marriage. I idolize the relationship that they have. So much so that is seems like an impossible act to follow.

So, now that you realize I'm not just bitter about marriage, I hope you'll trust me when I explain my side. I have two friends, Lana and Kelly, who have the kind of marriage I would hope to have. They are still very much the same people, and they kept all their friends. They hang out with us poor, sad, single folk all the time (when possible), separately or together, They don't sit and refer to themselves as "we" all the time. You know, "WE just don't like that restaurant anymore." Or "WE have to think about finances." Or "WE think Pharon needs to stop calling so much."

At Book Club, I mentioned once, in the aftermath of a disappointing phone call with a Married, that "Married people are SOOOOOO lame!" In the midst of my self-righteous rant, I failed to recognize that at least 4 of the girls in my club are married. So I got the third degree from them. I know now that it could actually be my bad. When people I know get married, I still want to keep them to myself. I want them to still do the same crap we did before, without having to "answer" to anyone else. But now Marrieds either bring along their Life Partner which jeopardizes the flow of conversation, or they look at me with sad pity when I threaten to break up with Geo if he leaves his macaroni pan out ONE MORE TIME. Marrieds? DON'T LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT. I'm aware that your version of "breaking up" is "Divorce", so my version of "problems" don't amount to donkey poop compared to mortgages and baby fever and that awkward ring finger tan you'll get.

Having said all that, Marrieds need a bit of a reality check. They're all living with their husband/wife/"best friend" (puke), way separated from the Singles and assume we are immature and you falsely think you've grown out of the fun we used to have. But guess what, Marrieds? You LOVE the Single's lives. You do. You're scared to admit it, I know, but you love it. Your lives are HARD and, well, kind of like written in stone. Mine? Not so much. My relationship could fail at like, ANY second. BUT I don't have to ask anyone about anything when I buy an Xbox Kinect. It's all a crazy, crazy world where anything could happen.

In closing, I urge you this weekend, if you're a Single, to explain to your Married friends to lighten up. And if you're a cool Married, I urge you to take minute and thank the Singles in your life for keepin' it real.

Have a fantastic weekend, everyone!

Don't Hate Me Because I'm Beautiful...Unless I'm Also A Bad Person

I’d like to talk to you today about chicks. Ladies. Broads. Muchachas. The Fairer Sex. Uh, has anyone else noticed how BRUTAL we can be to each other? We can find something physically wrong about ANY OTHER GIRL. Cankles. Muffin Top. Horse Face. Stretch Marks. My roommate Sanna insists that this negative behavior only happens in Middle School, but I totally disagree. I think it happens all the time, but now that we’re adults, we’re much more covert about it. We’re like stealth little beyotches, set on tearing other women down flaw by flaw. I’ll admit it: I’ve done it. And trust me, YOU do it too. But I’m going to stop doing it. It’s just so cruel.

Here’s the thing. Last night, my mom emailed me and she was all “OMG, loved your blog tonight! Hilarious! Um, but do you think you could maybe lay off yourself for a minute? You know, stop making fun of yourself nonstop and maybe try saying something nice about yourself every once in a while?” I thought about it. I fell asleep being like “You know, I’m going to blog tomorrow about awesome I am. Like, how funny I think I am, and how I can be smart, and how I can cheer almost anyone up at anytime, and also? I clean up pretty good too.” But I woke up this morning and I was all “Hold on there, Vanity Kane (OMG, if you got that pun, I’ll love you forever), none of that is exciting at ALL.”

Seriously, would you guys read a blog about someone who loves themselves way too much? No, because then it would be written by Angelina Jolie. Or Gwenyth Paltrow. Or that chick Sarah I went to middle school with. The point is: No one is perfect. And people who THINK they’re perfect are in for a big wake up call. I mean, okay I probably should try and lighten up when it comes to myself, but that’s not the problem out there. The problem is that we just annihilate each other’s self esteem whenever humanly possible. Women have it hard enough trying to take over the world from those violent, non-feeling menfolk, getting good roles in Hollywood that don‘t involve naked dancing scenes, and trying to make a decent lasagna without fending off criticisms of our body or face or other physical attributes. Yet, all over the place, I hear girls talking about the physical flaws or differences of other women, which apparently gives us free reign to rip them apart. Like someone's size, or how bad her eyebrows look, or how they’d never be caught dead wearing those shoes. Really, ladies? REALLY?

Now, I’m not going to go all “I’m awesome because of these 638 reasons” because that’s just not me. I really enjoy making fun of myself. I definitely don't need someone ELSE to help me out. But I’m also not going to sit and listen to a girl say “Well of course she was mean. Did you see her thighs?!” I heard someone say that about a stranger not too long ago and I wanted to slap the girl who said it. I blame her parents. The problem is, we’ve all said something like that, and someone somewhere has said something like that about each one of us. But I just don't get where we get off putting someone down flat out because they have messy hair, or wear jeggings.

With that said, I'm not all "La la la, everyone is awesome." Here are the things that ARE legitimate reasons to dismiss someone from your life. (I base these solely on the behaviors of the men around me. They have great friendships, and they don’t talk about each other‘s back fat.) I will choose to not be friends with someone if: They have a really horrible sense of humor. They can’t carry on an intelligent conversation (or at least pretend to). They think they are perfect. They can’t admit when they’re wrong. They complain all the time. They are racist or sexist or other similarly hate-fueled “-ist” that just makes them a horrible person. These are all personality traits that say a lot about a person. Guys will be friends with other guys if they like the same things or can make an awesome joke. Simple as that. You just don’t hear guys being like “Yeah, he’s cool and everything, but have you seen his GUT? Gross. He sucks.”

Yeah, I think it’s fine to rib on someone because of the person they ARE. It’s just so….so, CLICHÉ to rib on physical traits. Aren't we more creative than that? There are enough things wrong with everyone without having to point out things that unchangeable or different. I’d rather be hated for my moodiness than my hips. I think I’ve earned it. I think I’m pretty good at getting to know someone before I decide why I can’t stand them. And I’d expect people to do the same for me. Believe me, I’ll give you plenty of reasons to go running for the hills. But (here you go, Mom) despite my many, many flaws, I'm loyal and kind, and I'll make you laugh (or I'll make you enough vodka tonics until I make you laugh).

Maybe it's not just a girl thing. Maybe I've been lucky enough to know a bunch of guys who aren't shallow. (Maybe that's WHY they're friends with me.) But I think we should just all take a deep breath and stop picking each other apart based on genetics. Maybe we should pick on people who deserve it. You know, like Fun Haters. Man, I hate those guys...

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!

Security System

Oh Pharon. Pharon, Pharon, Pharon. I’m quite disappointed in you tonight. In lieu of doing the responsible thing of tuning in to watch the State of the Union address, you eagerly turned on the Family Channel to watch the much-anticipated movie, Mean Girls 2. And shortly after that, I saw you drop a chunk of $9 cheese on the floor, pick off the hair, and continue eating it. For shame, young lady. For Shame.

Instead of eating rug cheese and watching the only movie on the planet that would be better WITH Lindsay Lohan in it, I SHOULD be at Liz’s house, chatting about life and drinking wine. I made a decision though to stay in and paint my nails tonight (much to Geo’s appreciation) and try to just chillax. Do people still say “chillax“? Probs not. Oh well, I’m retro now. I’ve been all anxious for the past week. Like, not just stressed, but crazy-in-the-head anxious. I don’t know where it came from, but I just haven’t been able to shake it. Tonight, though, I’ve focused solely on myself and trying to get myself to calm down already. Hence the relationship I have forged tonight with hairy cheese and a bad movie. Not a stressor in the bunch.

You know when you’re feeling crappy, and like there’s only one thing that makes you feel better? For some it’s tea, or yoga, or a stiff cocktail. In my case, it’s my childhood blanket. It used to be vivid pinks and polka dots with Strawberry Shortcake smack dab in the middle. These days it's brownish with no discernible design of any kind, it's ripped up, torn, tied back together in some places, and could function better as a headband than an actual blanket. But it calms me down and makes me feel like I’m 5 years old again. The major problemo with that is that I actually still sleep with my blanket every night. Sexy, right? Whatevs. I scrunch it between my fingers, which lets me fidget in concentrated doses. And I also like to smell it. Not like “sniff” it, but bury my nose in it and smell it reeeeeeal good. In high school, my dad walked past my bedroom and saw me inhaling my blanket and scrunching it between my fingers, and he just like sighed and said “You look like a mental patient.”

So I tried to tone down my reliance on my blanket in college. But when I lived with Kim, she discovered my (very) dirty secret. She picked up the filthy, flimsy fabric between her thumb and pointer fingertip and sneered “What IS this?” I snatched it away from her and snarled “It’s my BLANKET. GOD!” Then I scurried off into the corner of my bed to hide away my Precious. Yes, just like that troll doll guy in Lord of the Rings. After that, Kim would laugh and laugh and laugh as I tore our apartment apart looking for my blanket that she had maliciously hidden from me. I’d find it eventually, and then take it and try and shove it in Kim’s mouth to punish her.

These days, it’s Geo I have to worry about tearing me apart from my security blanket. He’s seen it. In fact, I think KIM was the one to introduce them. He freaked out like it was a blanket made out of marriage proposals and snakes. “Oh God, that’s disgusting! You SLEEP with this?” My initial rage at his, his, nerve to insult me like that subsided quickly into shame and embarrassment. He noticed my quick descent into humiliation and said, “Well, no. I mean, like, it’s, uh, cute, um that you still sleep with your, ah, blankey”. I slowly perked up and pulled it out from the pillow I’d hidden it under. I kept pulling and pulling and pulling, and the blanket kept coming and coming and coming. I sniffled and smiled a little, and looked up at Geo and said “Heh heh…look how LONG it is!” Geo doubled over laughing and repeating like a parrot, “Look how LONG it is…look how LONG it is!” I laughed and decided not to shove the blanket into his mouth to punish HIM. Yet.

For now, my blanket is safe. Well, not “safe” in the healthy way - I can’t wash it or it will disintegrate - but “safe” in the I-Know-No-One-Will-Steal-And-Hide-It way. Although, Geo got me this super soft teddy bear, hoping it would ween me off my blanket. What he didn‘t see coming was that the blanket and bear go perfectly together. So now I’ve got a team backing me up when I feel like shizzah.

Which is definitely going to be useful tonight. I’ve already felt like a mental patient lately, so why not go all out and just compulsively sniff and fidget with my blanket while I rock back and forth relax? Oh man, I hope my dad doesn’t read that…

Story of a Lifetime WINNER!

Well, I've FINALLY chosen my Story of a Lifetime winner! Thanks so much for all the great submissions (Kim told me her friend Gretchen and her family turned the whole thing into something of a drinking game, which I not only support, I would like to be involved in next time. Call me.) Thanks for all the awesome stories! I laughed, I cried, I ate snacks. But big ups to Liz, Robin and Jessica all from Minnesota for submitting this awesomely cheesy, chock full of Lifetimey goodness!! So, coming soon to Lifetime TV: AMNESIA MOM.

Setting: Minneapolis and South Dakota (Mount Rushmore Area), circa 2010
Characters: Voey (rhymes with Zoe, also we think this will be a hot baby name in 2011 upon the release of this film), a sassy teenager who is suffering from a mysterious nose ring infection that just wont go away. Vanessa, Voey’s "mother" who has an evil way about her. She is hiding the true secret of Voey’s “medical condition” and their true relationship. Violet, Vanessa’s beautiful and kind twin sister born 2 seconds earlier who is currently living with amnesia in South Dakota, following a car accident 15 years earlier that left her with no memory of who she is or any details of her life. She has been working as a waitress to pay off her medial bills. Recently, Violet has been having re-occurring dreams of having a teenage daughter with a rare disease.

Synopsis: Story opens on a car, after it has flipped three times and sits in ditch off dark highway. Violet’s bloody hand reaches out and attempts to wave for help before giving up and falling to her side. She looks at her husband in the passenger seat. Is he dead? She looks behind her at her infant in the back. Is she dead? Feeling certain unconsciousness setting in, Violet focuses all of her remaining strength to look in the rearview mirror at her infant daughter, Voey, strapped in a car seat. She then sees another face staring back at her in the mirror. Is it her own face in the mirror? Where are the wounds that her face surely has after such a horrific car accident? “It can’t be my own reflection,” Violet thought. Could it be… her evil twin sister, Vanessa? Violet watches helplessly as the mysterious stranger in the back unstraps baby Voey and kidnaps her. She tries desperately to scream but only a weak whisper comes out. “Vanessa….” Just then, Violet passes into unconsciousness, never again to remember what she had just experienced.

Cue opening credits…

*** Sixteen Years Later*** A young girl, age sixteen, named Voey is suffering from what she believes is just a sudden nasty nose ring infection. But her doctor and her “mother” Vanessa are being quite secretive about the diagnosis. Fed up with being kept in the dark by her mother (Voey has always sensed an evilness about her) she decides to take matters into her own hands and tears through her mother’s office. She finds a thin accordion file with “Voey” scratched across the top in thick marker. She rips it open and finds only a few pictures from recent years. "Why aren’t there any pictures of me as a baby?" she wonders. She digs a little deeper through boring crap: her first tooth that she lost, a postcard that she sent from summer camp, a receipt for her bike. “Where are all of my important documents? No birth certificate, no social security card?” At the bottom of the file she spots a small blue post-it with the phrase Endomisitisis Psychoeroticitis neatly printed on it. A quick iPhone search (movie to be sponsored by Apple…lots of product plugs periodically) reveals that Endomisitisis Psychoeroticitis, MSP for short, is a rare disease that can only be passed from mother to daughter. MSP causes ugly, hideous, grotesque cancerous spots on your nose and can only be cured by mixing the biological mothers blood with the daughter’s blood. Mixed blood transfusion MUST occur immediately as patients will die within 72 hours of first outbreak without it.

Voey suddenly feels weak. She touches her nose ring. It’s not an infection at all, is it? She runs over to the family Mac (Apple product plug #2) and pulls up the calendar. Her nose has been infected for 2 days. That only leaves her…24 hours to find antidote!!!! Panicked, Voey looks back at the blue post-it. There is something written on the back: MOTHER NOT A MATCH. Zoey vomits. “My mother…isn’t my mother?!?!” she gasps, “I was kidnapped!!!!” Realization hits Voey just as she faints. While unconscious, she has the same dream that her REAL mother, Amesia Mom Violet, has been having for several months. It’s suddenly clear to both of them. They MUST meet and combine their blood to make an antidote! It must be now. And it must be at Mount Rushmore!

Montage of Voey and Violet each rushing to Mount Rushmore. Flash to evil Vanessa arriving home, finding her trashed office and realizing that Voey has learned the truth. She sets out after Voey to prevent her and Violet from meeting and discovering that SHE caused the car crash in the first place. It was all an evil plot of Vanessa’s to steal her sisters baby after learning that she could never have a child of her own. After all, Violet always had the perfect life, she was prettier and more popular with woodland creatures than Vanessa. She had the perfect job and perfect husband. She was the good twin, and Vanessa got all of the “left over” genes. Evil Vanessa wanted Violet to know the pain Vanessa had felt her whole life.

Movie climaxes with all three characters meeting on the nose of Abraham Lincoln. There is a struggle and evil Vanessa falls and is dangling off the tip of nose. Violet and Voey consider letting her fall to her death as they piece together all of the years of torture that Vanessa has put them through. Just then a handsome doctor comes swinging across Washington’s eyebrows. “Stop!” he shouts, “You have to combine your blood and make the antidote now!!” The handsome doctor whips out a petri dish, mixes up antidote and injects Voey. The color suddenly returns to her cheeks and the heinous, gaping sores in her nose begin to heal instantly. Violet walks over to her sister still dangling off the tip of Lincoln’s nose. It's just not in her kind nature to let her sister fall to her death, even if Vanessa was the one who orchestrated a car crash, killing Violet’s husband, leaving her with amnesia while Vanessa kidnapped her only child and fully intended on letting that child die of a rare cancerous nose blister disease all to keep her own past deeds a secret. She pulls her sister to safety and they embrace. Evil murderous plan be dammed. Sisterly love always triumphs.

Fade to last shot of Violet, Vanessa and Voey sharing a picnic in a meadow and swapping stories of the years that they missed of each others lives. Voey’s nose is completely healed and she is carrying an iPad (Apple plug #3). The handsom doctor is waiting in the car for the ladies to finish lunch. He and Violet have fallen in love and are planning a fall wedding. As the screen fades to black, the camera closes in on Vanessa’s face. We see an evil look flash across her eyes as she looks over at the handsom doctor’s car. She glances back to Violet and we see the slight snarling of Vanessa’s lips. Maybe there is still evil jealousy in her after all. Fade all the way to black. Leave open ended for potential sequel.

Roll credits.

Casting-wise we are thinking former Melrose Place actress Daphne Zuniga in the roles of Violet/Vanessa and Selena Gomez as Voey.

Here are photos of us working on original storyboard, as proof that this story is an original:


Congratulations, ladies! Thanks for this awesome story! When you get your shirt, post a photo on the Pharon Square Facebook Page and make all your friends jealous!!

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…

Kiss and Make Up

I’ve never been big on New Year’s resolutions. I’ve half-heartedly made a few, but never really thought about them after January 2nd. This year, though, I started EARLY on the resolutions. I packed up all my gift cards and headed out in search of the tools I’m going to need. This year, I’m going to learn to put on makeup. I bought some nice makeup brushes - ones that do NOT just come free with eyeshadow. I picked up some staples that I’ve apparently been an idiot to live without, including something called “Primer”. I got home and felt like I was about to paint a room. Nevertheless, I think I’m ready to take on the new year with a whole new face.

I don’t know when the bus left for Womanhoodville, but I most certainly missed it. I watched my niece this weekend opening her favorite Christmas present - a makeup kit. She spent hours playing and experimenting with all the colors and putting on layers upon layers of blush. She was enthralled. I need some of that, I think. As it is, I dread having to get dressed up and put on colorful eyeshadow, because I will always, without fail, make it look like I have two black eyes. I’ve got my typical makeup routine down to a science. It takes 4 minutes from lotion to mascara. But, as they say, change can be good.

So, I went out and bought this “primer”, some foundation-y thing, brushes for proper application, and too much money later, I feel like a girl. I showed Geo and his brother my treasures and they were APPALLED that I spent nearly $40 on ONE PRODUCT. How do women buy all this stuff? My new makeup collection is worth more than the food in my house. But, I must admit: I’m finally excited to try some fun makeup things tomorrow. Or Wednesday. Or, well, probably not until New Year’s Eve if I’m being honest.

When I was 16, my parents allowed me to start wearing makeup. My mom took me to Estee Lauder for a private makeup consultation and application lesson. I had concealer, foundation, powder, blush, eye liner, 3 (THREE!) different eye shadow colors, and mascara on. It was a LOT of makeup…especially for a 16 year old. But every day I’d slap all that on my face and head out in public. That was back in the day before makeup felt “light”. So, I imagine that’s about the time I stopped wanting to cake my face with all that goop. One by one, I neglected a product and then another and another until I arrived at my current tool kit of about 3 products.

But that’s the past. My friend Freda is like a total makeup pro. She’s done my makeup for a number of events, like weddings and tailgates and nights out in Iowa City. I know that, after she’s made me up, I can look pretty and feminine. I know my eyes can “pop” and my skin can look flawless. But now I have to learn how to do that myself. I wouldn’t consider myself a “natural beauty”. You know those obnoxious girls who can wake up and look the same, or better, than they did during the day before? I’m not one of those. I wake up with bags under my eyes and little splotchy redness all over my face. I certainly don’t “glow” or look “dewy” or any of that nonsense. No, I am definitely one of the girls who looks better with some makeup.

So, I’m going to really give it a shot and learn how to put on makeup without looking like a hooker. I’m going to learn about “contouring” and “highlighting” and other crap. And I’m going to make it look natural, so everyone thinks that’s just how I look. Like, I came out of the womb with flushed cheeks, purply-pink eyelids, and cherry-stained lips. I’m going to really give it a shot. I’m going to learn how to do my own makeup and I’m going to learn how to do it well. I’m one step closer to being good at being a girl. It would seem that 2011 will look a lot better than 2010. Or, at least, I will look better.

Emoticon

What day is this? With my sleeping in, enjoying a leisurely breakfast with friends, and movie-watching today, I would have guessed it was a Saturday. So far, I’m definitely loving this whole staycation thing. I should do it more often. No stressful traveling, no packing, no dealing with crappy strangers. I’m home and I’m loving it.

I spent a lot of time today being sentimental, though. Emoting, if you will. Today would have been my niece Sophia’s fourth birthday, but she passed away from SIDS a few years ago. But every year on her birthday I think about her, and kind of count my blessings. I turn into a daylong Hallmark card. I definitely don’t think there’s anything wrong with that. Typically, I’m a cold, unfeeling, robot with little interest in being mushy.

I watched Marley and Me yesterday and didn’t cry. Not one single tear. I prefer killing the mice in my house to catching them and releasing them. I find it hard to sympathize with people with food allergies. I don’t let cars in front of me in traffic. I don’t trust people who volunteer too much, I don’t like to eat or shop locally, I won’t Start Seeing Motorcycles, and I think bad thoughts about people who stand too close to me at the bus stop. Also, I will never be a “mommy” to a pet.

But today, I’m a bundle of actual emotions - emotions that aren’t used to describe patients in a mental ward. I put on my softest pajama pants and spent a lot of time writing about the people I love. It felt pretty good. Despite the fact that this day is definitely a tough one, I couldn’t help but look up in the sky at the stars tonight and think about how lucky I am. I didn’t even shake my fist at the wintry blast stinging my face, or laugh at the bicyclist who nearly fell over because he was trying to BIKE through the SNOW.

I probably shouldn’t ball up all the good, mushy feelings for so long. I could give myself an ulcer. And if I’m not careful, I’m doomed to become a bonafide Grinch. It really shouldn’t be a rarity that I take the time to really appreciate the people I have in my life, and tell them I love them every once in awhile. I mean, it’s not like it makes me a bad person to be nice to others more often.

So today I’m mushy. I’m a marshmallow filled with clouds blowing bubbles. My Facebook status encouraged everyone to hug the people they love today. In the midst of all my cynicism and smack talking, I’m just going to use this day to prove that not only am I human, but we are ALL capable of these very real emotions and should embrace them. Don’t be afraid to pop in Armageddon and have a good cry, or be nice to a bad waitress, or admit you're wrong and apologize to someone, or just give your mangy dog a big, slobbery kiss. In the meantime, I’m going to sincerely wish you guys a great night. Tomorrow, though, it’ll be back to our regularly scheduled insults and unabashed cynicism.

Blogger Note: I haven’t gotten a chance to make it through all your Lifetime Movie Story Submissions yet. Turns out, people are pretty busy around the holidays, including yours truly. So you still have time to craft the perfect story. I’ll be declaring the winner in the new year! Get pumped, people…

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!

Wednesday Winner (For Real! There are Prizes!)

Well, I promised a big ol’ announcement, right? I had this big plan to do something FUN for a change, you know? Shake things up. Light a fire under everyone’s, well, you know what I mean…I wrote a bunch of words that eventually added up to something like “Something cool is about to happen, and you have to be a part of it or you’ll regret it on your death bed”. So, I’m kind of stuck with going through with it.

Hopefully I’ve piqued your interest. Because I’m taking a leap of faith here. I’m putting my hopes and dreams of a Lifetime movie-making career in your hands, Readers. I’m hereby holding a Lifetime (a.k.a. Cheesy) Movie Story Writing Contest!!!! That’s right, guys. For the next week, I’m going to hand the reigns of bad TV storyline writing over to you. I know you guys have the creativity, talent, and 5-10 minutes it takes to write a masterpiece.

Here’s the dealio: Go ahead and put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard, rather) and put together your best bad movie script. It can be a quick synopsis, a lengthy outline, a paragraph, or an entire story. Whatever. Just give me your best cheesy movie premise. Include character backgrounds, plot twists and a happy or horribly depressing ending. When you think you’ve got the best submission, send an email to me at: pharonsquare@gmail.com

>Make sure you put “Story of a Lifetime“ in the subject line, so I don‘t dismiss it as more fan mail, which I’m still anxiously awaiting to receive. (You can also submit it as on the Pharon Square Facebook page.) Send it anonymously or attach your name - I can‘t guarantee I won‘t hold it against you, though. The winner will be notified by email and will be able to start planning their parade at that time.

NOW: FOR THE PRIZES!! Okay, so first and foremost, your story (or at least a version of it, should I choose to do some creative editing) will appear as a guest feature on pharonsquare.com. Direct your friends to your genius! Put it on your resume! Scan it onto a t-shirt! Do whatever you want!

Secondly you’ll ALSO win some crazy awesome Pharon Square swag! Impress your friends when you show up to your next party with your very own, one-of-a-kind, Pharon Square t-shirt! (Disclaimer: the shirt is not one-of-a-kind. Others will be able to buy/win their own in the future.)

I’m expecting some crazy good stories here, people. Don’t let me down. This time next week, I’ll choose the winner, and they will enjoy the eternal fame and adulation that come with being featured on this prestigious blog. If you have any questions, post a comment or send an email.

Good luck, everyone!

Next on Lifetime TV: Snowplows of Hope

I watched a LOT of Lifetime TV this past weekend when I was snowed in. Like, so much that I should be embarrassed, but I don’t have the dignity to warrant such emotion. And to all you boys? I know. You don’t watch Lifetime. But I highly suggest you get in touch with this channel, as everyone needs a little Valerie Bertinelli in their life. Based on my newfound expertise on this channel, I’m thinking about submitting the following piece for production.

Place/Time: A nondescript Midwest town, after a heavy snowfall, circa 2010
Characters: Hope Rudetude, a bright young woman who has recently been undergoing therapy to deal with her complete emotional bankruptcy, and her childhood kidnapping and subsequent raping. And Chad Sadman, a snowplow driver whose work has suffered lately due to his chronic emotional breakdowns in light of the passing of his dog, Chance, and the infidelity of his ex-wife with his own father.
Cue narrator, James Earl Jones.

“What happens when a young, unemotional girl finds herself at the mercy of a mysterious, snowplowing stranger? Hope Rudetude is about to learn that sometimes, it’s okay to cry, and the mysterious stranger will find out that not every tear shed needs to be from sadness.”

Synopsis: Hope Rudetude is stuck in a snow bank outside her posh downtown apartment. She throws her hands in the air and exclaims, “OF COURSE! It just HAD to snow on the day I’m late to my mixed martial arts class!” She kicks the air around her in a frenzy of “haiYAHs!” Seeing this strange woman attack empty air, Chad Sadman feels a tear slip down his rough cheek. “She must feel so alone". He sniffs a little, wipes his dewy eye, and maneuvers his heavy snowplow through the treacherous snow. He pulls up next to her, “Can I help you out there, miss?” Their eyes lock. He, afraid of being rejected, starts to cry and looks away. She, overcome by the windy air, bats her damp eyelashes.

Cut to a montage of scenes where Chad and Hope are getting to know each other. Out for coffee, laughing at the museum, getting close at the movies, Hope teaching Chad some mixed martial arts moves, Chad sharing pictures of his beloved and dead companion Chance, and crying on Hope’s shoulder. His eyes are perpetually glassy and wet, her hands forever clenched in fists. They are a mismatch. Music is happy, light, jovial. Slowly, the music quiets. The scene fades out.

All of a sudden, the music swells up, and we see Hope throw a vase at Chad’s head, just barely missing him. The glass shatters in slow motion. Chad crumbles and sobs, “I just, I can’t go on without Chance! And I can’t stop being so sad because everyone will leave me, just like my ex-wife!” She yells “I love you, Chad Sadman, but I can’t BE who you want me to BE!” Quieter now, she says, “Not only was I kidnapped and raped by our mailman as a child, but I had all my emotional nerve centers removed so I could donate them to my twin sister who was about to die from apathy! I can’t FEEL because I LOVED HER TOO MUCH.” Hope crumbles to the ground, face red and eyes dry. Chad kneels by her side. He tilts her head up with his finger. “Then I will have to cry for the both of us, and you will need to be strong for both of us.” They embrace. Chad blinks away the tears. Hope wonders what is for dinner.

The next scene: A lovely Winter wedding. The newly married Mr and Mrs. Chad Sadman exchange their vows, share a kiss, and when they pull away, Chad smiles and dabs his eyes. He, finally, is happy and leans down to pet his new dog, Lucky. But as we close-up on Hope’s face, we see a single tear slip down her cheek. She touches the unfamiliar wetness, and looks up at Chad. She smiles, and at that very moment Hope realizes that though she cannot feel enough and Chad may feel too much, together, they feel perfectly. They ride off together in Chad's snowplow into the rest of their lives. Roll Credits, Cue Taylor Swift song.

OMG, sobfest! I’m going to try and line up Jodie Sweetin for the role of Hope Rudetude, and I think that guy from the last Bachelor (Jake Pavelka) would be a perfect Chad Sadman. I'd also like to throw in an unplanned pregnancy, temporary amnesia, and some sort of hilarious miscommunication. Once I get all those kinks worked out, if someone could pass this on to the fine folks at Lifetime, I’ll give you 5%.

***IMPORTANT!*** Make sure you "Like" Pharon Square on Facebook to take part in a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!!

Go Ahead...Make My Day

I got my hair cut tonight. Exciting, huh? I know, my life is sooooo glamorous. But sitting in that salon chair got me thinking. About what? I don’t know. Lots of stuff, I guess. One of those things was how much I babble when I’m sitting there. I used to go to the same girl over and over. But the conversations got stale, and she was one of those people who blasted my face with the hair dryer until I couldn’t breathe. Yeah, she got the boot.

So, now I visit the Aveda Instruction Salon from time to time, where the stylists are like not quite certified and they need live models. You know, like animal testing. Because let’s face it, people. I’ve got the hair of a hippie. It’s long, straight, and just kind of like there. It’s too thin to be luxurious, too fine to be voluminous. The point is, it’s not hard to cut my hair. Snip, snip, clip, clip, pay at the front desk. I used to spend $75 at the fancy salon with the cucumber water and complimentary micro-dermabrasion treatments in the lobby. And then I’d walk out looking much like I look tonight. But now, going to the teaching salon, I saved like $50. Sure, my hair wasn’t completely dry when I left, and it took like an hour-and-a-half to trim ¾ of inch off, but I participated in the teaching experience. And I’m proud of that.

Okay, so I’m sitting there, telling myself to just chill and play it cool. Before I knew it, though, I found myself telling this girl, who was all of 17, about all my personal issues. Family issues, living-arrangement issues, I just basically threw up on her. Poor Alexis. She handled it like a champ, though. And yes, I have a clump of my own hair in my mouth, but she was really very sweet.

Another thing I noticed, when my hair was all wet and matted down to my head, and my tiny pinhead was sticking out the top of a giant cape, was that I don’t wear enough make up. Or have a tan. And at the end of the work day, the make up that I DID have on had gradually made its way down my face and into thin air. I was a straight-up mess. I looked awful. I looked around at all the shiny haired, perfectly coiffed stylist girls, each with their fancy matching outfits and coordinated jewelry, and I just felt like an ogre. Salons are supposed to make you feel good. Aveda, in particular, is supposedly full of “Day Makers”. Not the case. I’d prefer my stylists homely and unfortunate with a jelly stain on their sweater. I’d feel GREAT there. Anyone know of a place like that?

So, then the big reveal came. She whips the cape off, spins me around and says, “So???? Whaddya think??” I always feel like I feel when the waiter opens a bottle of wine for me and stands there while I pretend to know what I’m supposed to say. I WANT to say, “Yeah. So…it’s shorter! And, it appears as though it’s shiny and clean. Thanks!” I don’t know what I’m looking for. I don’t know how carefully to inspect it, or how much I need to gush. I always ALWAYS overdo it. “OHMYGOD! I love it! It’s like I have different hair! This looks amazing!”

I left feeling like instead of having MY day made, I made HER day. And then I over-tipped because I can’t do math and panicked at the check out desk. I think I might consider going back to my old system of trimming my own hair after a glass of wine with dull scissors from the knife block in the kitchen.

Have a great weekend, everyone!

The Name Game

I’m going to come right out and say it. I want a nickname. Like a really bomb nickname. This weekend at Geo’s Frisbee party, I hung out with a room of guys I ONLY know by their nickname. And tonight, I watched Jersey Shore and they all have nicknames too. I’m jealous. All I want is a sick nickname. A sickname, if you will. But no. I’ve been Pharon my whole life.

There was a brief period of time when the guys I lived with called me P.H.-Dawg. It was a sorry attempt, because they had been calling Perek “P-Dawg” forever. So, I just got like the Xhilaration version of that. (Please tell me you know the brand Xhilaration. It’s the like generic brand of clothes at Target.) Eventually, and for like a couple weeks, they took to calling me “P.H.” I kind of liked it, but it was so vanilla. But, alas, they stopped calling me that anyways. And back to Pharon I went.

In middle school, I was known as “Pharon the Boy” for a couple traumatizing weeks. A couple jerks in my homeroom plastered the walls of the classroom with pieces of paper with a Microsoft Paint picture they drew of a boy, and on all of them, they wrote “PHARON THE BOY”. I walked in the room, my usual happy-go-lucky self, and my jaw dropped down to my Doc Martens. I seriously have NO idea why it started, but kids are cruel. I took it like a champ, though. Mercifully, this one eventually faded as well. Thank God.

In college, I sent in that little form to get some checks in the mail. They were going to be sooooo cute! Green pin stripes, I believe. So, I got the box of checks and went over to Madeline and Kelly’s house to show them off. (Luckily they are easily impressed.) I open the box of checks for them, very dramatically, and said “VOILA!” We took one look at them and Kelly burst out laughing. The checks were for PHARM. Sometimes Kelly still calls me Pharm. I think I’m even in her phone as Pharm. But again, it just didn’t stick.

As I mentioned a long time ago, my friend Claire calls me Papou. I actually do love that nickname. When she texts or Gchats me, she always says “Hey, Papou! How are YOU? What‘s NEW??” I love that! It rhymes, it’s cute, it’s not offensive, it didn’t stem from anything nasty. It’s perfect. But, she’s the only one who calls me that. It’s kind of our thing. But I want to walk into a party or business meeting and say, “Hey, what’s up? I’m Papou.” I can’t. No one else gets it.

But none of them stick! Can someone tell me how to get a nickname that actually STICKS? There’s like NO nickname for Pharon. It’s basically a nickname all in itself because it’s barely a real name. Curse this clever name! Can I just start one myself? Like, from now on everyone call me “Snooze”. Because I love to sleep, it rhymes with Booze, and, uh, my blog is Pharon Square, which rhymes with nightmare. When do you have a nightmare? When you’re taking a little snooze! I can’t believe no one else has thought of that!

Welp, this is Snooze, signing off…

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!