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.

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.

Happy Anniversary of the St. Valentine's Day Massacre!

Well, well, well. Here it is Valentine's Day, and this girl's got plans. Even though I've been dating someone on Valentine's Day for a number of years, I've never had the desire to really DO anything that exciting for it. Sure, a girl loves eating chocolate, but I hardly need an actual HOLIDAY to indulge. But this year, I forced this celebrated day of love into mine and Geo's schedules. Sweet, sweet, love.

I came home from work today to this, though:

Awwww! What an awesome boyfriend I have!

So, Geo and I are going to dinner. When I started nagging him about it last week, I don't think Geo was exactly stoked about it, but it turns out he's not as opposed to it as most guys. He recommended a dinner spot that would have cost more than my car insurance bill, so I could at least tell he didn't hate me for wanting to go out. We settled on a happy medium of good food/not going into debt for a meal. I even went out this weekend and bought a dress - an actual DRESS! - that I didn't even try on, so I can only guess that it will look fabulous. I also spent all day Sunday hunting for a Valentine's Day present (yes, it was very last minute, lay off me).  I ended up waaaay outside my comfort zone. I was the only chick to enter Golfsmith on a Sunday, and walked out after getting LOTS of help picking out white golf club grips. Nothing says "romance" like the purchase of a gift that will ensure we spend at least a few hours apart every week.

This fine day is also my anniversary of being friends with Kim. About ten years ago, Kim and I got together for the first time and threw an Anti-Valentine's Day party. We drew black hearts all over the place, bought V-Day decorations and ceremoniously cut them up, blacked out Cupid's teeth, and just celebrated hating this wretched day with friends. It was crazy fun. It was more fun hating the day than celebrating it.

It hasn't always been like that, though. I LOVED Valentine's Day when I was a kid. My mom would plan a nice dinner for all of us rugrats, and after soccer practice or band rehearsal, we'd all finally enjoy a great dinner together. We'd get to the table and my mom had always set the table with heart-shaped box of chocolates on each of our plates, and a little gift too. I think it was the only time of year I looked forward to getting new pajamas. And then we'd eat, and show each other our gifts and trade chocolates. I always LOVED that. I guess that's why I've always associated Valentine's Day with family, moreso than romance. Thus, the historical lack of forced romantic plans.

Even when Geo and I had our first Valentine's Day together, it couldn't have been more appropriately romance-less. Perek's girlfriend was out of town for the weekend, so Perek was flying solo.  Geo and Perek went and bought lobsters for each of us. Giant, live lobsters. Perek set his lobster on the ground and we watched it crawl around our kitchen. Hilarious. Then they killed the lobsters and they were deeeelicious. Geo and I brought our food upstairs to the office and enjoyed a "romantic" dinner there while Perek was downstairs. We opened our lobsters with wrenches. Yes, as in: actual monkey wrenches. Then we all regrouped and spent the rest of the night watching TV and playing a drinking game that consisted of tossing cards into a bowl across the room. Be Mine indeed.

So I don't know why I suddenly got the urge to be all sugary and sweet and romantic. It kind of came out of nowhere. Maybe it's the Spring-like weather outside, but I'm in the mood for some love. Or at least a fancy schmancy dinner while I play dress-up in a new dress.  And maybe it's the fact that I've been really trying to up my game this year when it comes to feminizing myself.  All the make-up and brushing of my hair must have shook something loose in my brain:  High Maintenance Girl Behavior.  Careful what you wish for, men...

On that note, I hope you have a wonderful Valentine's Day. And whether you're cutting up Cupids, or eating lobster with your friends, or sitting on the same side of a restaurant table with your lover (that's really annoying to everyone around you, by the way) exchanging "I love you's", or not doing anything at all, I hope you guys have a loverly Valentine's Day!

XOXOXOXO dudes!

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...

Geo Says

Good gravy. How am I so exhausted every Sunday night lately? I’m old, that’s how. I had a great weekend, and as usual, it’s over too quickly. One surprising change was that Geo had an unusual amount of input of my goings on this weekend. I dismissed many of his ideas, ‘cause I’m stubborn like that, but like a broken clock, he happened to be right a couple times.

Geo Says: On Friday night, “Let’s go play Settlers of Catan at KG’s house tonight.“ I say, “No thanks. Last weekend, I spent a night playing the nerdy, albeit very fun, game, but two weekends in a row? I have a reputation to think about, yo.“ So instead of risking my very cool, very social reputation by going with him on Friday night, I stayed in and watched a movie in sweatpants with my dear friend, Pinot Noir. Is that better? I sure think so.

Geo Says: On Saturday morning, “I’m going to go hang out outside and be the dog handler for KG at his skijoring race. Wanna come?” I say, “Skijoring? WTF is that?” Skijoring consists of harnessing oneself to a dog, whilst wearing skis (the person, not the dog) and racing for over 5 miles while the dog pulls you along in the freezing cold. I say “Outside? It’s cold out, though!” Geo says, “It’ll be fun, though!” I politely decline and proceed to paint my nails and watch TV with my other roommate Sanna instead.

Geo Says: Later on Saturday, I list my Wii on Craigslist. While I have a LOT of fun playing Wii when there are a ton of games to switch between (like my parents have), I’m just not married to mine. Plus, I want an Xbox Kinect. Really Pharon? Trading one gaming system for another? Ugh…you‘re such a nerd. Anyway, Geo says I should list it at a higher price and then be prepared to negotiate. I actually listened to him on this one. I have yet to have any takers, though. I’m guessing there aren’t as many suckers out there as I had hoped. But I guess it doesn’t hurt to try.

Geo Says: On Saturday night, “Let’s go to a movie. Also, maybe you should take a shower.” I say “I feel sick”. Geo says, “It’s all in your head.” I decide to take a shower, and it actually makes me feel much better. I ask Geo what movie he wants to see, and he says “How about No Strings Attached?” I say, “Uh, that’s a chick flick rom-com. Why do you want to see that?” Then I remembered that Geo ALSO wanted to see Black Swan, which is very unlike him. But I put two and two together and figured out that Geo loves Natalie Portman (Hahahaha! I just asked Geo if it was okay to say that he loves Natalie Portman, and he’s all “Yeah it‘s fine. I do. I love her.” with the kind of reverence I save for my adoration of Kate Spade. Then he goes, “Ugh, she‘s ENGAGED? Bummer.” and I think he‘s legitimately sad about it). We go to the movie, and while I’m not the least bit surprised by the plot, I AM surprised at how much I actually liked it. I laughed out loud way too much, and too loudly, much to the annoyance of my fellow moviegoers. It was just, well, it was just what I needed. It ended happily and it didn’t make my brain hurt from having to THINK. I don’t recommend rom-coms too often, because most of the time I don’t think it‘s worth the $24 to see it on the big screen. But this one? I will tell you to go see it. Go see it in sweatpants on a freezing cold night, with zero expectations, and after a stressful day. You’ll like it. Just don’t EXPECT to like it. What? Does that make sense? Whatever.

Geo Says: On Sunday morning, Geo announces he is going skijoring himself. I say he’s obsessed. He says “You’re obsessed with hanging out with your family.” I consider this for a minute, and decide he’s actually totally right on that one. I can’t go much more than a week without seeing at least ONE member of my family. But they are awesome, and today my mom and I had planned a fun little birthday party for Peter and Prinna. We pulled out all my parents Wii games (See? I TOLD you it was fun if you have a bunch of games) and had a big ol’ gamer tournament. My family is fun, and my mom always makes way too much yummy food, so I leave full and happy. And okay, I broke one of my New Year’s Resolutions - to NOT do laundry at my parents anymore - but I knew I was going to be there all day, and I am down to my last 3 pairs of mismatched socks. But okay, I actually AM totally obsessed with my family. He got that right.

Geo Says: Tonight, Geo asks me if I want to go out and get some ice cream and run to the grocery store. I silently pointed to my sweatpants and my full tummy, and he just sighed. But this time, HE followed MY lead. He plopped down on the couch next to me and keeps asking me what my blog is about tonight. I say: It’s about everything you’ve said to me this weekend. He looks at me quizzically and asks “What did I say?” Oh Geo, what didn’t you say?

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.

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!

The Way to A Podcaster's Heart...Is Not Through His Stomach (Thank God)

Today I was treated to a sneak-peek at the boys' pod cast. Perek, Mitch, Chad, and Geo have been in the process of developing, recording and editing their own pod cast and tonight I got to listen to it. Don’t be jealous, people. My early-adopter status comes after years of dedication to the guys. I’ve literally spent hours watching and re-watching the video of their Boys Trip to South Dakota. Oh, and also, I’m dating one of them. And another one of them is my brother. Whatever. I digress.

Anyway, back to their pod cast. I have to hand it to them. It’s really funny. And I actually learned some things. I can’t wait for the next one! As soon as it’s up and running, I’ll let you guys know. And for you male readers: You especially will love it, I promise. Okay, so they have this special segment every month where they each have to do a challenge for the next month. Then at the next pod cast, they share their results. I bring this all up because I didn’t know what this month’s challenge was until I listened tonight.

Here’s the gist of it. All the guys had to do something “altruistic” for their girlfriends/wives/someone special for a month. Without telling them. You know, fix something that they get nagged about and see what happens. Cleaning, morning routines, etc. So, on comes Geo. He mentioned, with NO prompting, that I do not nag. That I really don’t bug him about anything. I’m just that great of a girlfriend. Okay, Geo, major major points there. So, Geo’s challenge was simply to accept food when I offered it. Rough, right?

Let me try and explain what makes this “challenging”. Geo and I are Jack Sprat and his wife. I gain weight after just looking at a bagel. Geo has the metabolism of a hummingbird who‘s on a steady diet of 5 Hour Energy. Needless to say, we eat very different meals. Geo’s McDonald’s, I’m egg whites. And one of the oddest things Geo has ever said is that he doesn’t like cold food. He says “Every food is better hot, and everything hot is better.” Therefore, no salads. No carrot sticks. Not even a sandwich at Subway. And that’s like, 50% of my diet.

The problem with Geo’s “challenge” was that, because I’m not insane I have long since stopped asking Geo if he wants to try the low-fat, low-sodium wontons I make. Or the caprese salad with the perfect amount of balsamic drizzled on top. What it boiled down to is that all he “had” to eat was homemade grilled pizza, some Caesar salad, and some Asian-style chicken skewers that he actually already likes. Again: Rough, right?


I don’t know if I should be flattered or very insulted. I mean, on the one hand, it’s nice to know that I am not a naggy girlfriend, and that I really have no complaints about Geo. He really is amazing. But on the other hand, Geo basically had to force himself to eat my cooking. Is that a win? I mean, I guess I’ll take it. Come to think of it, I’ll gladly give up my responsibilities to feed others. I’ll take it as my reward for not nagging. Here’s a secret, too. I don’t even really like cooking. I’m not all that good at it. It’s really hard for me. I frequently burn things (and once set a pot of oil on fire), and the only thing I know about measurement is that a pint’s a pound the world around which has virtually no importance in the kitchen.

The point is, I’m really excited to be able to share their pod cast with you when it’s ready. I know you guys will all love it as much as I do. Plus, I’m going to go ahead and assume they’ll probably say awesome things about me every episode. It'll take up like half the episode, I'm sure. Well, unless it’s about how to cook anything more complicated than cereal.

Whoa, Man.

You know what’s no fun? Getting punched in the face. I was punched once. I took it upon myself to nobly try and break up a fight, and stood between a fist and a man, and it did not go well. Right in the kisser, as they say. Immediately, the crowd around me tackled the guy who had thrown the punch (intended for the other dude) and made him pay. I’ve made it a point ever since then to avoid both fights and fists.

So last night, Geo and I were joking around and I punched him in the arm. He (very lightly) punched my arm right back. “OW! You can’t hit me! I’m a girl!” I yelped. And I punched his arm even harder than before. How is this fair? I, and pretty much all women, have this invisible force field around us at all times. We could punch a guy right in the face, and he can’t do anything. It’s like we are playing tag, and the women are always safe on base.

I don’t know who worked up the pretty sweet deal that women have these days. (CAVEAT! I know that not all women enjoy the freedoms we have. I know that there are exceptions, there’s discrimination, there’s all kinds of things that happen every day to women, simply because they ARE WOMEN. But, it’s almost the weekend, and I’m taking the light-hearted approach, so take it easy).

As I was saying, we’ve got a pretty sick deal going on. A woman can have any job she wants. She can play professional sports, she can invent something scientific-y, she can write the world‘s best novel, she can stay home with her kids if she wants, or she can skip having kids altogether. All that’s there. But there are things that women enjoy every day that I think people take for granted. So, before any one goes crazy and starts talking about women being the exact same as men, take a minute and consider these things we‘d have to give up:

1) It’s still typically frowned upon if we pay on the first date. The fact that we even do that whole “oh, here, let me pretend to dig out my wallet that I better not have to use” thing is more than enough.

2) As mentioned above, we can hit a guy whenever we’d like, and not get hit back. This is really a great thing for me, because I’m bettin’ that there’s a whole gang of people who would haul off and smack me daily if it weren’t so against nature.

3) Every single month, we can say and do whatever we’d like for the week Aunt Flo’s in town. “Don’t blame me for setting all your clothes on fire, honey! I can’t help it! IT’S BIOLOGY!”

4) Men have to give up their seat to us on a crowded bus. Even if he works for a women and she pays his salary, he’ll have to stand and watch as she nestles her well-dressed booty into his seat.

5) Men still open doors for us, pull out our chair at a restaurant, and pay for our plastic surgery.

Are men suckers now? Is that what’s happening? I mean, I wish I could have been at the meeting where all this was decided.

“Okay, ladies. So here are the new rules: women can do anything we want. We don’t have to shave anymore, we can vote, we don’t have to obey our husbands, and we definitely won’t stand for being discriminated against at a job. That’s all well and good. Lovely. Wait, what’s that? Oh, yes, definitely. Old rules still apply as well. No hitting us, we birth children so a man’s pain will never EVER be comparable, and, if the ship is sinking, it’s still women and children first. We good? Great. Let‘s go out for manis/pedis.”

I mean, I love it, don’t get me wrong. But doesn’t it seem a little unfair? It almost feels like we’re cheating a bit. It would make sense if women were, say getting $.25 less than a man at a job. I’d consider that like INSURANCE AGAINST BODILY HARM. But given that the playing field is getting more and more even, I better start watching my mouth and minding my manners. Some day someone’s going to catch on to this. And on that day, I anticipate a lot of punches. Until then, though? I’m going to milk this for all it’s worth…

Yes, this is a very lame video, but it’s the best recording, so just close your eyes…

Sole Search

The good news is: I made it through the weekend alive. It was incredibly rejuvenating, and exhausting, being with great friends and laughing until my stomach hurt.

The bad news is, once left alone, I went ahead and fell in love. His name? Metallic Gray Stilettos (I think it‘s Dutch). Anyway, these shoes found their way into my heart this morning, and I’ve been obsessing every since. I can’t stop dreaming about outfits they’d complete, jeans they’d transform, and the adrenaline rush I got holding them in my hands. But, like many summer romances, that rush had to end. I wore them around the store, with my dirty red pants cuffed up to my knees, and I knew the second I looked at the price tag, this was but a fling.

I’m not the kind of girl who spends ridiculous amounts of money on shoes. I’m pretty sure I’ll never own a pair of Christian Louboutins. I can’t afford that kind of love. But I’ll salivate over the Gucci heels Victoria Beckham wears, and secretly kiss the Jimmy Choos featured in Vogue. I mean, they are positively tasty.

Guys may not appreciate the love a girl has for the leathery deliciousness wrapped around a foot. Last summer, I asked Geo to bring me a pair of shoes at work when we were on our way to a party. I specifically said “the black heels, with the little braid-y thing up the foot.” He showed up with a bag of 4 different pairs of black heels, with little braid-y things up the foot. He was astonished. “How could you have 4 pairs of shoes that are identical?” I was shocked. They were NOT identical. One pair has a strap around the ankle that I only wear with pants, another has an extremely skinny heel that only works when worn for very short periods of time, then there’s the patent leather pair, and finally the ones with tiny silver accents. See? Tooooootally different.

The guys I know have a similar relationship with their baseball hats, for example. You don’t have to explain it to me guys, I know. Each gnarly baseball hat serves a different purpose. One has the best fit, another is your favorite color, another your favorite team, and another one that’s just funny. I’ve known guys who actually have a “formal” baseball hat. The point is, I have zero baseball hats. I don’t see why you need 12 different hats, but hey, that’s just how you roll. I get it.

I’m ridiculous, I know. I’m still pining for the pair of Marc Jacobs Mary Jane’s (that’s a style of shoe, guys. Strap across the top of the foot. Very Catholic-schooly) that I found on CLEARANCE for almost HALF of what they were worth last year, and didn‘t buy them because I was trying to be “responsible“ with money. But oh my God. Perfect height heel, perfect patent leather black, and only one size left. Size 6. MY SIZE. I am obsessed with my shoe size. It’s display shoe size. That’s amazing. I’m not “display size” in anything. But with shoes, I can walk around any store and slip into any shoe I’d like. My shoe size never changes. I don’t have “fat foot days”, my feet are the most reliable thing about me. It’s so easy to find shoes that look cute on small feet, too.

But back to these shoes. If you didn’t know, gray is the new neutral. I mean, I can pretty much wear them with anything. It would almost be irresponsible NOT to buy them. But I’m giving myself 24 hours to decide. I’m going to take the time to weigh the options of paying my phone bill or buying a pair of shoes. Just don’t be surprised if you try and call me later this month and you can’t get through.

New Thoughts, New Roommates

Much like the weather in Minnesota, my living situation has changed, again.

After a long day of stifling heat, now it’s raining, our house is cooling off, and the perks of a female-dominated home are really coming to fruition.

Our new roommate Tina moved in last week, and the house is clean. It smells good. The TV is off, and Tina and her boyfriend just opened a bottle of wine. Tina and I are chillin’, Sanna is probably reliving her day at work where she served coffee and a turkey sandwich to THE Josh Harnett. (Apparently, he is even cuter in real life. Swoon!) The boys are just chatting about the good ol’ days of playing Halo in college. And now there is talk of playing Scrabble.

This is nothing like living with boys. Again, I want to reiterate my preference of living with boys, but nights like this really give the male species a run for their money. I can’t remember the last time any of my roommates were all in the same room, talking, no TV, playing some nice, wholesome board games.

Something keeps tugging at me though. The TV remote? Facebook? The desire to perform senseless acts of push-ups? I don’t know, but it’s almost a little alarming at how quiet and peaceful our house is right now. I’m used to the sounds of ESPN, or arguing about politics, or just general noise. So now that everything is as I used to believe it should be, it strikes me as odd that I’m so distracted by the sheer newness of it all. Also, the boys talking about Halo makes me want to play Halo. And that, my friends, is something I just don’t typically do.

There’s no competition around me. There’s no testosterone brimming at the edge of every comment. I have a feeling that if I wanted to, I could talk about my feelings, and people just might listen. Is it wrong that I feel a little out of place?

But then again, maybe being around all that masculinity has tamed my feminine prowess to the point of non-existence. But I have a dress on right now, people. And I like it. Sure I’m sipping a cold beer, but I’m doing it with jewelry on. I don’t know, I think this is a good thing. I think I need to regain some feminine skills, like communication and compassion. And showering.

And just now I realized that this might just work after all. Sanna turned on the TV, the Scrabble game seems to be getting quite tense, and I’m sitting in front of the fan while the wind blows up my dress without a care in the world. If men are from Mars, and women are from Venus, I do believe I may have found Earth. (Plus, neither Tina nor Geo had any problem telling me how dumb that last line was, and it felt good.)

Ya, Sure, You Brettcha

Big news today, everyone. Like him or not, it’s been reported that Brett Favre is retiring from football. I’ve already been angry and sad today. Currently, I’m suffering through the stage of Denial. I believe Bargaining comes next.

Before you go tuning me out completely because this is sports-related, and even worse Minnesota sports-related, let me get something very clear. I hate ESPN, I have no idea who won the Super Bowl 2 years ago, and I couldn’t tell you one athlete’s name on any college sports team.

I have no retention of memory when it comes to sports. I am not one of those people who can pull facts and statistics out of their butt whenever the time calls for it. Or even when it doesn’t. I will, however, watch about 5-10 minutes of sports and then go Fact-Dropping to anyone within earshot as long as it happens that same day. Tomorrow, I’ll probably forget who even played.

Now, I don’t want to go selling myself too short here. I know the rules of the games I watch (primarily football and baseball). I know what’s good, what’s bad, and what’s just plain stupid. I know the great athletes on my team and the team’s record for the year. I have a lot of basic knowledge knocking around inside my head. And I yell at the players as much as any psycho who paints his chest and goes to a game in -30 degree weather (I was a cheerleader, after all).

Case in Point: I was watching a Vikings game two seasons ago with my friend Kim (pre-Favre). At the time, I was living with the three boys. However, on that day, I was under the impression that it was just me and Kim at my house. The Vikings were stumbling their way down the field pathetically. Then Tavaris Jackson (QB at the time) launches this huge rocket towards the end zone. The football just plummeted to the ground and I jumped up and screamed, “COME ON! UGH!! WE HAVE NO F%^&*$G RECEIVERS!” (sorry, Mom. Twas but a rare lapse in my otherwise eloquent and advanced vernacular) and just generally emphasized my displeasure with the team’s lackluster performance for several minutes.

All of a sudden, Perek came out of his room, looked around, and said “Who are you trying to show off for?” I was bright red. I hadn’t intended anyone besides Kim to be privy to my tirade. I don’t want to show off for people. I know I embarrass myself more than anything when I open my mouth, but I just can’t help it sometimes. I get realllly into games. I don’t get all bogged down by facts, performance statistics, and all that other garbage . I’m about 40% knowledge and 140% passion.

This is why Brett leaving MN is so lame. It’s like Randy Moss leaving MN all over again (he, for those who don’t know, is one of the greatest receivers to ever play, and he played for the Vikings from ‘98-‘05. He happened to have a tiny problem keeping his ego in check. People hated him. I loved him. I still wear his jersey during Vikings games). Anyway, guys like Brett and Randy make games exciting. They know how to play well, and when they do, I get to cheer for them, rather than yell at them, and that is a very good thing.

Anyway, my hope is that Brett Favre doesn’t leave. I hope he stays one more season, leads the Vikings to a Super Bowl victory, then runs for governor of Minnesota. Skol, Brett Favre. Skol.

Misogy-neato!

This weekend, I went to Prinna’s to help her and my mom redecorate her laundry room. And by “help” them, I mean that I painted one corner of the floor and then played with my nieces while Prinna and my mom did all the actual work. After all the final pieces were arranged, we collapsed down on the couches to enjoy some quiet and a quick Movie on Demand. Now don’t ask why, because I don’t know, but Prinna chose the movie Gidget, made in 1959, starring the perfectly perky Sandra Dee. If you don’t already indulge in old movies like this, I highly suggest you start. Immediately. Gidget did not disappoint. It had all the elements of a great, old movie:

* The now-clichéd premise: A gang of surfer dudes adopt a young, totally square, unwomanly, naïve girl into their group, take her under their wings and teach her to surf. The girl, who they nickname Gidget, falls hard for the bad boy - the awesomely named Moon Doggie - and after a string of hilarious missteps and gaffes, the girl gets the guy. There’s a sunset, a kiss, and a radical happy ending.

* The simple characters. First there’s Moon Doggie and Gidget, there’s the weathered beach bum Kahuna, the mom who makes a hot dinner every night promptly at 5 p.m., the disciplinary dad who brings home the bacon, and a gaggle of other nameless lackies who pepper the beach with high-fives and pseudo-sexist comments.

* There’s the always-necessary beach party (or, as Kahuna refers to it, an orgy).

* The horrible green screen work and special effects. Kahuna “surfs” while wearing a sombrero-type hat thing and smoking a cigarette. The “ocean” looks more like a lake with all the seaweed and brown stuff in the water that they couldn’t photoshop out. And, best of all, Prinna saw the budgetary restrictions in full effect at the beach party scene. There’s a totally outrageous band of brass players playing their happy-go-lucky rebel rock, and all the ne’er-do-well kids are alternating between smooching and jitterbugging on the beach. Crazy orgy, indeed! During one of the dancing scenes, one of the guys in the background hurls his “girl” up in the air, and she comes crashing down onto the beach. Upon closer inspection, we discovered that the “girl” is a stuffed dummy, as are many of the other party goers. Who needs paid extras?!

*Finally, it had the kind of message that a gal like me just loves. The message is literally crocheted on a napkin-thing, framed, and hung on Gidget’s bedroom wall. “A girl becomes a woman when she brings out the best in a man.” Ahhh…sweet, sweet misogyny.

The old movies that I love have most of these elements in common. I can’t explain why I love movies that promote, nay enforce, such a different view on life than I have. It’s all about getting the man to love you, to cook him a great dinner, and to look great and be sweet while doing it. If these were the standards today, I’d fail miserably. Sure, I’ve got the guy. But I can’t cook, I can barely apply make up, and I’d never bite my tongue if some dude on the beach told me I belonged in the nursery (yes, this an actual BURRRNNN in Gidget).

Nevertheless, I’m pretty sure I’ll watch Gidget again. I’m pretty sure I’ll actually seek out movies like this and watch them on a rainy day in my pajamas while sipping a glass of wine and not doing dishes or laundry. It doesn’t get any more escapist than that!

Behind every group of guys...

So to make this easier for everyone, I drew that handy little flow chart up there. It’s how Perek, Geo, Mitch, Chad, and I are all connected (I obviously have the cutest outfit…). I intend to prove here that I am a big factor in the reason the 4 boys have stayed friends after college and are now embarking on a hilarious podcast together that will, no doubt, achieve critical acclaim everywhere. Therefore, I should get a cut.

For example, every group of friends has a Fall Guy. You know, the one that the others rag on, make fun of, those kinds of things. I was the Fall Guy. When all the boys were playing Guitar Hero and passing expert songs without even batting an eye, I was the one playing on Medium, struggling with through the two-note chords. They’d offer me suggestions, ways to improve, and then “show me” how to do it. Instant ego-boost for them.

I brought girls to parties. They all have a mess of guy friends, but I’d bring the token girl friends that made them actually put on a clean shirt.

Women have a good aesthetic eye, too. Nevermind the fact that I add knick knacks to a room like nobody’s business, but I have a framed, original print of the iconic Farrah Fawcett, in her orange swimsuit that I very proudly insisted on displaying in our main room. You’re welcome, boys!

I noticed things, too. New haircut? I like it. Did you get a new cologne? Smells good. Have you been doing P90 X? Wow! You can tell! Who doesn’t like having a person notice, and then compliment on, things like that?

I’ve also made them brownies, cookies and cupcakes sometimes, which they all happily ate.

Also, I mean, come on. I’m the girl! When one of them would come home from a date, I would listen to how it went. I would ask the questions the other boys wouldn’t. Here’s a secret: deep down, every boy wants to talk about their date. And not just stuff like “we totally made out” either. They want to talk about what the girl ate, whether he was nervous, and what they talked about. It’s a fact, ladies. Guys talk about dates in much the same way girls talk about dates.

Now, to be fair, these guys are all above-par dudes. They care about what people think, they are kind, they are funnier together than any group of people I’ve ever known in my life. They’re smart, and they’re always looking to learn more. But, without me, they might not know this about themselves and drift apart in search of other guys who are a little lost and just need someone to fart with.

So yeah, when they get their podcast up and running, and you start subscribing to Good Guys To Know, think of me. Think of the hours I put in gently massaging their egos, and encouraging their comedy and hijinks. Therefore, I hereby demand a 15% cut of any podcast profits.

Can I Get That Recipe?

Something was rotten in the state of Minnesota. A couple days ago, my roommate Sanna and I noticed a gnarly smell coming from the kitchen. As we were poking around the bags of bread and chips trying to locate the cause the cause of the funk, I said “Ew. The last time I smelled something this bad, Perek had a bag of potatoes that had rotted and liquefied in back of the cupboard.” Lo and behold, we discovered a bag of rotten potatoes. Liquefied.

How can this happen not once but twice, you ask? It’s not like our kitchen is dirty. We wash the counters, throw away garbage, wash the dishes. But we have very limited counter space, and only three shelves available for food storage. So food gets lost sometimes.

So the first time I found funky potatoes, we had all been smelling something gross for a few days. Upon a deeper search, I found them way in the back of Perek’s shelf, behind boxes of pasta, cans of beans, and a jar of peanut butter. The bag of what had previously been potatoes was now a thick, gooey, sludge that ran down the back of the cupboard. I tied a tshirt around my face, covered my hands in Ziploc bags, and spent 20 minutes scrubbing the “potatoes” off the shelf. Gagging the whole time. This was back when I lived with the three boys, and they all sat in the living room playing Halo while I cleaned. Turns out, they decided they could stand the smell. Since I couldn't, I was the one who had to tie on the t-shirt.

But now it’s officially happened twice. The fact that the same problems happen whether I live with 3 boys or 1, leads me to believe the problem is not just Testosterone’s clever habit of neglecting cleaning. Clearly, the problem is that food just expires too quickly and in entirely too disgusting of a way. We need to do something about this, people!

Chicks and Balance

I got a much-needed shot of estrogen tonight. My friends Lana and Valerie and I hung out and enjoyed some champagne and lemonade cocktails with some delicious fruit and chocolate treats from Lunds. Yum! The three of us sat and chatted about friends, boyfriends, husbands, interior design, fun kitchen gadgets, and all that good stuff. It’s good for my soul, I think. I just don’t get the opportunity to indulge all that much.

I’ve always been more of the Girl Who Hangs Out With the Guys. I like (most) sports, I know a thing or two about building desks, I don’t typically talk at length about the details of my day, and I’m usually pretty content with doing nothing at all. I don’t even mind video games that much. In fact, I welcome the distraction sometimes. I can appreciate and tell pretty dirty jokes, and most importantly, I can get made fun of for wearing ugly shoes and not spend an hour crying in the bathroom. I think that’s why I’ve always preferred to live with guys. They aren’t complicated. They make sense to me.

But there is something to be said about Girls Night. A little “I'm freaked out about...” or “I don’t know what to do about…” never hurt anyone, and having a girl friend or two to bounce that back is refreshing. At first when I showed up tonight, Lana asked “So what’s new?” I said “Oh, not much” out of habit. But 3 ½ hours later, I’ve spilled my guts, and they’ve listened to every word. They don’t judge, they don’t dismiss or make fun of me, and they don’t criticize. Meanwhile, I’m totally enthralled in Valerie’s attempt at helping her boyfriend choose furniture, and checking out all the fun wedding stuff Lana got. It’s like the chocolate raspberry mascarpone we devoured tonight. I love it. I don’t eat it every day, but when I do, I enjoy every bite.

It’s all about balance, people. A healthy diet needs both the comfort foods and the good-for-you foods. So, my comfort meal of “wearing pajamas until 3 p.m. while watching football and drinking beer” can only be maintained if I can fit in the “put on matching clothes and do my hair in order to be presentable in public to meet articulate, smart ladies and have an actual discussion” part. As if to illustrate my point, a ginormous bug literally just crawled across the table, and I screamed like, well, a girl before smooshing it with a ping pong paddle and inspecting the carnage…balance.

The Man Plan

I’m live blogging directly from the Party Planning Headquarters - our house. We are hosting a Minute to Win It party tomorrow night at our house. (Based on the TV show of the same name. It’s basically a bunch of minute-long games where you try and do pretty straightforward challenges. Complete them in a minute or less, and you move on). It’s 11:00 p.m., and the boys who are planning the party (my roommate/boyfriend, my brother, and their friend Chad) just got home and are ready to begin preparations. It’s become wildly clear that men and women plan parties verrrrry differently.

The meeting is kicked off when the guys get home from Target, and dump a shopping bag full of ping pong balls on me. “Yeaaaa!“ they exclaim. Meeting shall come to order.

They each open a beer and get to work. “Planning” consists of playing all the games that we’ll play tomorrow - just to make sure they are doable. They talk about how much beer we‘ll need. They decide on the best Buzzer noise to use when a minute is up. So far, no talk of decorations, hors d’oeuvres, or ice-breakers. None of the bowls, plates, and boxes they are using match at all.

As they move from event to event, they decide to drink a beer before each one. Performance is suffering. Tables are leveled, trash is talked, logistics are calculated. Still, not one mention of crepe paper or cute things to do for a welcome sign. What will people think when they get here, and there are NO decorations?! No appetizer table?! The humiliation…

I’m fighting the urges to comment on the zillion things I would do differently. The suggestions are spilling around in my head. “Why don’t you…”, “maybe you should…” and then they all start laughing hysterically. A banana hangs from a string around Chad’s waist, and the buzzer goes off. In between man-giggles, one of them gasps, “this is going to be the best party ever!” and they all emphatically agree. And somehow, even though there is no themed music mix made, and no creative ways of displaying the ice and straws, I’m pretty sure they’re right. (OMG, seriously, WHAT is that smell?!)

An Urban Fairy Tale

So, the time has come to once again start looking for a new roommate. And today, I thought about when I moved in to this house with my brother, his friend, and another boy.

It all started with a happy girl, her brother, his friend, and a dream. A dream that would take her from the humdrum confines of quiet suburbia into the hustle and bustle of the big city. The beautiful girl, her brother, and his friend were living in a place too small for all their hopes of hosting kick-ass theme parties. So, that wonderful girl spent hours searching Craigslist and visiting places that, as Goldilocks once discovered, were just never quite right. Until she tiptoed into the fancy neighborhood they had all but dared to dream of. She peeked inside the windows and saw the original hardwood floors, the beautiful dark crown molding, and the 2 entire levels from which they could each spread their wings. And though hesitant at first, the two boys finally realized what that spectacular little girl already knew. They had found their home.

On moving day, a curious creature appeared. Next to her brother and his friend stood another boy. A boy that the gorgeous little girl immediately did not like. Turns out, the Wonderland Castle was too expensive for three people. “There shall be a third boy living with us, and the four of us shall be happy” declared the boys. The furniture went in, the ping pong table was set up, a keg was procured, and yet the bright girl was sad. She was outnumbered. The boys did not care about her new shoes, or her hair cut. They liked their new roommate the best. They started watching sports with him, instead of the dating shows she so loved. They could no longer stand the sound of the remarkable girl filing her perfect nails, and she was shunned up to the highest tower of the castle (okay, yeah it was technically her room, but still).

The weeks went by. The three boys tested her seemingly endless patience time and again. If she was reading quietly, they came home and talked loudly about stocks and other trivialities. If she spent the whole day washing the dishes, she would soon learn there were more hidden under the couches.

But then something happened. Something terrible. One morning, the eternally-youthful girl saw a hideous beast tear across the kitchen floor. Oh no! The mice had come to stake their claim. She screamed for help. As the girl stood on the couch, fearing for her life, the boys took control. They hit one mouse on the head with a wine bottle, they squished one under a giant Tupperware container. They set the traps, then they took out the garbage when it contained a slain mouse, and the girl was no longer afraid. And something changed. She began to enjoy their company. They grilled her food and she made them brownies. She laughed at their disparaging remarks, they laughed at her inability to do math, and alas, they were happy.

As the weeks turned into months, then into years, something changed again. The extraordinary young girl and the strange boy who lived down the hall went to lunch. One night, they watched a movie. They chatted about hardships over cold beers. They commiserated in their shared hatred of bananas. He went shopping with her, and she watched his Frisbee games. One day, the strange boy asked the clever and intelligent girl on a date. And then another. And another. And the best part about the whole story? Nothing else changed in the enchanted castle.

Until the brother and his friend had to move out. But the moral of this story is change is only bad until someone saves your life from hideous, probably rabid, mice.