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.

Dear Crabby

I've gotten a lot of really awesome questions lately. I've reworked them and offered my two cents, whether they like it or not. Have a question? I've def got the answers!

Dear Pharon Square,

I have a coworker who has this habit of petting my hair. She'll come up to my desk, or while I'm talking to someone else and just pet my hair. I spend a lot of time washing and drying my hair every day, so there's no need for her to man-handle my dome. I feel like a monkey getting the once-over from a beau monkey. Any tips to get this girl off my proverbial back?

Sincerely,
Picked On

Dear Picked On,

Gross. That's gnarly. Based on my conversations with a few friends, though, it sounds like it's a pretty common problem. My question is: Who raised these people who think it's all good to get all up people's business? Guh! Anyway, you're correct to feel uncomfortable. This person is not right. I think, though, it's not necessarily worth a big ol' discussion with the offender. You don't need to have a whole sit-down and discuss your boundaries with her, because it's not like she's your pal. No. Instead, maybe just karate chop her hand the next time she gets anywhere near your head. When she coils back like a snake, apologize, and say "Sorry, I've been really involved in Mixed Martial Arts lately, and sometimes, my muscles just have minds of their own." Then shrug your shoulders and walk away. Smiling. She'll never touch your head again.

Dear Pharon Square,

So, I'm a teen mom. I've been struggling with my baby's father to keep up with his child support, because he's all "I spent it all on a tattoo of a can of PBR on my bicep." How can I work things out with him so that we can provide a loving, safe environment for our child?"

XOXOXO,
Teen Mom

Dear Teen Mom,

Step One: Purchase Time Machine. Step Two: Develop some common sense. Step Three: Avoid this entire situation. No access to a time machine? Okay, Plan B. Contact MTV immediately. They thrive on teen drama.

Dear Pharon Square,

My boyfriend is driving me nutso! He plays video games all the time, and never wants to do things I want to do, like go to museums or have long walks on the beach. How can I tell him that spending time alone with me is just as fun as shooting fake people on a video game???????

Thanks,
Girlfriend Who Wants More Cuddling Time

Dear GWWMCT,

First of all, let me start by saying that video games are built into a guys DNA. Don't fight it. Embrace it. Maybe learn how to play the game, and then his fun hobby turns into YOUR fun hobby. Admittedly, playing a shooter game is not very fun unless you have hours of time on your hands with which to waste learning how to move two doo-hickeys at the same time just to move your video guy forward. But trying to learn says a lot. It says "This little habit of yours isn't the saddest thing ever". Plus? Talking on the headset thingamabob is really fun. No other guy who is playing the game is ever expecting to hear a girl's voice, so you can have lots of fun messing with them. That being said, if the alternative to playing video games is a museum? Thanks, but no thanks. Think of something more fun.

Dear Pharon Square,

No matter how much I scrub my dishes and pots and pans, they're always dull and gross. I feel like they're never quite clean. They get spots and little marks all over. Is there a product you recommend to get rid of the spots? Or should I be using a different technique? What can I do?

Love always,
OCD in NYC

Dear OCD,

Throw all your dishes away. Start fresh.

Do you guys have a question for Pharon Square? Go ahead and send your problemos to pharonsquare@gmail.com. I've got an opinion on everything, so chances are, I will either hate or love your question. Care to take a chance?

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.

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?

Twelve Drinks of Christmas

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

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

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

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

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

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

Under my Umbrella. Ella. Ella.

Yesterday, my mom inquired as to what was on our Christmas wish lists. I’m kind of the Queen of Christmas Wish Lists. I’ll send my mom a huge long list of everything from a Dyson vacuum to refrigerator magnets. And I include links to the exact items. I cover every size, price range, and availability. I think my success of Christmas lists is due to a combination of my love for making lists and my need for everything under the sun. Anyway, my mom asks what we want. I say “I really want a nice, sturdy, adorable umbrella.” She scoffed at the suggestion, and said “An umbrella? In winter? That seems highly unnecessary.” I countered by explaining that standing at the bus stop in winter is a wet job, and sometimes it’s easier to hold an umbrella over my head than worry about ruining the 5-minute hairstyling job I’ve done by putting on a hat. Again, she dismissed the suggestion.

Then, today it rained. Behold! I needed an umbrella. I had to resort to using my super adorable green umbrella. Unfortunately, one of the little sprongy things that holds the umbrella up broke, and now one side limps down over me like sad, soggy bread. And suprisingly, the Scotch tape method I used to repair it has proven to be highly ineffective. I returned from my lunchtime trip to the library with a soaking wet right shoulder. Good thing I didn’t do my hair this morning…

Umbrellas are wonderful and horrible contraptions. They are a great accessory. And I like spinning them around in my hands, spraying water all over unsuspecting passersby. Huh. I typed that and just now realized how rude that must be. But just try carrying books, a purse, a shoulder bag, a cup of coffee and an umbrella through gale force winds and torrential downpours. It doesn’t work. I have considered, a number of times, buying a hands-free umbrella. You know…the kind that you wear on your head? They are a little small, though. Someone should work on improving on that concept. Plus, I don’t know if you know this or not, but umbrellas get wet. Trying to fold it back up without dripping all over yourself is a science I have not yet mastered.

Back when I was living with the boys, Perek, Geo and I were standing at the front door, getting ready to go somewhere. Perek decided to play with one of those spring-loaded umbrellas and he held the bottom of it at his shoulder like a shotgun. He positioned the top of the fully-extended umbrella millimeters away from Geo’s nose. Then, he pushed the top backwards to reclick it closed. He pressed the button to shoot the umbrella forward. Success! It stopped at the same dangerously close distance to Geo’s nose.

Then Geo grabbed the umbrella from Perek, and wanted to do the same thing. He held it up to his shoulder in the same shotgun-style way Perek had, and positioned the tip of it right at Perek’s nose. But when Geo started to push the umbrella closed to "cock it", he secretly inched it forward so he could really "scare Perek". He ended up shooting the umbrella full-force into Perek’s face. Perek screamed “YOU DIDN'T CALIBRATE! YOU DIDN’T CALIBRATE!” One: What a stupid game for guys to play. Two: Who uses the phrase “calibrate” in this kind of situation? Three: I almost wet my pants from laughing so hard.

Oh, BOYS. What would we do without them? I would have never gotten over the laughing fit if Geo had actually broken Perek's nose. But the resulting trip to the hospital would definitely have made us late for whatever we were on our way to do, and I have every reason to suspect we were on our way to the bar or something similarly pressing.

Anyhoozle, the moral of this story is that I need a new umbrella. That, or I need to wear a plastic bag over my right shoulder. Mom – I’ll revise my wishlist. I’d like EITHER an umbrella OR a plastic bag.

But It FEELS Much Later

So did you all turn your clocks back? I hope so. How awkward to be the only person in the office for an hour only to realize you could have still been sleeping in your nice, cushy bed still. I almost can’t wait to go to sleep tonight, and it’s only like 9:00.

I’m definitely okay with going back to routine tomorrow. I had another awesome weekend. I spent Friday night with the fam, playing poker, and drinking wine. I watched the Hawkeye game with Kim on Saturday and then Ally and Liz meandered over to my house and we drank more wine on Saturday night. We watched a couple ridiculously awesome 80’s flicks throughout the day. One of the movies was Dirty Dancing. We all realized that, um, Dirty Dancing is totally inappropriate for children to watch. All of us had seen it a ton of times before, and love it. But in our most recent viewing, we discovered that as children, we had all unknowingly witnessed a botched abortion take place in front of our eyes. Sheesh…and people were worried about the suggestive dance moves? Really? Oh, the 80’s…how innocent we all once were.

Anyway, so today I got to go to the………VIKINGS GAME! Yay! Geo and I hit up downtown Minneapolis to watch one of the most exciting Vikings game of the whole season. A win in overtime? Deal me in! So, after drinking beer all day, eating hot dogs and chicken wings, and screaming at the defense for a few hours, my testosterone levels have sufficiently and wonderfully been depleted. But, during my jumping up and down in the confined space of the stadium seating, I smashed my knee into the seat in front of me. Owie. That’ll teach me to stay put next time.

The movies, the house guests, the football, the poker, the injuries, the beer…ugh. Yeah, I need the 9-to-5 to bring me back to home base. I need the proper lunches, the organized chaos, and the regular showering. There were so many people coming and going this weekend that it’ll be nice to be back at work, in the relative comfort and quiet office buildings can offer.

Now I’m really hoping for a slow week. It’s getting to be that time of year, where a nice, quiet house is wonderfully necessary, and it wouldn’t hurt to have a crock pot stewing in the kitchen. Will that be possible in a house of 4 people? Probably doubtful, but here’s hoping! Well, Skol Vikings, thanks to my girl friends for being awesome and hilarious, and don’t, under any circumstance, let your kids watch Dirty Dancing.

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!

Wednesday Winner

I think my Amish studies have gotten to me. Turns out, there’s a lot more to being Amish than sneaking out to do drugs, shunning people, and wearing bonnets. There’s a looooooot that is, uh, boring. So, in honor of recent developments, I have done a total 180 for this weeks Wednesday Winner. Without further ado….I declare the Wednesday Winner to be:




Show boaters! Braggarts! Boasters! Show offs! This morning, I learned that my beloved Randy Moss is returning to his NFL roots and comin’ home to me! He’s signed with the Vikings for the rest of season, and I couldn’t be happier. A common misconception of Moss is that he pouts, does exaggerated celebration dances, and acts like a total A-hole most of the time. But guess what, people? I DON’T CARE! I love him! I love his jumping, running, one-handed snags for the touchdown, his faux-mooning of Packers fans! He’s incredibly talented and now he’s back on the VIKINGS, so come Super Bowl time, all you haters will be glad to have him. Maybe it’s because I don’t have any kids who are all “I wanna be juuuuuust like him when I grow up”. But man I just, I love him. I’m so glad to see him back.

Also, in the same show boating line (though not in, like, the "I'm better than everyone" way), I’d like to also honor my favorite Vikings defensive player, Jared Allen, who was in the news this week as well. Jared Allen, who for EIGHT YEARS has done the same awesome celebration dance after getting a sac (he kneels down on the ground, simulates roping a calf, then throws his arms up in the air with world‘s biggest, most genuine smile on his face) has now suddenly been told he cannot do that any longer. He suddenly can’t kneel down, unless he’s praying. Seriously. Jared Allen. The mullet-sporting, culinary-school-graduating (listen to his own hilarious “alma mater” when they introduce the D-line during any game), truck-driving, down-home cowboy has been told he can’t kneel down to pretend to rope a fake calf. Might I remind you all that Michael Vick abused ACTUAL animals and is currently enjoying the best season of his career? Welp, turns out, I have also loved Jared Allen for a long time, and feel like he’s being totally screwed. All because of a little celebration. A LEGENDARY celebration, from a legendary player. For shame, Fun Haters!

So, now my two favorite show boaters are on MY TEAM! God, I can TASTE the controversy! The tongue-clicks of Squares and Nerds. The people who think football should be calmer and quieter. LAME. I love football because the performances on the field can be super-human. These guys can do things NO ONE ELSE can do without suffering major arterial hemorrhaging. So who cares when they want to celebrate? I certainly don’t.

Okay, so, initially I was going to have a third non-Vikings show boater, but no one else deserves this honor like my boys in purple. I’ve been watching the humble, talented Twins who don’t do so much as an air-hump after a homerun. Yes, they are awesome. They are fun guys to look up to. But my beloved Vikings make the competition real. I feel like their celebrations and frustrations are my own. I’m down on that field with them. They’re working, and they’re working for me. I love my athletes to show their emotions. I mean, I know they don’t need to be total jerks and they don’t need to do all kinds of smarmy things, but I’m not greedy. I’m proud of them on the field. I like their creativity and their passion.

So, on that note: Thank you Show Boaters and Field Clowns. You make me passionate about, and inspired by, professional sports. You guys are entertaining and incredibly talented, and I whole-heartedly salute you. I love you guys. I will always love you guys, and I will cheer for you for as long as you want me to. Thanks, dudes. Thanks for everything.

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…

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?!)