8 signs you brush your teeth like Britney Spears (You won't believe #4!!!!)

I'll admit it: I'm the biggest sucker for clickbait. I love anything that promises to tell me what character in Game of Thrones I am based on my salad preference, or why people my age love Tetris, or why I've been eating cereal wrong my entire life. It seems so simple and it makes me feel so...informed and understood at the most superficial and mass-appeal level. And what blogger doesn't LIVE for tons of clicks and low bounce rates?! I want in on that mojo, mofos.

So I bring you:

8 signs you brush your teeth like Britney Spears (You won't believe #4!!!!)

1. Halfway through, you shave your head, go nuts and finish the job with an umbrella
2. You feel like recordings of your bathroom renditions of "Hit Me Baby [One more Time]" should go platinum...and then they do
3. Brushing requires low-slung jeans and a boa constrictor
4. You use a Sonicare, but then it fell in the toilet. After a few years, you fished it out, however, and found it works better than ever
5. While brushing, you decide to make a movie about it that is critically panned by everyone but absolutely loved by PharonSquare
6. All your teeth are 24 karat because everything you touch turns to gold
7. Kevin Federline is a horrible, horrible memory that you sometimes think about when you look at yourself in the bathroom mirror
8. You spend at least a few minutes a day thinking about the 80s, when everything was so much easier and more innocent; when Justin Timberlake was just another kid on Mickey Mouse Club and ALF could have been real

NAILED. IT.

Shout out to Quinn Kitchen Miller as the lucky winner of Blog Mad Libs!!! Well done, girl!

A plea for honesty

I'm a flake. I have turned into the very thing that has kept me up in tight fists and angry thoughts all night. Since moving to Minneapolis, I have neglected my most coveted relationships, including this blog. I'm sorry.

But the reason I even know this is because one of my favorite Life People (the people I consider the most important in my life) brought it to my attention. She told me that I have been...not myself. She was kind, concerned, but most of all, honest. She was all "You're kind of being rude, and you kind of need to get your act together."

And thus, the Enlightenment of Truth was bestowed upon me. I thought I was skating by on half-promises and non-committals, thinking I was the only one affected by my weird, new-found behavior of never giving an answer to people. But you know what? That's rude. And irresponsible. But mostly? It's effing rude.

The worst part was that I made myself think that no one else would notice that I never gave a firm answer or made a hard-and-fast decision. I assumed, in my cloudy haze of self-centeredness, that no one else could possibly be more affected by my decisions (or non-decisions, as it were) as me. I somehow mish-mashed this system in my head that if I understood my decisions (or, again, non-decisions), everyone else would understand them as well.

Enter: "Get Over Yourself, Pharon" territory.

I always thought I had this grand self-awareness and clear understanding of social cues. I thought "People who are chronically late think my time is less important than theirs," or "If you say you're going to do something, do it." Then I got all mixed up. I admit it. I got too big for my britches. I started feeling very important and popular and busy, and somehow I decided that I was the only one who really needed to know what was going on. Classic Rude Girl mistake.

Perhaps the most important lesson in all this is that I needed someone (or, fine, three people ) to be honest with me. I needed someone to tell me, calmly and earnestly, that my behavior as of late has been the pits. As in, the armpits of human behaviors. The worst, stinkiest, lackluster-iest of of all behaviors.

I'll admit it: At first I felt mad. I felt attacked. But then I felt ashamed. I was ashamed for being so oblivious to the fact that my actions (or, ugh, AGAIN, non-actions) had consequences. But THEN, I felt empowered. I knew what was wrong, I knew I was being an a$$, and I KNEW I could fix it by just being considerate and trying to get back to the good ol' fashioned Midwestern girl who knew right from wrong. Or rather, right from rude.

I think people are afraid of hearing the truth about themselves, and perhaps we all should be. We can all be monstrous, selfish people (because people are the WORST). But I truly think that if someone is doing something that legitimately negatively affects other people (and can be changed), that person should know about it. And not in a rude, aggressive way, but in the "Listen, I love you, but you need to brush your teeth/stop being a flake/start returning phone calls/stop hoarding shoe boxes," kind of way.

I guess I worry, though, that not everyone will be as receptive and amazing as I was at hearing some hard truths. (Yup, I complimented myself in the midst of this post about me being a flake. I guess I can still muster up some self-righteousness.) People get angry and defensive when they learn that they are not perfect. I think that's human nature, though.

Honesty is a tough row to hoe. It's really not easy, and it takes a lot of thought and care if it's done right. And people don't always want to (or aren't prepared to) hear the truth. Sometimes, they don't really NEED to be told, either. But if, when it really matters, we can learn to be honest -- and not just, like, RUDE honest for the sake of being a d!ck and projecting our own insecurities -- I think we could all feel a little better.

Meanwhile, now I'm terrified that this post will make people feel like it's super okay to have Open Season on Pharon and how I'm just the worst. But keep in mind, people, that honesty is like bread. It can be delicious and nourishing and fill your dinner table with meaningful conversation, but it can also make you ugly and fat if you eat too much.

Cutting the cord and other tragedies

Dudes, it's been a rough couple of weeks. Moving, car accident, an absent husband (out of town on a work trip) AND a grownup conversation with my dad about life insurance...it's all just really kind of making me a crazy person with 100 empty bottles of wine in our recycling.

But perhaps the biggest travesty through which I have suffered is the fact that we did it. We cut the cord. We don't have cable anymore.

I'm onboard with it. I really am. I find it absolute highway robbery that we paid $100 a month for TV. I can't stand that. We are a content-consuming population who places value on our entertainment that we would be willing to pay for it if we weren't forced to also buy 600 things we didn't want. We are being controlled by cable companies looking to make money, and it's super dumb. Especially because I spend most of my viewing time watching rerun episodes of Law and Order: SVU, Friends and Chopped. Anyway, for our purposes, cable was ridiculously expensive.

I feel like I was bred to be ready for this. I never had cable growing up. My parents told us that we couldn't have cable because we lived on a creek, and they couldn't dig underneath the creek to get the appropriate connections. It made sense.

But it was all a lie. My neighbors, the Fosters, got cable like the DAY they moved in and I was painfully jealous that they knew what was going on on Hey Dude and I didn't. But the point is, I never really NEEDED cable. I got along just fine without it. I learned all the swear words I needed to learn in high school. Plus, I was too busy being a neurotic teen to even care about what was on TV.

Unfortunately, now it's different. I really kind of depend on cable more than I expected. I have TV on a LOT and playing recordings of shows is just not the same. Also? I just like to have noise happening. Especially when I'm bouncing around unpacking. But when I have to stop every 40 or 120 minutes or whatever to click "Yes, I'm still watching," I feel both annoyed and judged.

Plus, I don't ALWAYS want to have to choose what I watch and just really commit to that. It makes me nervous. There's some theory that Geo has tried to teach me about having too many options: the paradox of choice. It basically says that having too many options is not a benefit to anyone. It creates anxiety and the fear of missing out on something. Both of these things are just the worst in my eyes.

So yes, I'm infinitely glad I can watch Archer and Friends and, like, only 4 seasons of SVU at a moment's notice. But I miss the spontaneity and immediacy of regular TV. Also, I miss things like Rehab Addict and Impractical Jokers and the Daily Show that I just can't get on Netflix.

I don't know what other people do. I'm sure you guys, who are way smarter than me, have found some sort of sweet spot where you aren't selling your blood for cable but you also aren't living in a time 15 months ago. Care to share your secrets with me???

A fine "howdya do"

Well, it's been, let's see....4 nights since we moved our stuff into our new place in Minneapolis. It's kind of been a whirlwind. So much unpacking, adjusting and generally trying to figure things out. There was some strangeness, to be sure. I've been putting on pants, like, EVERY DAY, you guys. I've seen friends and family without having to then ask to crash at their houses. I BRUSHED MY HAIR this morning! Whaaaa?

But I learned a hard truth today, y'all. A hard truth indeed. No city is without flaw. And this came in the form of a fairly upsetting message.

I got into a car accident this morning.

It was minor. I'm fine, the other dude is fine. The only casualty is the beautiful front bumper of my car, and part of the Americano I had just purchased and snuggled into my cup holder. But a lot happens in the split seconds of a collision. A lot of things run through your mind after even the most minor fender bender that might surprise you. In my case, I had three thoughts. In this order.

1) OMG, I'm an idiot...but also? HE'S an idiot! The city planners are idiots! Everyone's an idiot!!!
2) My parents are going to be sooooo mad!
3) I'm really scared and I literally have no idea what I'm supposed to do.

Obvs, the first thing I did was to call Geo. I got his voicemail. Darn you, important husband who has a job! (He did call me back less than 3 minutes later to make sure I was okay and was not hysterical, which was entirely possible). But then I did what any normal grown woman who owns her own vehicle and is a very mature person does when she is met with a difficult traffic situation. I called my mommy.

I was scared and annoyed at myself and mostly just needed some reassuring words. I was not disappointed. My mom first made sure I was okay, and then with this levity, which in hindsight was just so perfectly appropriate, she said brightly "Welcome back!"

Luckily, my parents weren't mad, and I had a boatload of help figuring out what to do. But the most reassuring thing that I've heard lately came toward the end of my call to my mom. She asked "Do you want me to come over there?"

See, she could have, if I had asked her to. I'm only like 15 mins away. But I'm a grown woman. I can cry after an accident all by my grown-up self. I laughed/sighed and said "No, it's all good," and it really was. I came home, figured out insurance stuff, got back to work and just generally got myself together.

This shockingly upsetting, but almost-non-incident taught me a few things. One? Never try to turn left on Cedar Ave. Ever. Even when you and everyone else on the road thinks it's okay to do so, don't. Two? This is why we change out of pajamas in the morning, people! But most importantly, it taught me that I'm incredibly co-dependent on my friends and family. Is that a bad thing? I don't think so. It helps me keep things in perspective and get my bearings. I don't feel so lost or floopy (which is a word. Check your Friends history, people) when I know I have people around me.

So, anyway, my front bumper is now nestled in my car, a reminder that I am neither perfect nor alone. A reminder that, as my friend Rachel said, this crazy town is not for the weak. A reminder that sometimes your day starts like a big steamy pile of poop and ends up fine and even enjoyable when you know some good peeps.

All this I learned, and we don't even have cable hooked up. Big city livin'! I hope to chalk this up, in the grand scheme of things, as a win.

A Moving Experience

Moving. I'm moving. In case you live in Siberia and just got Wifi, I should tell you that this weekend, I'm moving back to Minneapolis from Rochester.

It's been a rough 18 months, to be sure. I've learned a lot about being a wife, being alone, and being a person without ready access to beautiful lakes and nomnom restaurants. However, if I'm being honest, moving has been a little more emotional than I thought it would be. I love our house. I love the fact that I have 4 awesome people in this town who are regularly amazing and sometimes similarly bored and let me hang out with them from time to time. I love that nothing in this town is more than 5 minutes away.

Still, I'm SUPER ready to get back to Minneapolis. If I ever saw those movies about that troll who wants that ring that all the hairy-toed little people have, I'd compare my feelings to that joy the troll has when he gets that ring. (I've literally NEVER watched Lord of the Rings, because that troll and the little hairy-toed people freak me out, but I feel like I kind of get the gist.)

Regardless of where I'm moving to or from, the fact is that moving is definitely the stinky pits.

Turns out, I'm PERFECTLY happy eating nachos off a paper plate with a side of bread buttered with a wooden spoon, in spite of the fact that I have 12 different nacho-specific dishes on which they should be served and at least 8 different kinds of spreaders courtesy of Crate and Barrel. Oh, and spoiler alert: Wine tastes the same out of a plastic cup as it does out of any one of the 8 different types of wine glasses I have. And as much as I love all the clothes in my 4 enormous IKEA bags, turns out I'm totally fine just wearing the few items I've packed into a single suitcase. Also, all my Kate Spade boxes (which I have embarrassingly saved and kept in yet ANOTHER IKEA bag) seem less beautiful when I have to figure out how to fit them into a Subaru Impreza.

So yeah, I have way too much crap everywhere, but it's pretty so I love it! :)

However, it does not escape me that moving with a man is THE. WORST. Granted, I haven't done this before. I've always been extraordinarily immature and individual about moving. I move MY stuff only and ONLY when my mom and sister come over to pack for me.

No more! I'm a wife and grown up now, so I've gotta step up. It kind of sucks because when you move with a spouse, you can't throw away a box of "probably useless documents." You have to pretend it's important to you. You have to look at a Tupperware that has 2 sweaters in it and be like "Is this something you want to save even thought it's incredibly inconvenient?" instead of being like "DOESN'T FIT, THROWING AWAY!" In my moving life, I just throw away stuff that doesn't fit in whatever box I happen to have at the time. Bummer when Geo's like "Yeah, those are my fall golf sweaters. Don't touch that."

Also, he doesn't obsessively wrap every piece of glassware in 23 pounds of paper, so I regularly have to ask him to buy more and more paper and boxes.

Part of me -- actually, an increasingly enormous part of me -- wishes that I would have left all our packing to Geo. He would probably have gotten it done WAY faster and in WAY fewer boxes than me. But I would like to think there would be way more broken vases and mis-categorized tidbit plates. Then again, there probably wouldn't. It's not like we are moving live organs across the Atlantic Ocean before the dawn of modern shipping.

I don't know. I guess in closing, I'll say this: I've been hard on Rochester. But it's been hard on me. It's been 18 months of goose-poop-filled lakes and hanging out alone a lot. And the pervasive amount of chain restaurants has just kind of kicked me in my already-dirt-covered face.

HOWEVER! I have found some amazing friends here, and have learned a lot about myself and my marriage. And for those reasons, I will feel sad tomorrow when we load our crap into a truck to take it back to Minneapolis. I will look out on our patio and think "I won't see these deep dark skies and bright stars at night anymore," and I will dance around in our 2nd bathroom because who knows WHEN we'll have a place with two bathrooms again?

But more than anything, I will remember that I don't need 90% of the Crate and Barrel $hit I registered for.

Potty Humor

Ever since I was a tiny, adorable, bowl-cut-wearin' tyke, I've thought the words "toilet paper" were like the funniest, grossest words ever. I could be in mid-chase of one of my siblings and all he or she would have to do is yell back "TOILET PAPER!" and I'd trip all over my bony body, doubled over in fits of laughter.

I've always had a very visceral relationship with toilet paper. There's something forbidden about it. And, because I was raised in a home where swear words -- and even the phrase "that sucks" -- warranted a major time out/grounding, "toilet paper" was pretty much the naughtiest thing I could ever think of. It thrilled me. It scared me.

Anyway, now that we're moving, "toilet paper" has taken on a whole new importance. It's almost like it's not funny anymore. See, the house we are moving into is your typical amazing home in Minneapolis. Read: Gorgeous, with old plumbing. We were told that the plumbing is as sensitive and volatile as my feet during a pedicure. Ever since I learned of our house's handicapped pipes, I've been very preoccupied with toilet paper. In fact, I've been downright scared. All I can think of is: clogs. They aren't just a fashion no-no anymore.

There is a very big disconnect between modern TP and modern plumbing. They don't work together anymore. Toilets angrily oppose TP and TP insists on getting "stronger" and "thicker" and sorry, but who needs "heavy duty" (doody!) TP? It's like the TP industry and toilet industry were about to get married, but TP got cheated on by the toilet industry and decided to dedicate its entire life to making life miserable for its ex.

Although, I'm pretty sure it's a cultural thing. I mean, in some parts of the world, there is no plumbing. And in that one restaurant I went to once in Mexico, you were prohibido from flushing paper. In Europe, according to Reddit, there are, eh hem, ways around using TP...aka: get an inside bath. In America, people are like "MORE OF EVERYTHING ALL THE TIME!" despite the obvious restrictions. How very patriotic. So, we end up (ha!) with buttloads  (ha!) of either Uber Toilet Paper or extremely environmentally-friendly TP that is little more than a whisper in your hand -- Thanks, hippies.

(Also? BTW? If my choices in TP were between the clever British girl selling baby wipes for grown ups and those commercials featuring the DISGUSTINGLY open animated bears talking WAY too much about their TP usage, I choose clever British girl. Every time. Super disturbing TP company using stupid bears? Hire a better ad agency. For the love of all that is good and holy. You are absolutely $hitting on TV...and it's not even funny.)

Okay, so anyway, I live in Rochester, where we buy TP in bulk from Costco. There is literally nothing more American. We could sell this stuff on the black market and make a killing. But when the time finally came -- after, oh, 12 billion years -- to buy some more TP, I opted against the Costco run. We are too close to the move to make an investment in "bulk buying" TP. I felt like I would be buying the TP version of "2 Broke Girls" -- well-intentioned but ultimately heavy-handed, unnecessary and not the least bit funny.

So, that brings us back to how hysterical TP is. I'm actually kind of bummed. It used to be so silly and prohibido when I was a kid. Now it's like "This is an actual decision you have to make as a grown up." I hate it. I liked it much better when it was a phrase my sisters could mumble to me in church and make me laugh hard enough to get the stank eye from my parents.

Now? Now it just has the potential to cause real, non-funny stank. I hate being an adult.

City city bang bang

Well, just checking in to make sure my blog is still here. It's been awhile since I've written, I know. Unfortunately, the life of a wife in Rochester in the buttcrack of winter is just not nearly as exciting as you might think.

You know what IS exciting?

The life of a wife living in Minneapolis in the Spring.

That's right, dum dums! We are moving back to the Cities next month! Can you even STAND it!? I can't! But yes, we will be renting the cutest house that has ever been built, and will almost be able to spit on the houses of like 6 people I know and love because we will be THATCLOSE to people who are pants-putting-on-worthy.

The house we are renting is just the best, too. Sure there's no central air, walk-in closets, 2nd bathroom or updated plumbing. But it's super pretty and it's IN THE CITY and there is no sign of a port-a-potty factory anywhere nearby (we have a great view of that from our house in Roch). In fact, it's smelling distance from a bakery. Talk about moving up in the world...

I'm really excited, and Geo is too. He's already trying to plan a guys' night on one of the first nights we will be there, and I'm just trying to schedule all the happy hours and babysitting and shopping and food-making/eating with friends and family that I've been dreaming about for the past year and a half.

Now, here's the thing: I'm really expecting big things from my friends and family at home, so get ready, Loved Ones. I've blamed my complete lack of blogging during my Rochester life on my lack of material, so you guys better pull through. Like, please start having really strong opinions on topics like "Ugh, teens today...", saffron (whatever that is), and whether I was wrong in whatever fight I just picked with Geo. (Hint: I'm probably not.) You know, the BIG stuff.

But, if I'm being honest? I'm also a little scared of re-entering civilization. Like, right now, my biggest concern is the satanic birds who $hit all over my car when I go to the gym at night. (Seriously, what kind of devil bird hasn't flown south for the winter? And then has the audacity to poop giant, chunky poops ALL OVER my windshield to such an extent that I have to pull over and WASH MY CAR before driving home?!)

Also, I only have to buy gas on the days I drive back to the Cities, and that's pretty much the only time I put on matching shoes, too. Where does the Big City stand on two similar-but-different Uggs? And do these standards change in Summer?

I feel like over the course of 18 months, I've completely forgotten things I knew for years about city livin'. I'm nervous. What do I do with my hands? Can I talk to strangers? How do people fill the hours after work without making plans to 'vacuum and maybe try out baking soda carpet cleaner'? Can I take public transportation without having to swing by the Walmart?  How do chopsticks work again!? Is it finally okay to eat bread in public? What's going on with Block E, and do we love it or hate it?

See, I have a lot of concerns. But I'm super-insanely-nutjob-someonecommitme-excited about living so much closer to my parents, most of my fam, and so many of my friends, and I'm pretty sure they'll help me cope with the transition.

Anyway, before I move, I plan to try and write more about life outside the city. So, stay tuned. :)