Move it, Ladies!

Listen, I don't want to sound like a traitor to my own gender, but ladies...for the love of God...we have GOT to get it together behind the wheel.

In a very unscientific research project lasting approx 3 weeks, I have been mentally tracking the number of moron drivers who turn out to be female. Results? 99%. Every time I'm behind a driver who slams on the brakes for no discernible reason or fails to Go on Green, it's a woman. Every person who drifts over into my lane on the highway? It's a woman. Every 50-mph driver in the left lane is a woman; and the driver pulling out in front of me nearly clipping 6 or 7 cars in the process? Driver with a vagina.

It's so very depressing. I get this tight knot in my stomach every time I have to slam on my brakes, honk my horn or swerve to avoid crashing into a person who has inexplicably stopped in the middle of the road, and I think - nay, I PRAY - "Don't be a woman, don't be a woman." But it ALWAYS IS.

I've tried to reason my way through this by supporting my sex. I'll think "Clearly, women are bad drivers because we are SO busy defying gender norms, smashing our way through the glass ceiling and maintaining the delicate balance of being a caretaker and go-getter." But that argument simply cannot hold up every single time.

Of the SIX drivers I yelled at and/or made less-than-ladylike-gestures to today, all were women and none of them seemed to be on the brink of excellence. In fact, they seemed to be all but unaware of the fact that they were in control of a massive vehicle.

Now, I'm not perfect. I'm a very aggressive driver. I tailgate, speed and have zero patience for other drivers in general. But I am very conscious of the drivers around me. I know if there's someone in my blind spot; I get out of the way if a driver is coming up behind me in the left lane and I can move over; I give a very adorable shrug/smile and "Sorry!!!" gesture if and when I make a mistake. I command my vehicle, I don't just let it float around doing whatever it wants on the road.

So what gives, ladies? What's the defect here?I know we are equal to or superior to men in a multitude of other environments (classrooms, board rooms, bathrooms, hospital rooms - what with the whole havin' babies thing - and any room in which we are engaged in a battle of passive aggressiveness), so why not on the road? Why can we just seriously not get it together while driving?

I can't be the only person who has noticed this, can I? Am I just hyper-sensitive to the issue or something? Is it possible that I am the problem?

No. No, I'm NOT the problem.

I don't yak on my phone; I set cruise control when appropriate; I don't spend 45 minutes waiting to turn right from the left lane; there is just no way these bad drivers have anything to do with me.

I hate to say it ladies, but it's you; not me.

Listen, if we're ever going to be taken seriously, the first step is to learn how to drive with authority and awareness. If we keep la-di-da'ing our way through the roads, we are going to do nothing but reinforce the stereotypes against us. So, let's put down the phone, pay attention, remind ourselves about spacial awareness, stop yelling at the kids and just really pay attention. If we don't, we are destined to be categorized as "lesser" for forever.

Maybe men are just dumber better at, like, focusing on only one task at a time. Maybe (for sure) they are better at just kind of zoning out and doing things that make them feel powerful. Or, to be honest, maybe they are just better at driving confidently. Whatever it is, men are not inherently bad drivers.

But sadly, I am inclined to keep it real. And there are too many women who are terrible drivers. Are we too powerful and busy to worry about getting from Point A to Point B or something? Well, reality check: We can't change the world if we are too busy pissing everyone off on our ride to revolution. So listen...it's not going to do us any good to be super amazing, powerful people if we kill or anger 73 motorists on the way to rule the world. So, let's go ahead and just get it together, shall we?

I got robbed!

To the gentleman or lady who broke into my car this weekend -

I couldn't help but notice that you made a decision to rob me on Friday night. Silly me: I thought that my car was safe in a Sioux Falls, SD driveway for 12 hours while I attended a wedding at which I danced without a care. But you knew better. Did you see the wedding invitation on my front seat? Were you smart enough to read that and SEE that I would be gone for a couple hours? I really doubt it. I doubt it because, based on your efforts, you are an idiot.

A part of me - a big part - is mad at you. How DARE you sneak around Geo's parent's house in the dark, trying to unlock doors to cars that are tucked way back away from the street?! How DARE you dig through MY stuff and pick and choose your way thought my belongings? How DARE you think my Kate Spade travel mug wasn't worth stealing? What kind of monster are you!?

I'll admit it: I may have been so distracted by the wedding and the 7 hours of driving I would do in less than 24 hours. Did I forget to lock my car? I can't say. After a decade of living in Minneapolis and parking on the street, locking my doors is something I do as a habit so it's not really a conscious effort anymore. But lucky you! You found a way in.

I'm sure you are concerned, stranger, about how I reacted upon realizing I had been robbed. You must be worried sick about how my feelings and sense of security has been affected. See, Geo and I were driving back to Rochester on Saturday morning when I asked Geo to get my bluetooth speaker dealy that lets me listen to podcasts through my radio during my long drives. He couldn't find it.

Then I noticed something. An empty Altoids tin was in my cup holder. My Altoids tins - even the empty ones - are usually hoarded in my center console armrest thing, so I wondered how it got into the holder. And then I noticed that a cosmetic bag of change I have, which I use for absolutely nothing because there are no quarters left in it and pretty much no one accepts pennies, pesos, Chuck E Cheese tokens and nickels anymore. I just tossed the bag on the floor under the seat. But that too was gone.

Fun fact, kind robber: That money is disgusting. Before I put it all into a cosmetic bag while wearing a Ziploc baggie on my hand, it once sat in that same cup holder frozen by diet Coke I spilled in it back in October. It was in there for MONTHS, rotting away and probably growing syphilis and tetanus. SCORE, buddy. Enjoy the $8.23 that was probably in there. You should probably save it to take care of the medical bills and testing you now require. And remember: I had already taken all the quarters out for gas station vacuum cleaners.

Once I realized my poisonous change and my ride-saving speaker thing were both gone, I lost it. Someone had definitely robbed me. Someone was in my car without my permission, digging through stuff. I was irate. And then I was laughing hysterically.

How BUMMED were you, robber? My car is a deep, dark trench of useless crap. Old mix CDs melted by the sun; empty Altoids tins (hahaha! I bet you thought I KEPT stuff in there! What, like diamonds and wads of cash?!), a wallet insert with pictures of my nieces and nephews from 8 YEARS AGO; stinky gym shoes; 12 hoodies that I keep in there for mornings when I drive Geo to work and forget to put on a real shirt; six toys from Happy Meals that do random stupid things that I can't bring myself to toss. Hahaha! You idiot! You broke into a hoarder's car! 

Well, to be fair, you did steal my speaker thing, and I really freakin' loved that thing. I used it all the time and will send bad karma your way every time I turn on the pricey replacement I had to get later that day. And I'm really scared about what I CAN'T remember was in my car. I don't know what I kept in that center console. I didn't itemize the belongings I tossed behind me on my way home from work. I can't remember if you stole more than you did, and that is almost as unnerving as realizing that some a$$hole was in my car looking though everything.

So I guess you win. I'll be thinking about you for a long time. Every time I get in my car, I'll know someone was in there, but I won't know who or for how long or what you'll use all MY stuff for. You've probably never given me a second thought: just a chick with a thing for sweatshirts, garbage and apparently sweet taste in technology.

Then again, maybe I did win. You didn't think to pop the trunk where Geo's golf clubs, a cordless drill and some pretty dope rollerblades from 1996 were hiding.

Anyway, I hope it was worth it. I hope you went and bought whatever you couldn't afford with the stuff I had sitting in my car. And I hope that whatever it is breaks, is stolen or laced with something. But, you know, lesson learned. I will now be vigilant about locking my doors and keep all my change in a tube sock in my purse so I can hit you with it if I ever figure out who you are.

Hey, Ho! You're Fo!!

OMG!!! It's Pharonsquare's 4th birthday!!! Can you even believe it? I've been spilling this drivel online for an absurd FOUR YEARS now and somehow keep tricking you guys into coming back. I feel like I should have grown and have some important life lessons to share with you now.

But I don't. Instead, I have evidence that I threw a surprise party...for my blog. That's the same as totally being a grown-up, right?!

Here comes my blog. She has a blindfold on and has NO idea what's about to happen...shhh!

Hehehe...SURPRISE!!!!!!!!

Hooray!!! Pharonsquare, it's your birthday!!! Now, let's get you something to wear:

BALLLLLLER!!! Now, onto the treats!!

Oh, Pharonsquare, thanks, but I can't eat that giant Costco cupcake because I ate 6 1/2 pounds of delicious bread today. But you! Go ahead and enjoy, lady!!

So....yeah. That's kind of all I had planned. What should we do now?

Great idea! I'll drink some wine while you browse Reddit. And then we'll do something SUPER FUN!

Shoot, hold on, blog. Let me quick watch this ep of Pretty Little Liars. Can you entertain yourself?

Whoa, nice scarf you've knitted, Pharonsquare! Gimme like 15 more minutes of just watching TV and then we'll party. Do you have a book or something you can read?

Okay, just lemme....hold on....I was going to plan something big here, but. Wait. Yes, no, wait 'til commercial break. Sorry, just one more second....

Oh hey! Look at you! You've gone and won a trophy!!! And a BLOGGY, nonetheless! What's that say? "Pharonsquare: Boringest Blog"? Oh, well, okay. That's cool, right?! Congrats!!

Well lady, it's been a priiiiiiiiiitty important day full of super fun Fun and surprises. I gotta say: I'm exhausted from all the crazy fun Fun we've had and all the awesome surprises. Mind if I just nod off here on the couch? Cool...

Well, Happy Birthday, Pharonsquare. Four years is a long ass time to do anything, but thanks to all my crazy readers who keep checking in and motivating me to keep writing. You guys are the real heroes...

Eye Sore

My sister Prinna Gchatted me last week with this helpful reminder: "Don't sleep in your contacts, Pharon. I just got back from the eye doctor and turns out, that's super bad."

Most people probably wouldn't need this reminder. But I spent approx 10 months straight, sleeping in my contacts and having a piece of plastic inadvertently glued to my eyeballs during college because I thought "Hey, college girls have enough trouble navigating their dark apartments at 4 a.m. for a glug of water from the bathroom sink with a bloodstream full of Kamikaze shots. Why add near-sightedness to the equation?"

But I have since stopped doing that and diligently take my plastic miracles out every night. However, I'm not so good with the "then throw the plastic away when they are covered with calcium deposits and your eyes start burning with every blink," part of the contact maintenance plan.

So it was not surprising that my last pair of contacts was littered with calcium deposits. Every blink was equivalent to walking in the summer while wearing a dress and having your inner thighs grab on to each other for dear life. It was unpleasant.

I spent a few weeks wearing my glasses to avoid the painful chore of seeing. It was fine. People thought I was smart. I felt like I could do math. But I was getting blinded by sunlight and hangovers were tough to hide when, instead of my baggy eyes being covered by stunna shades, they were magnified by 4-inch thick lenses.

I knew I had to go to the eye doctor. But I kept putting it off because I didn't know where to go. Geo insisted "Just go to Mayo!" which is where our insurance apparently lives. However, I am boycotting Mayo because...well, just because. So I googled "eyeball fixers" and found a place nearby. I called on Friday, had an appointment on Monday.

I hate eye appointments. I do. They make me feel like the last stop of the Survival of the Fittest test. At my appointment, the lady was all "Okay, take off your glasses. Now look ahead of you and tell me if you can read what's on the screen." I saw some sort of shape with some black spots inside it, which I could only assume were letters." I lied and said "I can almost make out the bottom line" because I didn't want to be excused to the extinction line.

Then she very quietly laughs and says, "Okay, you can put your glasses back on." So I do and I see that the shape in front of me is actually a picture of one giant E. That's it. There are no top lines, bottom lines, or anything even resembling anything besides one stupid letter. I had failed. It's been nice knowing you, evolution.

Whatever...the appointment continues and the results are in: I have terrible eyesight and will forever be a stain on the dreams of a perfect civilization. But to make matters worse, a man then reminds me that, as is the case in every other nightmare eye appointment, I'll have to have my eyes dilated.

For those of you who don't know what that means, it basically means that they drop some horrific drops into my eyes, my mascara smears down my face and suddenly my pupils are the size of Mars. I'm like an anime character. Oh, and with all that light pouring into those engorged pupils, I also can't see anything between my nose and whatever is like 2 feet in front of me. "Will I be okay to drive home?" I ask. The doctor says "Sure. You don't live far, right?" Yeah. Because you only need sight when you are driving across the country.

Anyway, I have myself a brand spankin' new pair of contacts and (literally) a better outlook on everything. And I made myself the same promises I make myself after every eye appointment: I WILL take care of these eyeballs of mine. I WILL avoid the calcium deposit debacle. I WILL look into Lasik.

Nobors

Okay, so I've been off the blog scene for a minute. SO MUCH has happened. Oh wait, no. Almost nothing has happened. But, I DID make it through the toast at Madeline's wedding with zero drama. It was short, sweet, and only sort of awkward. It was...a non event. Score.

So back to real life. Geo and I actually drove into the Cities tonight to have dinner with some pals and I had a lobster roll that did NOT taste like it came from the ocean then loaded onto a boat, into a truck, into a freezer, into a restaurant warmer and then into my mouth hole a week later. It was DELICIOUS.

We drove back to Rochester afterward and I was a bit (super) bummed and missing Minneapolis. As we pulled into our little complex, I saw the lights on at our neighbors' house. I was intrigued. Thurs. night at 11 p.m. and they were still up. I wish we were friends.

See, there are a couple guys who live two doors down from us. The only things I know about them are that they have a giant TV (the box is in their garage), grill, drink a lot of beer, watch football in the fall and one of them has devil sticks that he likes to play with after work on his balcony. I've wanted to be friends with these guys for MONTHS.

Geo thinks they are on weird and on serious drugs. He cites, primarily, the devil sticks. He tells me they are bad news and we don't need to mess with them. That only makes me want to be friends with them EVEN MORE.

I've always loved knowing my neighbors. I mean, my first friend in life was Claire, who lived right next door to me growing up. From there, I went to the dorms where no one ever closed their doors and everyone was always welcoming guests. Then I moved back to Minneapolis in an apartment building where I knew my neighbor was a hoarder and caused the major mouse infestation in the building. When I moved in with three guys, we knew our neighbor was CRAY and would start fights with her boyfriend only to chase him out into the street and fight in public for our amusement.

I love knowing who my neighbors are.

But here, I am left to make my own assumptions because no one wants to talk to me wants to socialize.. The 50-year-old guy to the right of me has a baby who cries all day long and the dude tears out of the parking lot listening to very loud hip hop. I assume he is the most terrible parent of all time...or the deafest person who can't hear his child screaming bloody murder at 9 a.m., 11 a.m., 2 p.m. and then at 4 p.m. because his World's Worst Rap album is set on 11. The people immediately to the left can't figure out their garage door and always leave it 25 percent open. That's all I know about them. I assume they are in some sort of cult because I've never seen them and they seem pretty stupid.

Then there's the two-doors-down guys. They are young and have a bunch of friends who come over and watch sports and barbecue all in the comfort of their front patio overlooking everything. They are out there for the world to see. Hiding nothing. Are THESE the kind of guys that are on drugs? I think not.

And yet, Geo frowns on the idea of me strolling over some afternoon and asking them to hang out. Maybe it's their tie-dyed "curtains" that hang askew in the front of their house or maybe it's the strong "LSD-y" vibe he gets from them, but I don't care. They seem like the best time I've seen in Rochester ever and I need to make it happen.

So tell me: How does a gal approach a house of dudes with whom she'd like to hang out without her husband getting mad or coming off as a creep? I'll admit, I'm a tiny bit afraid of the devil sticks, but I'm 100 percent sure I could get used to it. And I'm 200 percent sure I wouldn't regret getting to know them. What do you think? Should I head over there?

Public speaking/Nuclear Meltdown

I'm nervous. I'm stupid-nervous. In five days, I have to give a speech, and I HATE giving speeches and I'm BAD at it. See, it really only occurred to me on Saturday that, as my friend Madeline's Maid of Honor, I'm supposed to give a toast at her wedding this weekend. Is there ANYTHING WORSE than listening to a bad wedding speech? I argue that there is not.

At my wedding, my sister Padrin gave the most epic MOH speech that has ever been delivered. It had all the elements of a good speech: the story about Geo and me, some tips for the future and a couple funny jabs...ALL SET TO A SONG. It was delicious and one of my favorite moments from the wedding. It was Padrin's speech that made me realize that a MOH toast can make or break the mood.

The only other time I've given a wedding toast was when I was 21 and my sister Prinna's MOH. I was half-drunk and fully nervous. I remember a blur of activity, then standing up, then sitting down. I don't remember anything that happened while I was publicly speaking. It was only when I sat down that Padrin nudged me and said "You didn't say a toast! You just told a story!" So I had to stand back up and hold my empty champagne glass in the air and say "OH YEAH! Toast! I mean, cheers!" or something to that effect.

So the panic is really setting in for Madeline's wedding. I KNOW I'm not a good public speaker. I could WRITE a great speech and then have someone else deliver it and probably come home a hero. But even reading a word-for-word dictation of something I've written is too much for me to handle. If you are not a nervous public speaker, allow me to explain what happens:

First, there is massive anxiety about the logistics of even getting up in front of an audience. Will the microphone be handed to me, or do I need to find one? Will it squeal when I talk into it? How will people know to look at me? Should I wave my hands? Will waving my hands make me look like a lunatic? Note to self: Probably do NOT wave hands.

Then the first words come out: They are shaky and uneven and either too loud or too soft. In a split second, I'm looking into eyeballs of people who I'm SURE are judging me. They feel bad for me or think I'm boring or expecting something much better than I have to offer. Wait, what was I even saying into the microphone?

OMG, is that really MY voice? It sounds so nasal and obnoxious. Stop listening to your voice and focus on the words that I am, undoubtedly, delivering with monotony. Is that person asleep back there?

Okay, focus on the words. Try to lighten up. It's just a speech to a bunch of people. What's the worst that could happen? Holy crap, did I just swear? I can't even tell. I'm not longer in my body. I'm somewhere very far away where I'm wearing sweatpants and laying on a couch. No! Did I just say that out loud?

Yes, alright, we're in the homestretch. It's my last note card. Try to smile...it's almost over. Ah! Is there something in my teeth? What's that random pain in my left pinky toe? Am I having a stroke? Can everyone see how much I'm sweating? They can. They can all see it. I'm dripping onto the note card. Is that "love" or "liver"? Black. I can't see anything and I can't help but wonder what will happen if I faint. Will someone catch me? Will everyone think I'm a drama queen? Will I get a concussion that will turn me into a serial killer?

Wait, what was I saying?

Oh yeah, don't forget the TOAST part. When it's all done, remember to say "cheers" or something. Don't just sit down. Don't just sit down.

Great, now I'm standing up like a dummy while everyone expects me to say more. Quick, make a very uncomfortable joke, maybe it's a little offensive, and sit down. The worst is over. Until the wedding video comes out.

So, basically, I've got my work cut out for me. I've got everything else ready (the dress, the jewelry, the shoes, the confidence to showcase my gigantor arms in public) but this speech is going to take some more work. I better get to it.

If you have any ACTUAL tips for how to not be a nightmare while public speaking, please share in the comments! I need all the help I can get!

Vegas, Babies?

Well, I made it, you guys. It took me over a week to recover, but I made it back from Las Vegas in one piece. It was FUN. I wish I had some crazy stories about craziness, but I don't. And even if I did, I think I'm contractually obligated to not share. You have no idea how rigid that "What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas" statement is.

So now that my feet are back on firm, non-disgustingly-Vegas-y ground, I've had a chance to get back to real life. Oh, and did I mention that my sister-in-law had a baby while I was working on my second nerve-wrecked cocktail in the Denver airport during a layover to Vegas? Yup, I've got another baby to spoil stupid. If there was a giant shoe, I'd live in it with all my nieces and nephews. It's a brood y'all.

Which brings me to tonight's blog topic. Babies. There are a million of them growing in the bellies of my friends these days. Just about every girl I know is no fun anymore and can't slug back wine with me for the next however-many months.

It really makes a girl think.

I always thought that whole "All my friends are pregnant," phenomenon only happened in movies that star Kate Hudson or something. But no, it's a very real thing, and it's SUUUUPER STUPID because just about all my friends are now pregnant.

Listen, I know. I'm no spring chicken. I'm 100 years old, and by all medical accounts, I'm probably nothing more than a vessel for dying eggs and dashed dreams. And to be honest, I've always been quiet on this subject. I don't like to talk about reproduction plans. Primarily, it's Gross. Ew. Secondly, it's no one else's business. But if there's one thing I like, it's forcing people to take part in my business.

See, this whole baby thing has not been on my list of To Do's yet. I still feel like I'm 22 years old and having kids has always been a distant priority behind finishing this glass of wine, getting a haircut and learning how to talk to grownups without using the phrase "Baller!!!"

Then, what? I move to Rochester and people are like, "Well, Pharon's in transition. Let's rub it in her face and make the Ultimate Settling Down move!" Rude, you guys! RUDE! I like JUST got married. Geo still has Thank You cards to write, for crying out loud.

Yeah, it's a big deal. But part of me feels like I'm being bullied into even THINKING about this because I don't want to be late to this weird baby party people seem to be so crazy about. And if there's one thing I know, it's that being late to a party is almost (ALMOST) worse than being the first to show up. So of course, my social butterfly instinct kicks in and I'm halfway to shoving a pillow up my shirt and proclaiming "I'm here, you guys!! I'm also at this party!! Where's the bar?!" But that would probably give me away...

Anyway, it's been on my mind lately, and not by choice. I can't help but resent my friends for making such a big move without even TALKING to me about it. It's like if all your friends went out and got a face tattoo of a robot without telling you. It's not like you want to run out and GET a robot face tattoo, but you can't help but wonder why everyone else has one and what it means that you are not booking an appointment with a tattoo artist.

However, if there's one thing that Vegas has taught me, it's that essentially, no one has to do anything they don't want to do. In fact, everyone can to do whatever they want, whenever they want; they just have to find the right place. Which means I just need to get a whole new group of friends.