Of Mice and Women

In T-minus 1 hour, Val and Lana will be coming over to enjoy some food, wine, and Kinect. So, I gotta make this a quickie. Luckily, the topic I want to cover is an easy one. My sister Prinna posted the following on her Facebook this afternoon: "Mouse in the house...mouse in the HOUSE...mouse in THE HOUSE...mouse IN THE HOUSE...MOUSE IN THE HOUSE!!!!!"

Her 5 year-old daughter Annabelle saw the devilish creature scamper across the floor, and according to Prinna, was screaming bloody murder for over 15 minutes. I'm with you, Annabelle! I'd be screaming too! In fact, I have discovered the kind of scream inside me that only comes when confronted with pure terror. A bunch of years ago, I came face-to-face with a mouse for the first time, in my first Minneapolis apartment. I screamed like I was being hit by a truck and then took off to spend the night at Claire's house. After that, I employed friends and family members to come to my apartment and check my snap traps and then dispose of the inevitable dead, furry body. I Hate Mice.

When the boys lived here, we had a little mouse "problem" during our first winter. I spotted the first one scurry from the kitchen to what used to be Mitch's room. I convinced myself it was my eyes playing mean ol' tricks on me. A few days later, when I was (mercifully) out of the house, the guys saw a mouse and decided to take care of business. Perek and Geo cornered the little bugger behind a heavy Tupperware container, full of old clothes Perek was going to donate to Goodwill. Slowly, they tilted up one corner of the Tupperware, and when the stupid mouse made a dash for the new space that was created, Perek and Geo smashed the mouse under the Tupperware. Mission: Accomplished.

Then we put out sticky traps. I was enjoying a lovely, calm morning by myself and stood in the kitchen waiting for the coffee to brew. I hear this teeny little "weeeeeeeeeeeeeee!! weeeeeeee!!" and I look around. I saw a mouse - Alive! - stuck to one of the traps and it was screaming. I screamed right back at it and booked it back upstairs to the safety of my bedroom. I stayed up there for 8 hours until Mitch got home and threw the mouse away.

Then came the exterminator. He lined our house in poison and explained that when a mouse comes in, the poison gets on his little paws, and when he licks the poison, his body starts dehydrating. Then the mice, ideally, venture back outside for water and then die. Our mice were stupid and/or lazy though. The first time I found a mouse, he only made it as far as our kitchen rug. But he was still alive. Geo came to the rescue. He had to put it out of his misery, so he reached for my favorite weapon - he knocked the mouse out with an empty wine bottle. Weeks later, as I fell into a false sense of security, I found another mouse, recently deceased, in our living room. At first I thought it was a joke. I texted the boys "Did you guys leave a fake mouse on the floor?" They had not. It was real. And so was the scream that came out of my mouth. I spent another day hidden out in my room until the guys could come home and rescue me.

Suffice it to say, I understood my niece's terror. Annabelle had a couple gems in the wake of the experience. She explained "I just can't get this FEELING out of my head!" and "Mommy, whenever my knee touches something that isn't my body, I think it's a mouse!" Yes, Annabelle, I know exactly what you're talking about.

Finally, my sister was able to coax Annabelle out of the bedroom (the upstairs bedroom) by explaining - wrongly - that mice can't climb stairs, so they were safe on the top floor. Annabelle finally emerged and walked to the top of the stairs. There, on the stair, halfway up to the top floor, was another mouse. Now, not only did Annabelle learn that her mommy is a liar, but she probably will never go down the stairs again without thinking of that mouse. Prinna and her two daughters finally made a mad dash for the safety of my parents house. I think, though, that Prinna first had to bribe her 2 year-old, Eve, to run downstairs and get their shoes and coats. Upon hearing that, I told Prinna "Screw the shoes and coats and just haul a$$ outta there!"

At this moment, I'm sure there are zillions of mice in and around my house. As long as I don't see them, though, I remain blissfully ignorant of their existence.

Happy weekend everyone!!

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.

Do These Shoes Go With this Lasso of Truth?

Heeeere I come to save the daaaaaay!! Here's a little math riddle for you: If a furnace stops working on one of the coldest days of the year, and if 4 out of 4 roommates notice that the house is freakishly cold in the morning, how many of them will do anything to resolve the problem? The answer, mathletes, is One. Me. I'm the hero today. Okay, yeah, 4 out of 4 of us were out of the house at work all day and couldn't really take swift action, but still. I left the house this morning and it was 55 degrees. I came home and it was 52 degrees. For those of you keeping track, that's approximately 40 degrees too cold to function inside a house. So, my heroic fingers dialed up our brave maintenance man, and 2 short hours later, we are sittin' pretty at 53 degrees. With great power comes great responsibility, I guess.

I don't care how little recognition I'll get for this. Sure, it'd be nice to hear "Thanks for springing into action and saving our freezing, chilled bones, Pharon! What can we EVER do to repay you?!" But this will be a self-congratulatory win, I'm sure. Whatevs. You can't argue with...54 degrees!

I feel good. I feel like I've really done something to help out my fellow human. The last time I felt like this, I was helping up an older man who slipped on the ice outside of my work building. I'm expecting my Purple Heart any day now.

Now, I don't want to say I "fight crime" or anything, but yesterday a strange man got of the bus at my bus stop and I watched him walk for 3 blocks before I decided he posed no threat to me the children in my neighborhood. And when my crazy neighbor would get into juicy, screaming matches with her equally insane boyfriend, you better believe I was carefully monitoring the situation from my balcony with a bag of popcorn to ensure it did not escalate. Justice never sleeps.

You know, people throw around the term "hero" a lot. And okay, no, I haven't saved any lives, or rescued any kittens from a tree or anything, but, like, I've saved sooooo many people from embarrassment. Toilet paper stuck to your shoe? I'll sneak up behind you and tug it away with my own shoe without saying a word. Have a giant zit on your face? I will NOT look at it. I won't. And I won't be OBVIOUS about not looking, either. When I used to play Halo on XBox with the guys every once in awhile, I'd make my guy just go and hide so I wouldn't get killed 100 times to save my team the humiliation of having one of their own ruin the whole game. I'm a giver, people. And if that makes me a "hero"? Fine, I guess. I'll take it.

So saving my entire household from frozen pipes and uber-dry skin by making a phone call is but the latest in a long line of heroic activities I can't help but perform. It's like I was born to watch out for my fellow man. But I'm not going to lie. I wouldn't turn away another superhero should one come along. I could use some help every once in awhile. I can only laugh at so many bad jokes by myself. And it would be nice if I weren't the only person in the world who tries to help other drivers improve their technique by yelling helpful tips out of my window (and sometimes illustrating with equally helpful hand gestures). Anyone available to help my friends drink wine during the week? 'Cause that's a burden I've carried alone for too long.

The point is: it's 57 degrees now in my house and it's all because of me. Little does everyone know, though, that I've also bumped our "ideal" temperature from 67 to 72 degrees. Hey, I've gotta be warm if/when I must spring into heroic action.

On the House

I got a not-so-subtle email from my dad yesterday. In it, he basically suggested I start seriously considering buying a house. As in, a whole house. I think it’s because he is of the mindset that any adult my age should have something to call their own - besides some awesome Kate Spade bags, I guess. But I laughed out loud to myself when I read his email, and murmured, “Oh Dad…” 'Cause that is pretty much the last thing on the planet I could imagine purchasing right now. Plus, I’m almost positive I’m a lousy candidate for home ownership. Until I lived in my current place, I moved every single year since I was a freshman in college. And after being in my current house for the past 3 years, I’m more than ready to move on – pun INtended. How am I supposed to explain to my dad that I have no interest in buying a house because I am totally flaky when it comes to a permanent residence?

See, now this is exactly the same reason I lease my cars. You know what happens every 3 years? BRAND NEW CAR. I haven’t had to go get a new engine, or new brakes, or new anything on a car in like 5 years. Then by the time I get sick of a car, it’s time to trade it in anyways. So instead of buying some used car with 100,000 miles on it and keeping it until I run it into the ground, I start fresh with an upgrade every few years. Onward and upward. The same concept goes for a house. I would NEVER be able to buy a house in the perfect, safe, quiet, fancy schmancy neighborhood I live in now. Never. If I actually BOUGHT a house, I guarantee you I’d be way too far from the big city to continue having an active social life. If I bought a house now, I may as well also buy 100 cats to live in it with me.

Plus, when you buy a house, you also buy all the problems it has. I have a very dependent relationship on our handyman guy who comes and fixes everything from a clogged sink to our furnace. For free. He comes in, fixes the problem, and leaves. Sometimes, he comes over when I’m at work, which, at that point, makes him like a magical little house fairy who I can’t see, but I know he’s been hard at work when I walk in and we have new bathroom fixtures. Voila!

A few of my friends are home owners. Congratulations, dudes! How was shoveling your OWN driveway this winter? Suckers. They’re all like “nesting” and “settling down” and I guess that concept only works if you’re ready to settle down for longer than a year at time. I have NO clue where I’ll be in a year from now. None. One thing’s for certain, though: I’ll probably be ready to move again.

But this all comes on the heels of my dad’s latest hare-brained scheme. He wants to buy himself a nice, little teeny 2nd house with a two-car garage. Why? So he has a place to store his boat in the winter, and he thinks the high prices that storage places charge are absurd. That’s like buying a private jet because baggage fees get you down. I gotta hand it to him, though. The man definitely thinks outside the box. But whenever he gets into a new obsession, he likes to bring one of us kids in there with him. Since I'm the only "renter" in my family, I guess I'm the lucky one?

I haven’t responded to my dad's email yet. I don’t want to burst his bubble. He’s so earnest, and he was very encouraging in his email, too, saying things like how I might enjoy “ rehabbing old properties, bringing things up to code, whatever”. And he gives me a lot of credit (too much, probably) when it comes to home repair and maintenance. Sure I CAN get my hands dirty and solve a problem when I have to, I just don’t really WANT to. Then, as if to really drive his point home, he took a little jab at my current home city: “I will say, too, driving around Mpls was a bit eye-opening yesterday. Don't you people plow your streets? There is a LOT to be said for living in the suburbs!!!”

Schplurg. I don’t know. Maybe the antsiness I've been feeling as of late isn’t really cabin fever, but more, like, “nomadic living fever”. Maybe I’d be all calm and adulty if I wrote my name down on a mortgage and bought a lawn mower. I see the positives of home ownership, I do. I just can’t let go of the negatives. But I do know one thing: telling my dad that I don’t want to buy a house because I really don’t like mowing the lawn or snaking my own drains won’t exactly win me any points. I should probably just blame it on the market because I’m pretty sure you can’t argue with the “market”. Whatever that means...or is.

The Cat's Away

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* Three words: Hygiene May Suffer.

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

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

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

Badder Business Bureau

What is this world coming to? Seriously. I came home tonight, and one of my roommates was visibly upset. Turns out, Bally's Fitness Center is the Second Scammiest Company in the World. (I reserve that coveted top spot for one insurance company that shall remain nameless. Nope, screw it...World's Scammiest Company is Federated Insurance. Coming in a very close third behind Bally's is Comcast, for reasons I've explained before.)

But Bally's, man. They are horrible. DO NOT EVER SIGN UP for a membership there. Basically, my roommie signed up for a membership, asked if she could cancel at any time, and the dude said "Yup!" So, she signed a piece of paper and started using their crappy equipment. A few months later, she realized that Bally's is the worst gym ever. Cut to: tonight. She was looking at how to cancel her membership, and discovered the jackwad who assured her they weren't Soviet Russia had lied. She was locked in to her membership for THREE YEARS. Needless to say, she was upset.

I leapt into action, cyber-sleuthing my way through hundreds of links to people who have had the exact same life-ruining experience. Then I got Prinna to help. Within seconds, Prinna had found out who to contact, what to do, and why they make life so incredibly hard for people who pull back the curtain and discover that Bally's is just a bad, bad company.

What has happened to these companies? They SUCK. They screw with regular people all the time. They're all like "Yay! We're the best! Come work for/play with/hire us! We are awesommmme!" And then all of a sudden, something goes wrong, and they're like "FACE! PWNED YOU! You idiot! You TOOOOOTALLY trusted us and we GOT you with the fine print! Suckahhhh!" Wouldn't it just make more sense to, I don't know, not be a gnarly business?

I get so annoyed when things like this happen. I do. The average person is stressed out right now. Recession, unemployment, tech-overload, bills, trying to stay away from anything promoted by Kim Kardashian. Seriously. We don't have the capacity to also research every company ever to make sure they aren't, in reality, the worst company ever. I don't want to have to google "Target" just to make sure that by parking in their parking lot I'm not also agreeing to let them hire my car out for taxi services.

It's just so SAD and soulless. I know I'm ranting, but I don't care today. I'm annoyed that companies can abuse and harass the very people who keep them in business. It's childish. It's mean. It's, well, it would seem to me to be just Bad Business. Wouldn't it be more cost-effective to, oh I don't know, FIX a problem instead of running around covering your tracks? I didn't go to some fancy Business classes, but I DO know this: When I wear my hair in a ponytail all day and have a huge crease in it when I take it down, yes I COULD spend hours to try and straighten it and creatively braid it to hide the crease before heading out to play Bingo. But no: I wet it down in the sink wash it and get rid of the problem. Is that so hard to understand?

On the other hand, here is a quick list of companies who blow me away with their excellent service and help. They don't even have the greatest products all the time either, but I like them because if and when I have a problem, they fix it and help me understand what went wrong. They don't throw a piece of legalese my way and tell me I'm screwed before evil-laughing into the phone. Here are the Good Guys: USBank, Target, AT&T, Trader Joe's, YMCA, Kate Spade, Subaru, IKEA, Zazzle.com, and MAC Cosmetics. I like them. You all should support places like them who are nice and curtious and not evil.

But, my Public Service for the weekend is this: If you can at all help it, do NOT, and I repeat do NOT give your business to Bally's (or Federated or Comcast). They're bad, bad people. See you guys? I'm helping here. I'm providing a service to my faithful readers. And I urge you, if you are dissatisfied with your service or if I can improve your experience in any way, I look forward to speaking with you. I honor your patronage and will do everything in my power to give you the product and service you expect from us here at Pharon Square. (Bally's, are you writing this down?)

Peace out, guys. This weekend, do something nice for someone else. Because hey, SOMEone's gotta do it...

This Is Not My Beautiful House

We’re moving in on week three of having houseguests. For a couple weeks, Geo’s brother was here staying with us and now Sanna has two friends visiting from Australia who have checked in for a week. G’day, mates. It’s fun, don’t get me wrong. Generally, I’m quite used to random people coming and going from my house at all times of day. It’s kind of like living on a Carousel. People get on, hang out for a bit, and then leave, passing the new people coming in on their way out. But if I’m really being honest, I gotta say: I’m ready to get off the ride.

I really have no idea if this is my advanced age talking, or a direct result of being surrounded by miscellaneous people constantly as of late, but I’ve been enjoying a lot of musically-backed montages of memories from when I was living alone. The sweetness of coming home to a house that looks precisely the same as when you left, the expectation of opening your front door and knowing exactly who is/is not going to be there, and the comfort of standing in your underwear in front of the fridge binge eating a brick of cheese in solitude. It feels but a dream now. You know that scene in Bridget Jones’ Diary when she’s like all depressed and drinking and singing at the top of her lungs in her pajamas?? How sad IS it that I want that?

Once upon a time when it was me and the guys living together, they went on a weeklong vacation together. I joked that, while they were gone, I would be laying around the couch in my Prom dress, drinking wine from the bottle, and watching The Notebook over and over. Oh! To have been that free! To have been that sure that I wouldn’t be disrupted!

Increasingly, I’ve been having this nagging desire to crank up some Britney and dance around while singing into a hair brush. But I have to stifle that. Much like I must stifle my urge to scream and yell and get mad when the situation comes up. Because now I can’t do those things on a whim. Someone is watching a movie. Or, the people downstairs are worried all my jumping will cave in the ceiling. Or, my shrill yelling is making me sound crazy and irrational, rather than totally justified – albeit loud. Blogger’s Non Sequitur: Just because someone is angry doesn’t mean they can’t yell. I hate when people act like they’re better at fighting just because they can keep their voice down. It’s called “Passion”, people. I must digress here.

The point is, the Grown Up train is leaving the station, and I intend to buy a ticket. Because I’ve been living with so many people for so long, I’m like this muted version of myself, I think. I don’t crank up music when I’m happy and energetic just to dance around to it, I don’t cry when I want to, I don’t just scream when I’m frustrated – which feels so incredibly good – and sheesh, I barely talk on the phone unless I can go outside. I’m typically a very loud, energetic person who laughs at the drop of a hat. Lately, though, I’m this cranky codger who likes things quiet, who didn’t even laugh at herself when she ran into a door. That’s just so not me.

I don't know, maybe I'm just suffering from major Cabin Fever. Or maybe this whole Frat Boy lifestyle ain't exactly what I thought it was. Whatever the issue is, I must remedy. Tonight, I fixed it with Happy Hours and fried appetizers. Tomorrow? Who knows? But at some point, I'm going to have figure it out for myself and take a scary step into scary Adultville. I hear it's not nearly as fun, but no one questions you when you just want to stay in to carbo-load with a loaf of bread and a good ol' fashioned book on a Kindle.

I must admit, though, I'm still torn. I came home from my 2nd Happy Hour tonight and cracked a beer with some wonderful company. I guess you choose your battles. And I'm assuming this is definitely a case of "The Grass Is Always Greener", but I'm pretty sure that doesn't mean that the grass is any less satisfying. Especially if you're old like me. We old people pretty much like anything.

La-Z Girl

I’m actually nervous to be back at work tomorrow. I spent the last TWO WEEKS off, and I only used my alarm clock like twice to wake up. I’m petrified that I will not wake up on time. I’m scared that I won’t have any clean clothes to wear, or that I’ll forget my iPod or my phone or something. Tomorrow it’s back to our regularly scheduled program of work, deadlines, showering, and grown up conversations. Also, I’m still pretty sure most companies haven’t adopted a Mandatory Siesta yet, so my schedule of 3 little naps throughout the day will suffer greatly.

The glaringly obvious theme of my staycation was straight up Laziness. That's right, folks. The jig is up. I was that terrible four-letter word: LAZY. There were a couple days that I legitimately felt guilty for spending the whole day in pajamas. I had some pretty ambitious plans for myself that included things like cleaning my room, doing laundry, and reading a couple books. I didn’t do any of it. So, a couple people made the annoying comment, “Haven’t you DONE anything today?” I wanted to be like, “Yes, I’ve done exactly what I absolutely CAN’T do during a typical work week. I’ve relaxed and accomplished nothing.” Why does this behavior get such a bad wrap? Tell me, people!

Think about it. We work hard Monday-Friday, juggle a social life and mundane activities like grocery shopping, fixing up the house, and all crazzap, all while looking forward to weekends that we pack full of “fun“ things we don‘t have time for during the week. Who decided it was such a bad thing to spend our precious time off doing NOTHING? I mean, it’s not like I exactly NEGLECTED anything all that serious. Sure my room is a pigsty, and I decided to buy new socks instead of just doing laundry, but so what? I watched movies, slept past 9 a.m. every day, painted my nails, spent way too much time on websites like Failblog and TMZ, and just because I’ve done all that from the same spot on my couch, I’m like a pariah.

It definitely didn’t help that most of my friends were out of town, or worked all day when I did some of my best lounging. There were days that I met up with a friend for lunch or drinks, or went shopping or whatever, but at the end of the day, I just felt worse about spending too much money. There really aren’t that many cool things to do in Minnesota in the winter that don’t require a credit card and 20% tip. When it comes right down to it, I’m making an economically responsible decision to do things like eat spoonfuls of peanut butter rather than go out for a nice dinner.

I’m just kind of dreading going back to work and explaining to people that for almost 14 days straight, I had a daily internal battle as to whether or not I’d brush my teeth in the morning. Or that I watched the same HBO movie three times because there’s just nothing on TV at 1 in the afternoon. Crazy fun, right?!

I guess I don’t really care what other people think. To each her own, right? The only thing, though, is I had big plans to go to a buttload of matinees all week. I never get to go to daytime movies, so I really wanted to catch up on that. I didn’t go to ONE, though. Geo and I kept planning on seeing Black Swan, but some random thing always thwarted our daytime movie plans. From having to stay home and wait for our new oven and refrigerator to be delivered, to me sleeping in past the 12:20 movie start time, we just kept not going.

When is our next holiday? Flag Day? Do we get that off? If we do, I’m definitely going to go to a movie THAT day. Plan big, people. Well, wish me luck tomorrow. I’ve already got my Bus Bag packed with a new desk calendar, my iPod charger, and my new umbrella, and I have my lunch all ready to go. It feels like I’m going to my first day of school. I’ve even got new boots to wear. I hope you guys have a great Monday, and keep sending in your movie entries for the Cheesy Movie Contest!! I was going to finalize the awesome t-shirt design this week, but obviously I didn’t get around to it. Trust that it’ll be worth it though! Good luck this week, people. Get out there and make me proud.

Who is Lange Zyne, and How Old IS She?

You knew it was coming, didn’t you? Like I said before, I don’t typically make New Year’s Resolutions, so I guess maybe these should be considered a To Do List for 2011. Or, maybe more like “Pseudo-Challenging Goals Most People Do Anyway”. I feel like resolutions are so, I don’t know, final and scary. I would list things like “Learn Chinese” or “Shower Everyday” but everyone who knows me knows that those are impossible, and therefore won’t make any list I ever compile, unless it’s a list of things I’ll never do.

Without further ado, here’s my List of Things I Will Really Try and Do This Year, But Don’t Quote Me On It:

* As I’ve previously mentioned, learn how to put on makeup. As I write this list, I am relishing in Day Two of no makeup, and I will be sad to see these days go.

* Stop doing my laundry at my parents house. (NOTE: I KNOW how to do my own laundry. I’ve been doing it since I was 16, and in fact DO my own laundry, just at my parents house.) Here’s the thing: I HAVE a washer and dryer in my house, but I’ll admit it. I’m very afraid of our basement. It’s dark and scary and full of storage stuff. I just KNOW there are mice hiding down there. And mice are scary. It’s time I stop avoiding the little buggers and just wear football spikes down to the basement.

* Learn how to change a car tire. I don’t know why, but I have always wanted to be able to do this. I think it has something to do with the fact that I know a lot of guys who can’t do it, and need to call AAA. But how awesome would it be to pop out of the car, take off my Louboutins (which I will also buy this year), and change a tire myself? Answer: Very awesome.

* Be more spontaneous. Typically, Monday-Friday, my hours are planned out down to the minute, until 6 p.m. when I just park it on my couch and write. I have GOT to stop doing that. “Pharon, do you want to go to a movie that doesn’t START until 9:30 p.m.?” Old answer: No way, too late. New answer: Fine. Well, unless there’s one at 7:30? No? Okay, count me in.

* More happy hours. I can’t believe I have to actually WORK on this. I love Happy Hours, but as of late, I’ve really been slacking in the post-work drink arena. Must remedy this soon.

* No more roommates. I think I’m finally at the age where it’s getting a little weird to live in a house with 3 people to whom I’m not related. I really hope this is the year I move out of my favoritest house in the world into a small, crappy place in the ‘burbs probably, because I can only afford my sweet pad right now with the THREE roommates. No, I think it’s time to downsize and grow up.

* Stop watching TV marathons. Or at least limit them. I can sit and watch America’s Next Top Model marathons for 4 hours without even thinking about it. And God help me if there’s a Bridezilla or True Life marathon on. I may as well grow roots in the couch. But no, I must stop doing this.

* No. More. Clothes. From. Forever. 21. No more. They are cheap and only good for one or two wears. Unless it’s for a costume or something. Nope. I’m going to focus on QUALITY clothes over QUANTITY of clothes.

* Stop eating like a guy. I need more veggies and fruit in my diet, plain and simple.

* Keep blogging. If you guys promise to keep reading, I promise to keep blogging.

Those are my goals for 2011. What are yours? What will you change? What do you want to KEEP doing? (And HEY! If one of your resolutions is to write kick butt Cheesy Movie Storyline, don’t forget to send it to pharonsquare@gmail.com for your chance to win an authentic Pharon Square t-shirt AND your story featured on an upcoming blog!!)

Be safe out there guys. Have fun ringing in the new year, and I hope you have the night of a lifetime!! I’m sad to see 2010 go, because it was a pretty darn good year. I hope next year is as good, if not better. For me AND for you! See you all in 2011!

Sars about the video below, but it’s the only thing I could find with my favorite version of the New Year’s Song! Close your eyes and dance…

Potty Humor

I spent an hour cleaning our bathroom tonight. Like CLEANING clean. Scrubbing, disinfecting, sweeping, drinking wine, wiping, vacuuming, drinking wine…but now our bathroom smells like bleach and an apple-scented candle. Kind of gross, but clean. Wonderfully clean. I talked to my mom after achieving this feat, and I told her about going through an entire roll of paper towels and not knowing how to change the vacuum bag. She said “Pharon, all I did when you guys were kids was clean. All day everyday”. Touche, Mother. I totally inherited my mom's talent in the quick pick-up, but failed to really digest the CLEANING part.

When I was young, the seven worst words a kid in my family could hear were “KIDS!! Meet me in the front hallway!” To this day it send shivers down my spine. That phrase, yelled by my mom, was the death of a good time. The killer of buzzes, the hater of fun. When my mom yelled that, the five of us kids knew: It was time to clean. Corralling the five kids in the front hallway meant a little tour of our house, cleaning room by room. We’d go from hallway, to the off-limits fancy living room where Perek spilled pen ink all over one of the couches, to the dining room, to the family room where our dog Pele had chewed through an entire chair, and ending in the horrifying nightmare that was the kitchen. If my mom was feeling particularly masochistic, we’d top off the tour with the front hall closet. That’s where we’d throw everything we had just cleaned up in the Family Room.

Five kids are messy. We’d leave our crap everywhere. You could follow the progress of someone’s day by following the trail of toys and socks all around the house. My poor mom, though. Our dining room table, with a gorgeous dark-wood dining room table, was constantly covered with stacks and stacks of kids clothes, sorted by kid. Every other day. One by one, we’d gather our stacks of clothes and go throw them on the floors of our rooms as my mom yelled “And don’t throw those clean clothes on your floor!” Miserable, rotten kids…

When we’d get to the kitchen, Perek would always get what we called “work bladder”. We’d be standing before the stacks of dishes and failed science projects, about to tackle the towers of dishes abandoned by us mid-meal, and Perek would declare, “I have to go to the bathroom”. Forty-five minutes later, as the Soft Scrub was finally being washed from the sinks, Perek would emerge from his room and say, “Oh, it’s already done?” Lazy, good-for-nothing kids…

But by FAR the worst cleaning was before a big family gathering. My mom wouldn’t stand for the hidden socks in the silverware drawer, or the tricky way we’d hide garbage under the couch cushions anymore. No. We actually had to CLEAN. I have this distinct memory of dusting the TV with a t-shirt I found under the kitchen table. That counts, right?

Which is why I found myself scrubbing the bejesus out of the bathroom tonight. It wasn’t even dirty. But that whole “Pre-Holiday” clean panic has set in. Geo’s family is coming to our house for Thanksgiving, and while I highly doubt they will be eating anywhere around my make-up case, I still find it totally necessary to wipe every bottle and organize every hair binder.

Now I’m intoxicated by the nostalgic scent of Soft Scrub, and a little buzzed from the wine I drank. And maybe it’s the combination of those two things, but I have the sudden urge to tuck some garbage under the couch cushion. Just don’t tell my mom…

An Immaculate Concept

I did it, you guys. I finally did it. People doubted me. They thought, “Pharon never follows through on her dreams and goals.” And I know, I know. I’ve done this kind of thing before. You know, promise myself and my friends and family that I will ACHIEVE something! And then sit down with a glass of wine and debate whether or not to paint my nails instead of getting off my tuckus and taking a step towards success and maturation. But not today, people. NOT TODAY! I have tiptoed into the unknown, and beat the crap out of adversity. Today, I am a winner. Today, I am an adult.

Today I cleaned my room.

It was ugly, friends. It was scary and I didn’t know what I’d find under Shoe Mountain, or behind Old Magazine Canyon. But I did it. I put all my clothes back into the closets that threw them up in the first place. I dug through old clothes and old makeup and amassed a giant bag of “easier to throw away than clean up”. I found the gross little fake scars I wore to the Zombie Pub Crawl inside my running shoe (maybe I should start actually USING those shoes). I matched up shoes that were under the desk, on the desk, under the bed, and in my t-shirt drawer. Finally, I looked around at my room. I put my hands on my hips, and took in the splendor that was a spotless room. The bed was made. The dirty laundry was sorted out from the clean laundry - and then WASHED! I couldn’t believe what I had accomplished. I can’t wait to mess it up again…just to relive this cleansing high.

The truth is this. I hate cleaning my room, and there is no way that I am capable of KEEPING a room clean. I have too many clothes that I throw around like confetti, and end up in a tornado of Banana Republic and The Gap. I’m like the people on Hoarders. I can tiptoe through the piles of clothes, shoes, and empty boxes and then pluck a white tank top from the depths of a pile of crumpled up clothes I washed 2 weeks ago. It’s like a gift to find that needle in the haystack. I’m proud of it, sometimes.

I’ve been like this for my entire life. So, it’s not like I’m going to change any time soon. I just can’t keep my bedroom under control. When I was really young, and playing outside with my neighbor Claire, my mom would be all “Pharon! Stop eating those ants and come in and clean your room!” Lucky for me, I was a very manipulative little brat, and Claire had that lovely, easily-manipulated mind that so many kids have. Five minutes later, I’d be laying on my bed and directing Claire where to hang my Scotty dog sweater and denim overalls. I’d be like “Claire, the faster my room gets clean, the faster I can come over and play fashion show.” Unlike me, Claire was a phenomenal cleaner. She was efficient, and organized. She’s exactly that way today. In between commercials on a TV show, she’ll mop her kitchen floors. So, we all have our strengths. And cleaning? ‘Tis not my forte.

So tonight, I can bask in the cleany goodness that is my bedroom. I won’t trip on empty gift bags or twist my ankle on a round brush hiding under sweatpants. It’ll be nice, I guess. But how will I know what clothes I have to choose from unless they are all carefully thrown onto the floor?

Whatevs. I’m glad it’s over with. I don’t have to worry about cleaning it for another month week or so, and I finally have matching socks again. Everybody wins. For today, at least. Next time? Next time, maybe I’ll see if Claire is bored…

Yes, I WOULD Like Some Cheese With This

I keep having this urge to whine incessantly lately. I don’t mean, like, complain and then elaborate on my emotions. No. I mean WHINE. Like a baby. My reaction to people, situations, and actions all evoke this “Waaahhhhhhhh” from my nose and throat that I haven’t realized, until now, even existed as a tone in my body. You haven’t posted pictures from Halloween yet? Wahhhhh. Geo starting a job where he’ll be working until 9 p.m. every night, thereby leaving me to the testosteroneless house alone? Wahhhhh. All my birthday ice cream cake is finally gone? Double Waaaaaahhhh.

I can’t stop it. It feels really good. It’s like when you’re sick with the flu or something, laying in bed and cradling a garbage can like a newborn child. And it feels really good to just roll around and moan. UGHHHHHHHH! UGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! You know, like a zombie? That’s my whining these days. It’s cathartic. It’s constant. It’s, as of yet, highly ineffective though.

So I’ve been whining a whole lot lately. Some might say I'm whining "too much". Wrong, jerks! Regardless, I started doing it, and now I can't stop. Maybe it’s because I feel like I’m stuck in this baby-onesie-sized world right now, and it's the most basal response available. Like, my house is feeling smaller and more crowded every day and I feel more and more claustrophobic. And I can’t open our fridge any more without like 6 random Tupperwares of leftovers spilling out and on to the floor. I just want the damn butter! WAHHHHHH! Plus my room is basically uninhabitable. The only surfaces not covered in clothes (Clean? Dirty? Who knows?) are my bed and the 1 square-foot of carpet in front of my mirror where I attempt to put on makeup in the morning. But it's too messy now, and I don't have time to clean it. Wahhhh!

As I mentioned though, this whining is not doing too much for me. It's just not a good color on me, and I'm sure it's really very obnoxious. And it hasn’t really urged anyone to alter their offending behavior, or change an undesirable answer. I don’t really care, though. It's working for me. I like how it calms down my face. Instead of sneering at the maddening person, I can just go all slack-jawed and whine. Less wrinkles that way, too. And when I’m all agitated and twitchy with frustration, the waaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh is like FOCUSING all those clumsy words into one sound. I’m actually ascending from the common language into a more complex yet simultaneously basic communication device. People do that crap in meditation all the time, right? Don’t hate me because I’m enlightened…

But maybe it’s because I’m regressing. I’m around entirely too many people who are way younger than me these days. Or maybe I’m like a bear, which hibernates into cozy catharsis in the winter, slowing down everything in his body. It’s like, “I’m not going to explain to you, at length, why you are irritating me, or why I think you and/or you’re idea is dumb. All I can muster is WAAAAHHHHHH and a half-assed attempt at swiping your picnic basket before trudging off to my cave for a 6 month nap.”

Whatever the reason is, I fear the WAHHHHHmbulance is here to stay. I like it. I like the guttural reverb, and the brief purification of emotions. It's lovely. I just wish people didn't hate it so much. God, why do people haaaate it??? Wahhhhhh...

HEYYY YOUUUU GUUUYSSS!

Apparently, the gales of November are tearing through Minneapolis. And despite the bright lights and flickering TV’s across the street, our power is out. According to the very empathetic woman at the electric company, “power will definitely be restored by 7. IN THE MORNING.” Say whaaaa? I leave for work before 7 a.m., when it’s still dark out. I look bad enough when I can dry my hair and put makeup on with the help of LIGHTS, so if there’s no power tomorrow morning, I feel sorry for any people who may have to look at me.

So, here’s just a quick list of things I've tried (unsuccessfully) to do since the power went out:

* Turn on the kitchen light
* Turn on the TV
* Connect to the internet (which uses a router that runs with the power of ELECTRICITY)
* Toast my bread
* Boil water on the gas stove
* Microwave a potato
* Bake a potato in the oven
* Turn on the kitchen light AGAIN
* Charge my phone
* Charge my computer
* Google the phone number for Xcel on my computer

Well, at least no one can call me a quitter. I can’t seem to get it into my head what DOESN'T use electricity and what DOES. I just keep flipping switches and turning knobs. Luckily, after being abandoned in the pitch black hell hole by all my roommates, Liz has taken me in and is letting me pilfer her internet and watch Glee. God bless the Haves who share with the Have Nots!

I’m hoping that when I DO eventually go home, I’ll walk into a nightclub of lights, TV’s and music. That would be wonderful. I certainly don’t want to walk into a pitch black house and feel my way up to my room for bed. Though, it will be a little like Christmas if that happens, and I wake up and see what pajamas I’ve managed to put on.

Wednesday Winner

My initial plan for the Wednesday Winner was to profess my love for all famous chicks who are (close to) my age, and talk about how awesome they all are, and how wonderfully similar I am to them. But: Beyonce and Lily Allen got themselves knocked up, or “in the family way” as some creepy old dude put it today. Kim Kardashian’s been divorced, and is now making more money than ever before. Britney’s been married twice, divorced twice, gone to rehab, and had two kids. So, I thought about all this. I thought about other chicks my age who are out there, being parents, or wives, or rich. Then I decided my Wednesday Winner is going to be:



This bottle of wine!! You know why? ‘Cause pregnant chicks can’t drink it, uber-ambitious workaholic chicks wouldn’t DARE touch it on a Wednesday night, and married chicks probably have to go do stuff for/with their husband. Take THAT age-appropriate-lifestyle-livers! I invite you to kick back and have a glass, if you can, of your favorite (or most readily-accessible) wine tonight. You deserve it, I'm sure!

Despite the push and pull of age-norms all around me this week, I keep coming back to the same thought, though. "Okay, so what's the big deal?" Because between the knowledge that my mom had like 3 kids by the time she was my age, and the ginormous lifestyle gaps between me and my 22 year-old roommates, I feel like I'm in No Man's Land. In the wise words of Miss Britney Spears, "I'm not a girl, not yet a woman."

Additionally, I'm starting to think that all these so-called mile markers in life are a total farce to begin with. You know, "go to college when you're 18, start a career at 23, get married by 28, have kids at 31, slit wrists at 35". It seems so archaic, right?! We aren't in the age when the average life expectancy depends on whether or not you get the flu. We have a lot more time than our ancestors had. What's the rush, people?!

So, I drink the wine. The wine represents an appreciation for age...for maturation. Okay, sure, the wine pictured was literally $5 at Trader Joe's and has been aged all of 2 weeks, but the principle stands. You can't rush the process. You just enjoy it when it's ready.

Also, I honor Wine tonight because I can. I was talking to my pregnant sister Prinna today, and I said how badly I wanted a drink after work. And she got jealous. My SISTER got jealous of ME! It's pretty much the only thing I can do that Prinna can't. So WHAT if she's growing a life inside her body? I get to DRINK! w00000t!

Finally, Wine wins this week because at the end of the day, this old(ish) bag o' bones is tired! My feet hurt from my ridiculously painful, but AWESOMELY HOT, shoes, my back hurts from carrying my too-big purse, and I think I'm getting arthritis or carpel tunnel in my hands from tweeting all day. So tonight, I came home and opened a bottle of wine. Geo and another roommate feasted on pizza and mac n' cheese, but I paired my wine with an awesome dinner of salad and vinaigrette, and some pasta lightly tossed with tomatoes, garlic, and olive oil. How sophisticated!

See? This $5 bottle of wine embodies all that I have been this week. Sure it's cheap, but put it in a nice glass and most people can't tell the difference. No one cares what year it was made, or how long it's been maturing, the point is It's Wine. And It's Good. And I am now going to enjoy a couple glasses of my metaphor. Congratulations, WINE! Looooove you! Cheers, y'all!

P.A.R.T.WHY? Because I'm old.

I’d like to start off by telling you that yesterday, I washed my Randy Moss jersey for the first time in, well, awhile. I washed it and the Vikings won today. Coincidence? I think not. I washed off the bad juju! You’re welcome, Vikings.

Anyway, between naps, football games, and movies this weekend, I managed to make it out to an Ultimate Frisbee party (yeah, it’s a sport. It’s got the basic premise and contact level of soccer, but with a Frisbee. And no goalie. And also, you don’t kick anything. And it’s not written in stone that every player needs to be wearing matching jerseys. Also, there are no referees). Geo plays and their season is over, so they celebrated by throwing a party. It was really fun. And I was reminded how much I love going to parties. Especially when they are at other people’s houses. I opened a beer, and casually tossed the cap on the counter, and when it fell on the ground, I looked at it and then just walked in the other room. Yay! Rebellion! I was the party-goer that I typically hate. When we have parties at our house, I always think to myself “God! What kind of person just tosses their beer caps on the floor?” Answer: People who don’t have to pick up the next day.

So we haven’t had a party here in a few months. For the past several Sunday mornings, the house looks pretty much the same as it did on Thursday morning. No sticky floors, no beer cans shoved in the book cases, no strangers on the couch, no random sock under the coffee table (this has happened like a half dozen times. Who takes off one sock and leaves it somewhere? Crazy…). It’s been nice. So, that’s why I’ve decided to export my birthday party to the exotic bars in downtown Minneapolis.

While Kim and I were watching the Iowa football game on Saturday, we were talking about what to do for my birthday party in a couple weekends. We were considering the possibility of just hosting a little get-together at my house, because we just have “that house” that has the parties. But the blur of noise violations, broken glasses, and hours of clean up kept clouding my thoughts. We decided it best, for my sake and sanity, to NOT have a party here. And I’m now officially excited to celebrate getting older AND not have to clean up after. Everybody wins!

Okay, so now that we’ve got that settled, I can just focus on keeping the depression about getting old at bay. Birthdays are fun...

CONcast

Boy howdy, it’s an exciting Monday indeed! Besides the obviousness of the awesome Monday Night Football game on tonight between the Jets and the Moss-infused Vikings (you’ll pay for the whole seat, but you’ll only need the edge of it!) I’ve also officially sent out my birthday invites on Facebook! I apologize if you didn’t receive it, but trust that all who are interested are invited. On top of all that, I got to write a scathing letter of disappointment to the fine (read: horrible) people at Comcast. I’m pretty good at scathing letters, though I reserve my abilities for those who truly warrant it. In this case, Comcast, you have fallen into the pits of Those Who Truly Warrant It. (It’s an ugly place populated by the likes of the eBay seller who failed me, census takers, Federated Insurance, and whoever is responsible for those horrible Quiznos commercials. Not everyone gets a scary letter, but they all deserve one.)

So here's the sitch. Up until a few months ago, my three roommates and I had been blissfully unaware of our sky-rocketing cable/internet bill. We have long since lost the privileges of the “introduction fees” that sucked us in in the first place. So for years, we just kind of paid it, because we were happy. Then comes the dreaded scrolling messages on all our TVs. We are being told that, in order to maintain the same service, for which we’ve been paying the obscene full price, for over 3 years, we have to buy some converter boxes. And lest we lose over half our channels, we’d better high-tail to the cable place and scoop up the 4 that we need a.s.a.p.

So, that makes us take a look at our bills. We sort of re-remember how much we’ve been paying, and are now hell-bent on remedying the situation, especially because each box costs about $3 extra a month. Not a ton of money, but it’s the PRINCIPLE of it, people. Alas, there is little to be done. Don't you just love a monopoly? So we get the dumb boxes. But then the internet doesn’t work all of a sudden. I get to spend a good 7-10 minutes on hold with their “superior customer service” peeps, then Geo spends another good 30 minutes trying to get the internet back online. Finally: Success.

Or so I thought. We hook up the ridiculous boxes to each of our TVs, call up Comcast (again!) and they push some, like, giant red GO button or something. Our main TV and 2 others appear as though nothing has changed. I guess it worked? (I can't be sure, because it's exactly what we had before.) But it’s a different story for the TVs upstairs. Most importantly, MY TV.

All of a sudden half my channels don’t work and the ones that DO “work” are interrupted every single 40 seconds – yes, I counted – with some screen from Comcast saying “Thanks for your patience while we do something really stupid which won’t affect you at all except for right now, and every 40 seconds after this. You’ll thank us later.” Uh. Whaaaa? I’ll thank you later? No, I’ll thank you very much when you give me back my sanity.

Enter: Scathing Letter. Let’s just say I may or may not have used the phrases “Highway Robbery” and “Egomaniacal Marketing Department with No Knowledge of the Technicalities of Your Product”. After I hit “Send” I felt better. Then I get a message back from them. In short, they say “Welp, sounds like a technical problem (duh). You’ll have to schedule a time for one of our cable guys to come into your home.” No apology, no “Wow, thank you for drawing our attention to this obvious lack of quality”, no nothing. Just another step I need to take to, that’s right, GET THE EXACT SAME THING WE HAD BEFORE.

Well, as of now, I’m stuck with the problem (and a second remote to use my own TV, which totally bites). The good thing about this is that our main TV works just fine, and that’s where the Vikings game will be on. Phew! And our internet is back on track, so I’ll be able to obsessively check how many people are coming to my party. And those really are the most important things, right?

Safe AND Sorry

Hypothetically, let’s say “someone” lost her mind tonight, and that “someone” started crying for no reason. Then maybe that “someone” took it on her hypothetical boyfriend. Let’s call him Leo. After angrily cleaning the house, throwing away perfectly good beer and cleaning supplies, this “someone” stubbornly declined a perfectly good movie date to see The Social Network, which I REALLY wanted to see. I mean, “someone”. Hypothetically, this non-existent “someone” probably really wanted to see The Social Network.

Alright, I give up. I’m the “someone”. I got overly frustrated about the messy state of the house, I had a really long day at work, and my brain is exhausted from thinking very deeply about becoming Amish. So, natch, I started an argument with Geo that caught him totally off-guard, and I knew my chances of a fun movie date were all but shot. But then Geo, being the good sport he is, told me I was insane and refused to indulge me in my maniacal outburst. So instead, we (I) ended up apologizing, then we (he) solved some problems, and then we laughed at Glee. Which, again, is an awesome show.

So, the reason I had such a cleaning outbust was because our landlady told me we were going to have a…dun dun DUUUUN! Safety Inspector come for a quick visit to put in some carbon monoxide detectors. However, I had a small inkling that said Safety Inspector would frown on our self-removal of those pesky smoke detectors. Also, the ginormous extension cord that stretches across the house plugging in an air conditioner and shoddy lamp on opposites sides of the house is typically, uh, not good. Now, I’m not sure, but I also think we’re not supposed to have a grill, okay TWO GRILLS, on the porch. But now? Now we are a well-oiled safety machine.

Awwww yeah! No fire will go undetected from now on. No one will have to fight through 400 paper bags and 20 half-full bottles of Windex to get to a fire extinguisher, that may or may not work. Oh, and best of all? During my frenzied freak out, I located the ridiculously long chain-link ladder in my closet that I can use to get out of my room on the third floor in case of fire, break-in, or hallucination that makes me think the ground is made out of snakes. Thank God!

So now that all is safe in the Pharon Square household, I can relax. Now, if Geo’s right, the dude will show up and be all “I just need to plug these carbon monoxide babies in and I’ll be on my way” and not even NOTICE that I have a habit of leaving my hair dryer plugged in, laying on the damp bathroom rug. (Did you know that on the WARNINGS of a hair dryer, it tells you not to use it in your sleep? Really?) And he probably won’t go digging through one of our many junk drawers and discover that that’s where we keep the gasoline, matches, and other Molotov Cocktail supplies. But, my motto’s always been: Better Safe Than Sorry. Plus, I totally have renter’s insurance anyway…

I Wanna be a Toys R Us Kid

Can I ask you a dumb question? Where’s the line between growing up and getting old? I’m at a crossroads here, people. On the one hand, the thought of having a child/buying a house/”settling down” is still preeeeeetty terrifying. On the other hand, I’m starting to wonder what’s wrong with ‘kids these days’. One hand has a beer in it; the other hand is curling into finger-wagging position. I’m torn. I don’t know which end is up. I’m scared. Hold me.

Now, I like fun as much as the next guy. But lately, everything is just….louder. And more obnoxious. I caught myself thinking the phrase “infernal racket” at one point today. I get cranky when I’m hungry, and I keep wanting to yell at random strangers “PULL YOUR PANTS UP!” or “GET A JOB, HIPPIE!” Give me a pipe, sweater vest, and floppity toupee and I’m an old man.

However, I’m still kind of attached to MTV, and I’m sticking pretty hard to my devil-may-care attitude about bill paying. I still firmly believe that the only bad Happy Hour is the one not attended. I see no point in being serious in many (most) situations. When I babysit for my nieces, I stuff them full of Twizzlers, suckers, and Fun Dip then head home for a night of doing whatever I want. Currently, I have blue fingernail polish on, and I’ve got some Silly Bands on my nightstand.

Today, I was thinking about this conundrum as I was planning my upcoming weekend. My roommate is having a party at our house (for her 24th b-day), and it will be chock full of other early 20-somethings. And I can’t stop worrying about the glasses that will be broken, the smell of rancid beer on the floors, and the inhumanely loud noise level that will seep out of our windows. So, part of me wants to check out and go hang at a friend’s house and avoid the stress altogether. But the other part of me is like “Uh, there is a PARTY. And it’s at YOUR HOUSE. If you leave, you may as well finish up that AARP application and start carrying butterscotch candy and a Kleenex in the band of your watch.”

So, where’s the line? Is there a line at all? One day will I just wake up, pay all my bills, buy some sensible shoes, and start visiting websites that do NOT focus on Hollywood gossip? Well, that just scares me. But how far away is that from my current state? I mean, I’ve started really listening to wrinkle cream commercials. And I’ve seriously considered galoshes.

Ugh. I don’t know. I’m scared. I can actually see why someone would want to take on all the problems and permanency of home ownership, when you can actually paint the walls without asking permission first. I’m flummoxed by people who didn’t grow up to the words “This week, on a very special Blossom…”. So what happens next? When does the floor drop out from under me and I start wearing a slip and pantyhose? When does dying my hair for a little change turn into covering gray?

That seals it. I’m going to put on my best hoop earrings and American Apparel outfit, Twitter my brains out, and do my very best keg stand this weekend. I will NOT grow up. I will NOT! I might just need a couple naps, though. And I’ve got to make some time to catch up on the vacuuming, and let me just quick pick up the house before we have guests. Oh, and don’t let me forget to take my multi-vitamin. This rain is really taking its toll on my sinuses and joints. But THEN! THEN it’ll be crazy fun! YEAH!

Happy Weekend, everyone!

Week. End.

I am the bride left at the alter. I’m sitting here, in my Vikings jersey, cradling a can a Coors Light, and thinking about what Might Have Been, reliving what went wrong. We lost today. The Vikings lost. Two in a row. It’s getting rougher to cheer, the triumphant words getting stuck in my throat. But, we must move on. The next game is a blank slate. We can begin again.

I’m moving on like any sane woman would: by watching a movie about polygamy. Yes. Thank you, Lifetime TV. Nothing heals an open wound like a movie about multiple wives and a foreshadowed murder. Sweet, sweet catharsis.

I feel like I developed a relationship with my weekend. The Honeymoon Phase started with a late afternoon nap on Friday, and concluded with an early afternoon nap on Saturday. I was gently (abruptly) awoken by the appearance of Geo and his dad at our front door, after a round of golf. Me + snoring nap on a recliner = where’s my time machine? Gah!

Oh well, the relationship moved on, steadily. Reliably. I ran my errands, wore my sweatpants, neglected to brush my hair. Still, the weekend was good to me. Then came Temptation. I spent a night at Liz's drinking wine and envying every last detail of her perfectly-designed new apartment. I came home feeling like a frat boy. The mismatched furniture, the dirty rugs, the framed posters of celebrities hung at odd angles. I thought I wanted more. But I bought Swiffer dusters, I reorganized book shelves, I moved books around. The whole house smelled like 409 and a Clean Linen scented candle, and I felt better.

After the rush of temptation passed, the weekend and I moved into experimentation. Geo and I visited a coffee shop this morning that I had never been to. We bought gooey cinnamon rolls, something called Puppy Dog Tails and black coffee. I was glad for the new experience.

Alas, after the utter disappointment of the football game, I realize I must cut my losses. I’ve decided to officially break up with the weekend, and move on with my life. Our relationship has run it’s course. And now, sitting here in my Vikings jersey, and watching the droplets of condensation on my beer can slip onto the coffee table, I know that this was not meant to last. You know, we had our ups, our downs, our tests, and our triumphs. But I must move on. I am in search of something greater. A week-long vacation, perhaps. I want the Real Thing.

So, I welcome this coming week with open arms. We are defined by our past relationships, and this weekend has taught me that complacency does not a perfect weekend make. Sure I may have spent the majority of the weekend in a ponytail and sweatpants, but I wasn’t ready to give it my all. Next weekend, maybe. Maybe next weekend will be The One.

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.)