The Crush

Writer's Block, guys. Major, major writer's block. I've started and erased like 3 blogs. The first one was about hating Chris "Rock 'em Sock 'em" Brown. Yeah, like THAT'S news. Then came a blog about whether or not shampoo works like they say it does. I came to my own conclusion that it HAS to otherwise I've wasted a lot of money on "thickening" "smoothing" and "volumizing" nonsense. Still, not exactly page-turning stuff. Finally, the third one started (and quickly ended) with one line: "Can someone please explain the allure of bananas to me?"

I'm off tonight. I'm distracted by all kinds of things, and can't seem to pull together a few intriguing - or even mildly amusing - sentences. What can I say? I'm even watching Dancing with the Stars for the first time EVER trying to get inspired. But besides discovering a newfound girl-crush on Kirstie Alley (she's FUNNY you guys! Seriously! And she can actually do a decent quick-step for a bigger girl which is just icing on the cake she's not allowed to eat anymore), it's been wholly UNinspiring. Background noise.

Sounds like somebody's got a case of the Mondays. I've even decided to tune in to a new This American Life episode on Current TV. I'm obsessed with This American Life. I've listened to pretty much every podcast online. Never heard of it? Well, I urge you to check it out at thisamericanlife.org. Anyways, it's ALWAYS inspiring. Each episode could set me off writing for hours. And now that it's on TV? I was tickled. But for some reason, even Ira Glass leaves me less-than-enthused, which is almost disturbing because I have this really odd crush on him too. Okay, so he can't say his "L's" but he's so interesting and dapper and likable and intelligent and kind. Anyway, I listen to him every week on T.A.L. and when he laughs really hard at something, I'm all "Aw man, I wish I could make Ira laugh like that!" Is that weird? I don't care. He is MY Anderson Cooper (admit it - you like Anderson Cooper! Everyone has a little teeny crush on that silver fox).

Yeah, so I've got nothin'. I'm too excited to meet my nephew tomorrow (Prinna didn't go in to labor, but she's going to be induced in the morning) to think about much else. I've already got a crush on a little baby I've never even met yet. Weird? Probably. Whatevs.

Uh, riiiiiiight. So basically, we've all learned tonight that I have a crushes on Kirstie Alley, Ira Glass, and an unborn baby. All totally normal things. Ugh. Writer's block really makes me admit to things I'd rather not say outloud. Sorry. I'm weird and I'm missing a filter somewhere. (As if to prove my point, I just asked Prinna to get on Skype because she's pretty sure she's having contractions and I want to see it. Seriously? Ugh...I'm awkward.)

Kickin' This Cold!

I'm in MUCH better shape this week after my kickboxing class than I was last week. Okay, so I WAS sweating like a pair of feet in tights and heels on a 90 degree day, but the recovery period was much quicker. And just like last week, I felt sooooooooooo good. The following things really helped:

* Tony (who is German, not Russian. Whoooooops) was impressed with my fighting stance. Yeah, my hands are constantly up at my chin, so what? So WHAT if I'm perpetually in attack mode, what of it? So when Tony said "Niiice! You'll be ready to spar in 2 weeks!" I was hardly surprised. I DID grow up with 2 brothers and 2 sisters, you know. I'm like a cat: always ready to pounce. I was pretty stoked - and a wee bit scared - that it came pretty natural to me.

* I'm still pretty dern flexible. Okay, so I haven't bent down to even tie my shoes in a couple years (stilettos have no laces, you know) but shockingly, I still got it. Tony had me demonstrate a stretch and almost laughed when I sat on the ground and leaned all the way between my legs and basically kissed the ground. Aw yeah!

* We learned how to wrap our wrists like real live boxers! Sanna and I agreed that having our hands wrapped up made us feel more coordinated and controlled. Plus, I got BLUE wraps and they were totally cute with my pink fingernails!

* I have recently decided to abandon all plans to lead a nice, normal life and start training to become a professional kickboxer. I'll be the greatest senior citizen to punch the bags in the world.

The problem is, after class, we stood around talking to Tony and the cold I thought I had successfully squashed reared its ugly head and I left in a fit of hacking dry coughs.

I had a nasty little realization today, you guys. It's bad. So my sister Prinna is due with baby Alec, like, ANYDAYNOW. While yes, THAT is great news, I won't be able to get my germ-ridden body anywhere near the hospital or a newborn until my immune system bucks up and kicks this stupid cold out for good. Rude! I wanna snuggle that baby so much! I need to get rid of this stupes cold! STAT!

I'm going to take a kickboxing approach to this, I think. I'm not quite sure what that means, you know, because I've only ever taken a total of TWO classes as of yet, but I imagine it'll go a little something like this.

* For the stuffy nose: One-Two Punch approach. First I'll blow my nose, then I'll punch myself IN the nose.

* For the hacking cough: Breathing and Stretching approach. I'm going to have to learn how to breathe in air to my lungs, but bypass the back of my throat 'cause that's where the problem seems to be. Then I'll just stretch it all out until it's all nice and loose and then my chest won't feel so tight and congested.

* For the watery eyes: Hydrate. I know that as I sweat, I need to rehydrate. I think my eyes are just really sweaty.

* Finally, for the incessant sneezing: Two words. Roundhouse Kick. I'm not sure how that's going to stop the sneezing, but I'm pretty sure it's going to work.

So, I've got a plan now, and that's the start to any positive recovery. Now, I just need PRINNA to take a little tip from my kickboxing expertise: PATIENCE. (Get it, Prinna? Just wait a few more days!)

Alright, time to get this aged - yet still very flexible, might I remind you! - body to bed. And Good News! We here at Pharon Square continue to get pleas for help and advice, so if you have any questions or need advice on anything, Dear Crabby will be back tomorrow! Send your inquiries to pharonsquare@gmail.com. If you have any questions on kickboxing or treating a cold, though, I encourage you to wait a few weeks until I understand either enough to confidently make fun of your question.

The Write Stuff

Seething. I was all prepared to write a blog ranting rationally pointing out the flaws of a recent development in my living situation, but I need to just shelve that right now. I can't unwrite the things I want to write at this moment. I can't unsay that I think it's downright communism to have to pay, however LITTLE, for my neighbors use of our washer/dryer. Especially after being without HEAT for three days. Oh, didn't I mention the heat went out AGAIN? Oh, because it did. I just, I don't, I can't...I shouldn't write in this state. I have to move on.

Non sequitor! I am SO sick of my handwriting. Is that weird? This afternoon, while making a “To Do” List, I started testing out different “R”s and “E”s and “G”s throughout the list. What’s that, Charlie Sheen? You want your crazy back? Sorry, I’m kind of using it right now. I came to the conclusion, however, that penmanship (rude! – penWOMANship!) is not exactly my forte. Trying to read my writing is like trying to get through the Danger Above level in Angry Birds without cheating. That is, to say, very difficult to do, and typically not worth it in the end.

I remember all through middle and high school, this one group of “popular” girls all had the EXACT SAME HANDWRITING. It was like they wrote in their own, programmed font and it was kinda creepy. You could seriously tell when a girl was making the leap from “average and well-liked” to “Dudes, meet me at my Jeep Wrangler and lets just go get manicures instead of going to History”. You could tell, because all of a sudden, she’d turn in her homework (intermittently now) and her letters would be all boxy and strong, and smooshed together. Exhibit A:

You better believe I tried every day for many many moons to write like that. You know, so I could trick the other girls into thinking I was popular too. I was doing my homework one night and I tried writing the crazy hard, tight letters. It was really tough and my hand started to cramp up. I switched the pen around in my hand so that it came out between my pointer and middle finger instead of between my thumb and pointer finger (you following me?) It kind of worked, actually! I was all “Yeah! I better start saving for my leopard-print steering wheel cover today!” But then my mom walked in and said “Ugh, what are you doing? It looks like you’re writing with your FOOT!” Foiled.

I still don’t like my handwriting, popular girl or not. Lately, though, I wish it was just really freaky neat and people would say “Pharon, could you come and write this nasty hate letter to this idiot who double parked? Your handwriting is totally the best!” There are times at work when I’m filling out forms and I’ll have to go over a whole line with white-out, because by the end of the sentence, even I can’t tell what I’ve written.

The point is, when I have to start signing autographs (and I know that day will come), no one will know what I've written, which is nice. Or terrible. I haven't decided yet. But maybe I should only worry about perfecting my "Best Wishes! Hope you can read this illegible mumbo-jumbo!"

All the Best,
Pharon

Tellin' Tall Tales

Alright, FINE. So my "woe is me" post last night didn't exactly go that well. I expected (or hoped, rather) that like everyone and their brother would have some insight on the post. But Geo read it before I posted it. I said "It's funny, don't worry!" And he read it and said, "Um, it's not like funny, you know. It's, uh, just really personal." I told him he didn't know anything about ANYTHING and I posted it. Turns out, he knows a LITTLE something about some things. The reaction to the post was, uh, underwhelming, so consider it a lesson learned. Sorry guys. I'm takin' my problems to WebMD from now on.

Alright, let's get back on track. So this afternoon, as a girl was getting off the bus, she totally wiped out on the ice. She landed flat on her back and I made a huge "O" with my mouth and stifled my giggle before asking "Ohmygod, are you okay?" She laughed at herself, stood up, brushed the snow off her butt and goes "Welp, pretty glad you're the only one who saw that!" And then, for no reason at all, I just blurted out "That SAME THING just happened to me this morning! Vwoop! Fell right on my butt." Here's what you need to know: I did NOT "vwoop...fall right on my butt". I just, like, lied. No reason at all. I guess I wanted her to feel better, even though she seemed totally fine, and instead she appeared to be uncomfortable at my alleged Story-Topping.

You guys, I do that. I kind of just LIE sometimes. Little lies, itty bitty, teeny weeny lies. And only when I'm nervous. Or to fill an awkward silence. Or to make someone feel a little better by fabricating a similar story of my own. Or to make myself sound smarter. You know in Garden State, when the illustrious Natalie Portman admits HER affinity for pointless lying? She says "I don't know, it's like, it's like a tick. It's like I hear myself say something and I think, 'Wow, that's not even remotely true!'" Yeah, I think they wrote that line about me.

I remember at my first job out of college, they wanted to have me try my hand at sales. During a couple terrifying cold calls, I counted and I had lied about 4 times. Can we do month-to-month?...Awkward silence...SUUUUURE! Will you promise that I get a 78% return on my ad? ...Awkward silence...OF COURSE! LIES, man, just flat out LIES!

It's so dumb, too. During college, a friend of mine and I decided we were going to lie our faces off and decided to tell the rest of our friends that we had met Ashton Kutcher at a downtown Iowa City bar. (He used to go to the U of Iowa, in case you were wondering, so it's really not that unlikely he could have been there.) Our plan worked. People were all "You met him!? What was he like?? Did you talk to him?" I saw my friend waiver, she was considering giving the whole thing away, so I went in like gangbusters. By the time I was done talking, Ashton had complimented me on my t-shirt, he gave us advice on different majors, bought us a round of beers AND shots, and told us all how much he missed people "like us". What, I ask you, was the point of that?

Sometimes I just lie about liking something. I lied about liking Arcade Fire a few times, actually. Sorry, but I honestly am totally indifferent about them. I guess I would even go so far as to say, straight up, I don't get the hype. But, I wanted to be considered "cool" so I said I "toooootally loved their new album!" No, I didn't. I just wanted that person to like me. Everyone? I just don't like Arcade Fire. I don't. Except that one song that's in Where the Wild Things Are. THAT is a great song. The rest of it just sounds like noise. Vanilla, boring, white noise.

Um, let's see. I've guess actually been pretty truthful lately. That's a lie. I lied about what I had for dinner last night for no reason at all. It was so dumb. I wanted my friend to think I had been eating really healthy, so instead of telling her I had 3 breadsticks and some pizza that Geo had leftover from lunch, I said I made a Cobb salad. I'm not even entirely sure what goes IN to a Cobb salad.

When it comes to little things like that - making myself seem healthier or more eclectic in my music tastes, or when I'm trying to be interesting or sympathetic - sometimes, yes, I lie. Should I have admitted all this? Probably not. But I assure you, every single word I write on here is straight up, in yo' face, TRUTH. Okay, that might be a lie. I don't know. I really haven't been paying too much attention to what I write anyways.

Crazy is the New Black (I Hope)

Okay, fine. I’m crazy. I get it now. My head, whirring around with constant thoughts of celebrities and shoes and schedules and lists, has taken over and it’s turning me into madwoman. Randomly, in the past month or so, I’ve just been kind of a mess of racing thoughts. I can convince myself to be paranoid about car rides or brain tumors or diabetes. I’ve literally talked myself into having everything from headaches to acne. So, natch, I decided that I’ve snapped.

Last month, I finally bucked up and visited a doctor and explained that “Doc, I've lost it, I think. I am driving myself crazy,” and then I just cried for no reason - Ugh, what a girl. She listened, was very nice, and explained that I am probably suffering from anxiety attacks. I helpfully suggested that maybe they should do a full body scan and maybe do some sort of extensive neurological testing to pinpoint exactly what is going on and how I can quit . She laughed off my suggestion and said “It’s really not uncommon. It’s not.” And then, as if to add insult to injury, she suggested that maybe working out would help. I was all “What are you, Jillian Michaels?” Instead of explaining to her that I simply don’t like working out and I don’t think it will make me feel better to do something I hate, I kind of just hung my head and nodded. Accepted my punishment.

So the doc was all “It could be stress” and “It could be a seasonal thing” and “It could be the fear of your future” and, my favorite, “It’s probably nothing.” So…uh…riiiiiiight…okay. None of that is really helping, here, lady. None of that changes the fact that all of a sudden, I’m freaking out over the protests in Wisconsin because I’m assuming they are going to lead to mutiny and then how will we stop the anarchy?! Wait, what? How did I get THERE, you ask? I have no idea…my mind just wanders and then BOOM. The worst-case scenario just sort of pops up and suddenly the purse I just bought isn’t cheering me up like it did yesterday because Wisconsin is ruining everything. RUDE. You can see why I think I’ve gone insane, right?

Anyway, so back at the doctor’s office. The very nice, patient, understanding doctor suggests I take some good ol’ anti-anxiety pills for the road. I interrupt her Rx writing, in protest. I explained that I don’t WANT to take medicine. I don’t know what it does exactly, and I’m worried it may interfere with my very infrequent use of Advil and cause a blot clot or something. She says, markedly less patient now, “You are the exact opposite of patients I typically see. But I’m giving you the lowest dose humanly possible. It’s not going to do anything except calm you down and interrupt your racing thoughts.” And, she assured me, it won’t turn me into a zombie, when I explain that my sister takes anti-anxiety medicine to fly, and then she just falls asleep for hours and that’s why she can’t fly alone.

Does this happen to any of you? Do you guys ever get into these modes where you just can't, like, LOGIC your way out of it? Good lord, I hope so because otherwise I'm a medical anomaly which greatly adds to my anxiety. I would love to hear your stories/reactions/suggestions if you've ever cartwheeled down the steep anxiety slope. You know what they say: insanity misery loves company!

Chef Boyarduhhhhs

Ooof, I've failed again. I brought my laundry over to my parents house AGAIN to get a little caught up in the "clean clothes" arena. I've straight up decided that I can't NOT do it though. It's so easy. It's so mouse-less. Plus, I like the way my parent's laundry room smells. So fresh, so clean, so lacking of moldy onions (our neighbors keep a bucket o' onions in the basement. It's like they're TRYING to to raise stinky-breathed mice).

I went over there tonight to pick up a form I'll need to file my taxes, but they haven't sent it yet. [Blogger Edit: I'm NOT waiting for the actual tax form, as many of you assumed, because it's 2011 and I do my taxes online.] Allow me to quote the infamous Stephanie Tanner here: HOW RUDE! It's FEBRUARY, people! Some of us who use the whole taxy thingy as our own little savings account need to FILE taxes so we can GET OUR MONEY BACK. I pride myself on filing my taxes every January. But noooooo, not this year. Now I have to wait until God-knows-when for one stupid form. Foiled again, American Tax System.

Anyway, so I hung out and had dinner with my sister Prinna and one of her daughters, Eve (in case you were wondering, yes, Eve is the best child in the world. Better than any child you ever were, or have, or could imagine. Sorry to break the news to you.) We decided to try and make dinner. Prinna and I have the same level of cooking skills (read: none) so making dinner together was, uh, interesting. Me: "Uh oh. The recipe calls for 1 1/2 pounds of broccoli. The bag says 12 oz. Is that the same?" Prinna: "I dunno. Probably. Also, are onions the same as garlic?" Me: "What do I look like? Betty Crocker?" When Prinna suggested going "off-recipe" and adding red pepper flakes to our broccoli, I was really scared. But we both shrieked when we read the notes on the recipe and it said you could, in fact, ADD RED PEPPER FLAKES for more spice! Prinna had gone all rogue, and it turns out, she was right. Touche, Julia Child.

I like making dinner with Prinna. She's funny, she's smart, and she appreciates a good ol' fashioned swear word every now and then. But more importantly, we both suck at cooking, and neither one of us cares. I'm frequently with people who either LIKE cooking or KNOW HOW TO DO IT. People who stare into a food cupboard and make up a meal in their head. People who know when something is missing, or something's too salty. People who know what "broil" means. It's frustrating. I hate being so willfully ignorant about cooking. I'm psycho about timers, I measure every single ingredient, and I will follow a recipe down to the letter even if it means ruining the meal. That chicken looks done? Well, the recipe says it shouldn't be done for 15 more minutes, so I'm going to leave it on. Wait, what's that burning smell? Crap, what's the number for Pizza Luce?

On nights like tonight, when I'm making food with someone who is my equal, I have way more fun. No pressure. No expectations. No superior knowledge that garlic and onions are not interchangeable. It's refreshing. When we were finally done making the food, we sat down and ate. Technically, it could have been a subpar meal, but we'd never know it. It was delicious. I guess two heads ARE better than one. Especially when the combined culinary knowledge of the two heads equals about one teenager taking Home Ec.

I'm pretty sure I'll never be good at cooking. I don't really care. I know how to make pasta and bagels and roasted broccoli, and that's like 90% of my diet, so I'm set. Plus, as soon as I can find person who can write a decent recipe for idiots like me, I'll be just fine. I'm also kind of assuming that food will start to be made available in pill form sometime in the near future, so what good will cooking be then? Answer: No Good.

Don't Hate Me Because I'm Beautiful...Unless I'm Also A Bad Person

I’d like to talk to you today about chicks. Ladies. Broads. Muchachas. The Fairer Sex. Uh, has anyone else noticed how BRUTAL we can be to each other? We can find something physically wrong about ANY OTHER GIRL. Cankles. Muffin Top. Horse Face. Stretch Marks. My roommate Sanna insists that this negative behavior only happens in Middle School, but I totally disagree. I think it happens all the time, but now that we’re adults, we’re much more covert about it. We’re like stealth little beyotches, set on tearing other women down flaw by flaw. I’ll admit it: I’ve done it. And trust me, YOU do it too. But I’m going to stop doing it. It’s just so cruel.

Here’s the thing. Last night, my mom emailed me and she was all “OMG, loved your blog tonight! Hilarious! Um, but do you think you could maybe lay off yourself for a minute? You know, stop making fun of yourself nonstop and maybe try saying something nice about yourself every once in a while?” I thought about it. I fell asleep being like “You know, I’m going to blog tomorrow about awesome I am. Like, how funny I think I am, and how I can be smart, and how I can cheer almost anyone up at anytime, and also? I clean up pretty good too.” But I woke up this morning and I was all “Hold on there, Vanity Kane (OMG, if you got that pun, I’ll love you forever), none of that is exciting at ALL.”

Seriously, would you guys read a blog about someone who loves themselves way too much? No, because then it would be written by Angelina Jolie. Or Gwenyth Paltrow. Or that chick Sarah I went to middle school with. The point is: No one is perfect. And people who THINK they’re perfect are in for a big wake up call. I mean, okay I probably should try and lighten up when it comes to myself, but that’s not the problem out there. The problem is that we just annihilate each other’s self esteem whenever humanly possible. Women have it hard enough trying to take over the world from those violent, non-feeling menfolk, getting good roles in Hollywood that don‘t involve naked dancing scenes, and trying to make a decent lasagna without fending off criticisms of our body or face or other physical attributes. Yet, all over the place, I hear girls talking about the physical flaws or differences of other women, which apparently gives us free reign to rip them apart. Like someone's size, or how bad her eyebrows look, or how they’d never be caught dead wearing those shoes. Really, ladies? REALLY?

Now, I’m not going to go all “I’m awesome because of these 638 reasons” because that’s just not me. I really enjoy making fun of myself. I definitely don't need someone ELSE to help me out. But I’m also not going to sit and listen to a girl say “Well of course she was mean. Did you see her thighs?!” I heard someone say that about a stranger not too long ago and I wanted to slap the girl who said it. I blame her parents. The problem is, we’ve all said something like that, and someone somewhere has said something like that about each one of us. But I just don't get where we get off putting someone down flat out because they have messy hair, or wear jeggings.

With that said, I'm not all "La la la, everyone is awesome." Here are the things that ARE legitimate reasons to dismiss someone from your life. (I base these solely on the behaviors of the men around me. They have great friendships, and they don’t talk about each other‘s back fat.) I will choose to not be friends with someone if: They have a really horrible sense of humor. They can’t carry on an intelligent conversation (or at least pretend to). They think they are perfect. They can’t admit when they’re wrong. They complain all the time. They are racist or sexist or other similarly hate-fueled “-ist” that just makes them a horrible person. These are all personality traits that say a lot about a person. Guys will be friends with other guys if they like the same things or can make an awesome joke. Simple as that. You just don’t hear guys being like “Yeah, he’s cool and everything, but have you seen his GUT? Gross. He sucks.”

Yeah, I think it’s fine to rib on someone because of the person they ARE. It’s just so….so, CLICHÉ to rib on physical traits. Aren't we more creative than that? There are enough things wrong with everyone without having to point out things that unchangeable or different. I’d rather be hated for my moodiness than my hips. I think I’ve earned it. I think I’m pretty good at getting to know someone before I decide why I can’t stand them. And I’d expect people to do the same for me. Believe me, I’ll give you plenty of reasons to go running for the hills. But (here you go, Mom) despite my many, many flaws, I'm loyal and kind, and I'll make you laugh (or I'll make you enough vodka tonics until I make you laugh).

Maybe it's not just a girl thing. Maybe I've been lucky enough to know a bunch of guys who aren't shallow. (Maybe that's WHY they're friends with me.) But I think we should just all take a deep breath and stop picking each other apart based on genetics. Maybe we should pick on people who deserve it. You know, like Fun Haters. Man, I hate those guys...

Get Lost

“We have to go back.” If you ever watched Lost you know what I’m talking about. And tonight, friends, We Went Back. Kim and Nick came over, we opened some beer and wine, and got to work watching the last season of Lost and going back to The Island. I’m going to go ahead and spare you non-Losties and NOT write a whole blog about how much I totally love and miss Lost. I am fighting the urge the write things like “Waaaaaalt!” and “Chahlie, stay away from ma bay-bay”, and talk about things like how much I hate Kate and her constant “I’m coming with you” statements. I’ll refrain. But I will tell you this: If you didn’t or won’t watch Lost, your life will be unfulfilled.

Oh, I also want to say a quick little thing to Losties: Did you all hear about the 30 or so people who hit the JACKPOT by playing the Lost numbers in the lottery?! CRAZY! One of the creators of Lost joked that all the people who won are cursed. HILARIOUS.

Alright, moving on, I’m going to just confess something. Lost is not just a show for me. It’s actually a way of life for me. I get lost allllllll the time. As in: hopelessly, desperately, pathetically lost. I have no internal compass. I have no idea where west is from where I am right now, and if you asked me what part of Minneapolis I live in, I would tell you “Right near the Walker museum”. Because I have no idea if I’m in north, south, east, or west Minneapolis. It’s like my hopeless relationship with math. Nothing logical makes sense in my head.

I think maybe it has a little something to do with a couple things. One: I was not a good driver when I got my license. My mom restricted me from driving any further than a 4 block radius of my house. Rightfully so, though. About a week after being allowed to drive to school, I rear-ended someone. I'm an idiot. Anyway, TWO: I've only ever lived in Iowa and Minnesota, which all pretty much look the same to me. There's always just like a main road, and a bunch of side streets. I take the main roads until Google Maps tells me to exit. Not difficult.

Kim and I were driving from school in Iowa City back home to Minneapolis. We were trying a new route that I had looked up. Kim was hesitant. About 2 hours into the ride, we came to the realization that we weren't exactly lost, but we certainly weren't taking the fastest way. She never took my directions again.

I think that by far, the most infamous example of my knack for getting lost was when I was driving from Padrin's house in Decorah, IOWA to Iowa City, IOWA. I figured it wouldn't be too difficult. I wrote down some directions, popped in a CD and went on my way. Two hours later, I'm in Illinois. I know you're thinking, "But Pharon, didn't you figure out that you were lost when you were CROSSING OVER THE MISSISSIPPI RIVER?" No. No, I didn't know that crossing the giant bridge was sending me into an entirely different state, because shockingly, I have no idea where the Mississippi River is in relation to anything else. It's in the middle of the country. That's all I know. But driving around in Iowa/Illinois looks exactly the same, so I didn't realize I was lost until waaaaay too late. I had to call my work from a gas station to explain I would be late for my waitressing shift. When they pressed me for more details, I pretended I lost the signal and hung up.

I wish I had a better sense of direction, I really do. But honestly, with GPS, Google street view, and everything else, I don't get lost all that often. As long as I follow the directions, I'm great. But if I miss one turn, or one exit is under construction, I'm screwed. Did you guys know that if you call 411 and give them your current location and your destination, they can GIVE YOU DIRECTIONS? I know this, because it's on my speed dial. Well, it was before I had a phone with internet. The point is, I'll never have to suffer through the embarrassment of stopping in to gas station to ask for directions to place that ends up being "Uh, that's literally down the block" ever again.

Oh well. I guess I'm stuck using the numerous technological devices at my disposal to get from point A to point B.

But, back to Lost. We are re-watching the last season of the show, and I'm just as enthralled as I was the first time I saw it. The odd thing is, for as complicated and twisty and turny as it is, I can follow the story. Now, if someone made me DRIVE to a different city to WATCH Lost, you can bet I'd never get there.

Have a great weekend, everyone! Losties, this one's for you...

Oooh! FACE!

Okay, so do you guys remember yesterday when I was all haughty and proud of myself for neglecting tedious, but necessary, tasks around the house? I was all "Who CARES if I sit around on the couch all day? I'm not HURTING anyone, am I?" Well, color me pwned. This morning, back in full swing of a work week, I woke up when it was still dark out. I finished getting ready and was on my way out of my room so I turned off the light, then remembered I needed my purse. I started to feel around for it in the pitch black room, when I tripped on a pair of jeans tossed on the ground, and SLAMMED my face into my door. "Slammed" as in: Ran into it at full speed, square in the kisser. That's right, people. The person I ended up hurting by my laziness, was in fact, MYSELF. And consider it a lesson learned, because my face still hurts (Well it's KILLING ME!) and the developing egg above my eyebrow is just noticeable enough to make me clean my stupes room out of fear that it will happen again.

How totally appropriate, don't you think? I was all parading around on my high horse because I hadn't had ONE major accident in 2010, which is quite a feat when you're as clutzy as I am. Then BAM! Face in a door. And not even like the front or back of the door. No, my face went smack into the side - that one inch death trap. I felt like a Looney Tunes character, what with all the stars I was seeing.

As my friend Allyson helpfully pointed out though, at least my latest face injury is not the worst. A few years back, I tripped on one of those enormous IKEA bags on the floor of my room (Seriously?! When will I learn to just keep my room clean?!) and skidded my face on the carpet. I had HUGE rug burns on the right side of my face. It was all scabby and gross. Gnarlesville. When I left my job at a magazine shortly afterwards, the staff made a mock up of an issue, with my mangled face on the cover, giving a big ol' thumbs up. I still keep it in my room because, well, it's pretty hysterical.

I suppose I can track all this crazy face-violence back to when I was about 5 years old. I was at the pool. My mom was wrangling us five kids to get home, but of course I was dawdling, eating ants or something. My mom said "Pharon! Come on! We're LEAVING!" She wrapped an enormous towel around me and I padded after her as fast as I could. Kids? There is a reason they tell you not to run at the pool. My bare feet were no match for the slippery cement, and, duh, I slipped. I crashed down, face-first on the cement. My arms were wrapped in my towel, so I just toppled over. I ripped up my chin, and I still have a teeny scar to prove it.

So, I guess in the grand scheme of all my facial mishaps, this latest one isn't so bad. There's no blood, no need for stitches. Nah, it's actually pretty minor. But frazzle! It hurt so freaky bad. It was the kind of pain that it takes like 3 full seconds to actually register in your brain.

Besides spending the night cleaning my room, I also chugged like 4 glasses of milk. A girl can't have too much calcium when she needs to keep her face bones strong. And despite the promises I make to myself to be more careful, there's no telling what kind of risk I run by boldly wearing high heels in Minnesota icy winters. Though, in hindsight, none of my facial boo-boos have had anything to do with wearing heels. In fact, it's almost like when I DON'T wear heels, I leave myself open to the perils that lurk at ground level. Mix that with my natural lack of grace and we've got an accident waiting to happen, folks.

Hopefully I got my annual Injury out of the way. I'd consider it a win for me if the worst thing I have to deal with is a cartoony bonk on the face. And, this might be a neural hematoma talking, but it was pretty funny.

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…

Kiss and Make Up

I’ve never been big on New Year’s resolutions. I’ve half-heartedly made a few, but never really thought about them after January 2nd. This year, though, I started EARLY on the resolutions. I packed up all my gift cards and headed out in search of the tools I’m going to need. This year, I’m going to learn to put on makeup. I bought some nice makeup brushes - ones that do NOT just come free with eyeshadow. I picked up some staples that I’ve apparently been an idiot to live without, including something called “Primer”. I got home and felt like I was about to paint a room. Nevertheless, I think I’m ready to take on the new year with a whole new face.

I don’t know when the bus left for Womanhoodville, but I most certainly missed it. I watched my niece this weekend opening her favorite Christmas present - a makeup kit. She spent hours playing and experimenting with all the colors and putting on layers upon layers of blush. She was enthralled. I need some of that, I think. As it is, I dread having to get dressed up and put on colorful eyeshadow, because I will always, without fail, make it look like I have two black eyes. I’ve got my typical makeup routine down to a science. It takes 4 minutes from lotion to mascara. But, as they say, change can be good.

So, I went out and bought this “primer”, some foundation-y thing, brushes for proper application, and too much money later, I feel like a girl. I showed Geo and his brother my treasures and they were APPALLED that I spent nearly $40 on ONE PRODUCT. How do women buy all this stuff? My new makeup collection is worth more than the food in my house. But, I must admit: I’m finally excited to try some fun makeup things tomorrow. Or Wednesday. Or, well, probably not until New Year’s Eve if I’m being honest.

When I was 16, my parents allowed me to start wearing makeup. My mom took me to Estee Lauder for a private makeup consultation and application lesson. I had concealer, foundation, powder, blush, eye liner, 3 (THREE!) different eye shadow colors, and mascara on. It was a LOT of makeup…especially for a 16 year old. But every day I’d slap all that on my face and head out in public. That was back in the day before makeup felt “light”. So, I imagine that’s about the time I stopped wanting to cake my face with all that goop. One by one, I neglected a product and then another and another until I arrived at my current tool kit of about 3 products.

But that’s the past. My friend Freda is like a total makeup pro. She’s done my makeup for a number of events, like weddings and tailgates and nights out in Iowa City. I know that, after she’s made me up, I can look pretty and feminine. I know my eyes can “pop” and my skin can look flawless. But now I have to learn how to do that myself. I wouldn’t consider myself a “natural beauty”. You know those obnoxious girls who can wake up and look the same, or better, than they did during the day before? I’m not one of those. I wake up with bags under my eyes and little splotchy redness all over my face. I certainly don’t “glow” or look “dewy” or any of that nonsense. No, I am definitely one of the girls who looks better with some makeup.

So, I’m going to really give it a shot and learn how to put on makeup without looking like a hooker. I’m going to learn about “contouring” and “highlighting” and other crap. And I’m going to make it look natural, so everyone thinks that’s just how I look. Like, I came out of the womb with flushed cheeks, purply-pink eyelids, and cherry-stained lips. I’m going to really give it a shot. I’m going to learn how to do my own makeup and I’m going to learn how to do it well. I’m one step closer to being good at being a girl. It would seem that 2011 will look a lot better than 2010. Or, at least, I will look better.

Footjoy

My foot is killing me. It’s been hurting for like a week. I chalked it up to wearing too-high, pinchy shoes that I squeeze into, despite the inevitable wobbly pain I’ll be in later. I simply don’t care though. I love the high shoes. I love that they put me at a towering 5’5” or even 5’6” if I’m lucky.

Naturally, I thought my foot was staging an uprising against the masochism in which I force it to live. So, when I felt the pinchy stab under my right foot, I simply ignored it. Just like I would a screaming toddler. Ignore it, and it’ll stop whining and leave me alone. But, it’s still hurting. And okay, so YES I’m currently wearing 4-inch wedged heels that are ADORABLE, and it’s probably not exactly “helping” the situation. But what am I supposed to do? NOT wear heels? Pshaw. Not a chance.

Finally, on Saturday afternoon, I bent down and decided to take a peek at the mysterious pain. (Why did I not take a peek right after it started hurting? I don’t know. Why does anyone not do anything?) Right there, at the exact spot of the pulsing pain, was a sliver. Deeeeeeeep in my foot. It’s almost like WALKING on it made it worse somehow. I don’t know; I’m not a doctor.

So after I spent Saturday night in 5 1/2-inch patent leather stilettos for a party (yes, despite the horrible throbbing pain), I think my injured foot finally had had enough. I went to my parent’s house on Sunday and I hesitantly mentioned the problem to my dad. I started with, “So, my foot has really been hurting for about a week now.” And he interjected with “Well, your shoes…” and before he could finish I said, “It’s NOT the shoes. I have a sliver way deep I think, and I can’t get it out.”

Unlike me, my dad IS a doctor. And he’s a pretty cool one, too. At a high school football game, Claire got hit in the head with a huge wooden toy airplane, and he stitched her up right there – WITH HER OWN HAIR. Baller! Anyway, he’s much less creative when it comes to family care, though. There are exactly 3 remedies for anything that ails you, according to my dad: Tylenol, icing the pain, and, as in the case of my foot, soaking it. Anything that requires more than that is, well, nothing requires more than that.

The most frustrating thing about it all is that He’s right. I’ve NEVER been to a doctor for anything other than a check-up. When I get the flu, I take some Tylenol, put some ice on my forehead or a heating pad on my stomach, and get through it. That exact same treatment also works for: cramps, broken toe, back pain, sprained ankle, headaches, hangovers, sliver-in-foot, and probably gingivitis for all anyone knows. The point is: I’m going to go ahead and trust my dad on this one. So I spent the night “soaking” my foot in the hopes that the sliver shimmies its way out of my achin’ foot. There was no shimmying. None. Impatient, I performed my own version of surgery, despite my dad's warning that "the treatment should not be worse than the injury". People? It didn't go very well.

Well, what do I do now? Hopefully I didn't give myself tetanus or something. I'm pretty sure I'm not up to date on that shot, and I don't know that applying a cold compress will help with that kind of thing.

Don't Count On It

Another day, another failure at applying mathematics to real-world situations. I wish I would have worked a TITCH harder in 3rd grade math. Without that basic comprehension, I also have no concept of estimating, budgeting, or distance. Prinna and I did some shopping last night, and we were reminded why neither she nor I have any business using numbers. We stood at the check-out counter, trying to figure out the pricing, additional costs, a discount, and really trying to add everything up in our head (what are we, Einstein!?!). Then our heads exploded and flew across the counter, splattering on the register.

The whole mathy mess just reminded me that my life has been one long Numbers-Induced panic attack, interrupted by life, writing, talking, organizing closets, multi-tasking, shopping, and other things I excel at. I remember doing times tables in 4th grade, and that’s literally the last memory I have of learning math. After that, it’s just panic.

In high school, I called home in a whispering panic. Perek, who must have been like 14 at the time, picked up. “Perek! I’m in line in Target. I have like $8 in my account, and I’m buying gum and a diet Coke. How much is the tax going to be? Do I have enough or do I have to put back the gum?!” He was silent. He took a deep breath and said, “Pharon, yes. Tax is only going to be like 13 cents. It’s 7 percent of the total.” I stopped listening after “yes” and got both the gum AND the pop. Later that same year, I was working at Gap Kids. I rung someone up, and it came to something like $13.60. The woman handed me a ten, a five, and a dime. I stared at the dime, not knowing how to make change. The woman said, “Honey, just give me back $1.50.” Idiot.

I also have no concept of time or distance. The clock in my car is, obnoxiously, exactly 25 minutes fast. I explained my very complex reasoning behind the clock setting to Geo this weekend, but I totally lost him. I said, “If I don’t know how long it takes to get somewhere, I know I automatically have 25 minutes longer, instead of looking at the real time and having to guess based on the exact time.” I mean, even me just WRITING THAT OUT reminds me that it’s nonsense.

My poor, poor dad. My dad is THE numbers guy. He can add two sets of two-digit numbers IN HIS HEAD! Imagine his horrifying disappointment when I made it explicitly clear that I was a total math moron. I was in college, home for a break. I wanted to visit my friend Madeline in Chicago. My mom suggested, “Do you have any frequent flyer miles? Just use those.” So, I called to make the reservations. When I hung up the phone, I said “Huh, I didn’t realize Chicago was so far away.” My dad was standing next to me reading the mail and said “What do you mean?” I said “Apparently, it’s 25,000 miles away. I though it was a little less than that.”

He asked me what in God’s name made me think Chicago was that far away. I said “That’s how many frequent flyer miles it takes.” So, not only do I not understand distances, but I clearly have no concept of how airline miles work either. My dad sighed, and stared out the window as if he could see my college tuition flying out of it. “Pharon, Chicago is not 25,000 miles away. The entire circumference of the world is about 25,000 miles.” Facepalm.

Well, despite my lack of basic arithmetic abilities, I’ve managed to survive this long without them. I have tons of other stuff I’m good at that, in my opinion, totally outweigh the “cool” ability to figure out a tip at a restaurant (which, for the record, my phone calculator does perfectly every single time). I can organize anything, I‘m a sick doodler, I can small talk with the best of ‘em, and I can pull up any celebrity fact in any situation. My mind is already chockfull of that kind of useful information. So yeah, there’s no room at the Inn for math. You know what that means? Apparently, Math is my Jesus. Merry Mathmas!

A Classic Phraud

Book Club tonight, kids. So far we've read some really great books in our fun little club. We scour Book Club and Bestseller lists for new titles, and with only a couple exceptions, they've all been great. Have you guys noticed the amount of Book Lists going around? Like the top 10 autobiographies, or the top 10 books about canker sores or whatever? It must be the time of year. They're everywhere. BUT: The one that really flips the script on me is the list of The Top 50 Books You Should Have Read By Now. (Or some variation of that...)

I've got a confession to make. Those lists? The ones that gauge how smart you are based on the books you've read? Yeah - I lie. And I lie big time. I'm all "Oh, Little Women? I've seen the animated MOVIE and I'm sure the book is the same. CHECK!" Or "Okay, Huck Finn. I'm SURE I must have read that in middle school. Do I remember any of it? Not really, but I'm pretty sure I would have at least skimmed it at some point. CHECK!" By the time I finish those mini life tests, I've read darn near the entire Presidential Library.

But I'm an ENGLISH major, people. Me not having read a certain amount of "classics" is like a Scientist never having read about the atom. Or a model never having made herself throw up. It just goes against nature.

Yes, I have read tons of great books. I really love reading, and there's RARELY a time when I'm not in the middle of a great book. I've actually never read a book in its entirety that I didn't like. And while I've read Ayn Rand and very much enjoyed it, I definitely fell asleep while reading Animal Farm and never picked it up again.

I am a fraud, you guys. I lie about the amount and quality of books I've read. I took an entire class in college on Shakespeare, and yet I still can't admit that I never read The Catcher in the Rye. I know who Holden Caulfield is because of the movie The Good Girl starring the illustrious Jennifer Aniston. But I've read The Game: Penetrating the Secret Society of Pickup Artists. It's a nonfiction book about one dude who is living amongst a group of other dudes who live to pick up women. You know what you guys? I LIKED IT. I liked it more than 90% of the books I read in college.

What does this mean, you guys? I studied Literature and Shakespeare and Greek mythology at a Big Ten school. And yet I prefer the juicy, sexy, racy, vulgar, and irreverent voice of my own generation. What does that make me? I'll tell you what it makes me: a fraud. I reference classic literature as if I've read it cover to cover 10 times, when in reality it's because I either saw the movie, or there was a reference to said classic literature in Family Guy.

Well, there it is people. My Dirty Laundry. Aired out for all of you to enjoy. I'm a big fat liar who prefers Vogue to Jane Austen. Just do me a solid and don't tell anyone though, okay? Cool.

Go Ahead...Make My Day

I got my hair cut tonight. Exciting, huh? I know, my life is sooooo glamorous. But sitting in that salon chair got me thinking. About what? I don’t know. Lots of stuff, I guess. One of those things was how much I babble when I’m sitting there. I used to go to the same girl over and over. But the conversations got stale, and she was one of those people who blasted my face with the hair dryer until I couldn’t breathe. Yeah, she got the boot.

So, now I visit the Aveda Instruction Salon from time to time, where the stylists are like not quite certified and they need live models. You know, like animal testing. Because let’s face it, people. I’ve got the hair of a hippie. It’s long, straight, and just kind of like there. It’s too thin to be luxurious, too fine to be voluminous. The point is, it’s not hard to cut my hair. Snip, snip, clip, clip, pay at the front desk. I used to spend $75 at the fancy salon with the cucumber water and complimentary micro-dermabrasion treatments in the lobby. And then I’d walk out looking much like I look tonight. But now, going to the teaching salon, I saved like $50. Sure, my hair wasn’t completely dry when I left, and it took like an hour-and-a-half to trim ¾ of inch off, but I participated in the teaching experience. And I’m proud of that.

Okay, so I’m sitting there, telling myself to just chill and play it cool. Before I knew it, though, I found myself telling this girl, who was all of 17, about all my personal issues. Family issues, living-arrangement issues, I just basically threw up on her. Poor Alexis. She handled it like a champ, though. And yes, I have a clump of my own hair in my mouth, but she was really very sweet.

Another thing I noticed, when my hair was all wet and matted down to my head, and my tiny pinhead was sticking out the top of a giant cape, was that I don’t wear enough make up. Or have a tan. And at the end of the work day, the make up that I DID have on had gradually made its way down my face and into thin air. I was a straight-up mess. I looked awful. I looked around at all the shiny haired, perfectly coiffed stylist girls, each with their fancy matching outfits and coordinated jewelry, and I just felt like an ogre. Salons are supposed to make you feel good. Aveda, in particular, is supposedly full of “Day Makers”. Not the case. I’d prefer my stylists homely and unfortunate with a jelly stain on their sweater. I’d feel GREAT there. Anyone know of a place like that?

So, then the big reveal came. She whips the cape off, spins me around and says, “So???? Whaddya think??” I always feel like I feel when the waiter opens a bottle of wine for me and stands there while I pretend to know what I’m supposed to say. I WANT to say, “Yeah. So…it’s shorter! And, it appears as though it’s shiny and clean. Thanks!” I don’t know what I’m looking for. I don’t know how carefully to inspect it, or how much I need to gush. I always ALWAYS overdo it. “OHMYGOD! I love it! It’s like I have different hair! This looks amazing!”

I left feeling like instead of having MY day made, I made HER day. And then I over-tipped because I can’t do math and panicked at the check out desk. I think I might consider going back to my old system of trimming my own hair after a glass of wine with dull scissors from the knife block in the kitchen.

Have a great weekend, everyone!

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...

Rock the Vote

Did you vote? I really hope so. I really do, because whatever your views are, they do no good sitting alone in your head. Even if you think you HAVE no opinion on anything and think you don’t care about who wins because all politicians are basically evil, there IS an issue out there that affects you. And the least you can do is get educated and fill out a ballot to do your part. I know that a lot of my friends vote. Many of them are well-informed, intelligent people, and many don’t even share my opinions. But I’m so glad they take an active role in who is elected. It’s downright irresponsible to choose not to vote.

Personally, I know how important voting is. During my senior year of high school, I was elected as The Biggest Flirt in my grade. It was truly an honor to be granted such a prestigious award. I knew, looking out among my constituents, that I had a duty to perform from that moment on. I would work tirelessly to reassure my compatriots they had indeed voted for the right girl for the job. I would not let them down. Later in the year, I would also be elected as The Biggest Flirt in band, as well. And yes, I was the incumbent, though no race is ever a guaranteed win. It was a privilege to win not once, but twice. I was humbled by the overwhelming acknowledgment by my peers.

But I know the heartbreak, people. I know the pains of losing, or more accurately, never being elected. I was not captain of the soccer team, I wasn’t on a chair of my sorority, and as far as I know, I currently hold no public office. But the most devastating loss was in high school, that same year I bounded to the heights with my twin Flirt of the Year awards.

I thought I was a shoe-in for being on Homecoming Court. In my high school, the days before Homecoming Week consisted of the student body voting for the members of Court. Then, after the voting, and as a kick-off to the week, members of the elected court were woken up in the middle of the night, and shuffled off to their first exclusive Members-Only breakfast in pajamas. The rest of the week consists of these 18 or so girls and boys running the school from atop their golden high-horses, creating their own exclusive club of inside jokes and private parties. I wanted that so desperately. My boyfriend at the time ended up on Court, my best friends were on Court, and yet, I sat up that night, in adorable pajamas, hoping that they would come and pick me up and whisk me away to Perkins for chocolate chip pancakes. They did not. It was a crushing defeat. Or, rather, willful negligence.

I have known the highs and lows. I know the power of a name on a ballot, and of its absence as well. Sometimes all it comes down to is whether or not you like someone’s last name. It’s a clumsy popularity contest, full of empty promises (“I promise! I’ll be the best Homecoming Queen ever! And no more taxes on the middles class!”), and little side deals made with nerds and jocks and giant corporations with “special interests”.

So I get out there and cast my ballot, in the hopes that the person for whom I vote will not sit up in bed alone waiting for the party to come and sweep them into the glorious warmth of popularity and acceptance. And my expectation is that, if elected, they will do their job as I performed mine during my Reign of Flirting: With the respect, honor, and gratitude of those who put them there.

I Gotta Say It Was a Good Day

If Facebook only existed so that people could wish other people a happy birthday, I'd be satisfied. All day long, my phone was chirping with totally awesome birthday posts on my wall. Total ego boost! I have the best family and friends ever...seriously. They are the cookie layer in my ice cream cake.

Okay, so because I'm exhausted this is going to be a quickie. The birthday extravaganza really got kicked off when an almost obnoxiously large cookie bouquet arrived at my desk at work. My parents definitely know me well enough to send birthday cookies. Flowers are too hard to transport, and fruit is, well, FRUIT. But cookies? YUM! And they were snickerdoodles to boot. I challenge you to find someone who doesn't appreciate a good 'doodle.

When I got home from work, a bouquet of the most gorgeous roses from my friends Kelly and Nic were waiting for me. And while I was arranging them in a vase, Geo handed me a present. Yes, it looked like a 5 year-old wrapped it. But inside was the watch I've been drooling over for literally 3 years. Black strap, black face, military-style, with diamonds around the face. It's a great balance of masculinity and femininity. Just like a certain blogger I know...

So do you remember how I had been such a brat about dining at Olive Garden? Well bless my parents' souls! Geo started driving in an odd direction, and after I berated him a little for going the wrong way, we pulled up to the Edina Country Club (we used to be members there when we were little). I LOVE that place! The wine was great, the food was delicious, and the company was bombtacular. Not only was it both my brothers, my parents, and Geo, but my sister Padrin came in to town from Iowa to surprise me! I was shocked! It took me a second to realize what was happening. Surprise restaurant AND surprise sister? Yes please! The only downer was that my other sister Prinna is currently on bed rest, taking care of that fetus in her tummy. I wish she could have been there with us, but I SUPPOSE she had a good reason to miss it... :)

So, while we were waiting for our food, I opened some gifts. Padrin's surprise trip was WELL WORTH IT. I opened her gift, and it was an ACTUAL AMISH BONNET! And there was an Amish potholder and book as well. Needless to say, my Halloween costume has now changed. No longer will I be Snooki. I'm going as an Amish girl on her RUMSPRINGA! As if to restore the balance of the day, I was brought back to the twenty-first century when I opened a Kindle and Kate-Spade-green cover from my parents. I've wanted a Kindle for forever. As soon as I'm done here, I'll be purchasing an ugly amount of books on Amazon (for which I ALSO got gift certificates from my parents and Prinna).

I took the day off tomorrow, so in the morning, I'll hop on in to Caribou with my gift card from Peter, and bum around in my new Vikings tshirt and sweatpants (also from my parents). I'm gonna carve my pumpkin and make disgustingly salty pumpkin seeds, finalize my new and improved costume, and just generally enjoy the first day of my new, elderly life. So far, it ain't half bad! And if today's success is a sign of what's in store for the year, I'm definitely psyched.

Thanks to everyone for your well wishes, the (probably) empty promises of a free drink in the future, and overall awesomeness. I feel like the luckiest girl - woman? - ever. I'm ready and eager to take on the next year. And with friends and family like the ones I've got, I'm sure it's going to be an awesome ride. And trust me: I'll be telling you allllllll about it.

Have a great weekend!

Wednesday Winner

Wait, what? It’s only Wednesday? That can’t be right. It just can’t. It definitely feels like a Friday. Or at least a Thursday. But def not a Wednesday. The past few days have crawled along. The only things getting me through the eternal days are my conversations with Kim about my upcoming BIRTHDAY! Yay! Kim will IM me throughout days with messages like “Can’t wait for this weekend!!” and “Ohmygod, I’m so stressed. But I can’t wait until your birthday!” or even things like “Hey Barb [Kim calls me Barb], I hope you still like ice cream cake!” She’s been awesome. And, while I’d love to have her be the Wednesday Winner, I’m fighting that urge. Because I’m pretty sure I can only do this once a year. This Wednesday’s Winner is:



ME! Yes, I’m my own Wednesday Winner. And I’m going to give you an unbiased, totally objective reason why. BECAUSE I CAN. And, because tomorrow is my birthday, I’m inclined to remind everyone that if I had not been BORN, we wouldn’t HAVE Wednesday Winners. So, there you have it. Congratulations, Pharon. Well thank you, Pharon.

In all honesty, I am probably one of, if not THE, least deserving winner in the very long history of Wednesday Winners. Especially this week. I wallowed in several bouts of hormonal crying fits, offended my mom, wore the same pair of socks 2 days in a row, used a friend for her access to electricity, and only pretended to listen when Geo told me about his hunting trip. I was not a very good person.

But, I don’t care! I also did a ton of GOOD stuff too. I babysat on a Saturday night, I apologized when I was being a jerk, ummm, I….I…man, what else did I do? Whatevs. It’s my birthday , so I don’t have to explain it.

At this very moment, twentyadfjkalf;kdgj years ago, I didn’t even exist yet. I was but a sea monkey. Then, lo! At 8:15 a.m. on a bleak Oct. 28 morn, a child was born and the world sprang to life anew. She would grow to be an exceptionally bright, beautiful, hilarious, and modest woman. She would be called Pharon, and she would be a clumsy, foul-mouthed, crazy person. All shall be right in the world.

So, Pharon, Congratulations on your win this week. You don’t really deserve it, but it’s yours. Now leave me alone…