What's My Age Again?

Sometimes I find myself in situations where I wonder if my Life Ambition is to be a cougar. And I'm not referring to the furry school mascot. No, I mean COUGAR.




I see these women all over the place, what with the year round warmth and 24-hour tanning beds and Botox Vans That Make House Calls, who obviously can't let go of their Glorious Days Of Real Youth and age gracefully. Not that these fashion mistakes make them Cougars, but I'm a good judger and I can just tell. It's got something to do with the really low designer jeans paired with a flowy-satiny-sequined tank top and the way certain wobbley bits hang out. Gosh at least put on a bra woman! Did you trip on your 5-inch heels and mistakenly think you woke up in 1981? Because guess what? Forever 21 is a store, not a mantra.


Anyway. Even though I'm in my twenties, I'm pretty sure that the new fragrance "Cougar: Denial" was accidentally sprayed on me a few too many times on Friday night. When I went to THE. MOST. AWESOME. high school football game ever.


I was sitting on the bleachers with another twenty-something, critiquing play successes and failures with incredible insight and accuracy, and then doing plenty of cheering and dancing when the occasion called for it, when this conversation began:


Her: Oh no - I think I might be turning into one of THOSE women (pointing to every mom on the visitors bleachers).


Me: What tipped you off first? The fact that you're at a high school football game with other single girls? or the fact that #20 keeps popping up in our game analysis, even when he's on the bench?

Her: I had this thought when I first saw those 5-foot, 85-lb. blond girls wearing only their underwear and body paint with their boyfriends' number on their stomachs--

Me: That you wanted to let them borrow your scarf?

Her: No! That I wish I was one when I was in high school.

Me: (stunned silence) Sooo . . . practically naked?

Her: You know - the girl who dated the quarterback.

Me: Or the whole football team.

Her: Well OBVIOUSLY I'd where more than a swath of jersey around my loins.

Me: Why? I'd wear that every day if I could.


I thought about her comment for a minute, and realized -- I TOTALLY AGREE. I was never a Jersey Chaser, but in my mind I totally was AND STILL AM. My pride would never allow me to admit to it, but I would be all over a decent-looking and non-sweaty athlete if given the chance.
..What? Don't judge me.

I told my friend the moment I put it all together, and she's like, "Yeah I think you'll end up like that (head nodding back toward moms) too, just watch. We've never dated athletes, so it probably means we can't ever let go of high school."

Shudder.

But you know what? Whatever. What. Ever. Being all deep and principled and dignified is always toted as being "better." But better for whom? For ME?! Since when has dignity gotten me anywhere? Maybe those I'm 23 But Actually 49 women are onto something. There's only way to know.

So guys - new fall goal!

Three Excuses and a Heat-Induced Stupor

A couple days ago someone came up to me and said, "Why don't you update your blog more often? It's lame that you post about as often as I get my car insurance bill." Maybe I would have felt more lame at that moment if I hadn't been dwelling on how much a blog and a parole officer have in common.

Since I've certainly had times when I fume in frustration that (insert website here) hasn't posted anything new, I'll now state my excuses for being scarce.

Firstly, it's football season -and as I am an aspiring Texan this requires much time, dedication and honing my telepathic capabilities of transferring power and skill to the dismal BYU team - which doesn't seem to be working.

Secondly, I occasionally attempt to engage in activities that don't require sitting. Yes, it's been hard.

And thirdly, do you realize how tricky it is to continually write mildly snide things WITHOUT including friends, family and coworkers out of fear that they will read it?! If I can't write nasty things about those three groups of people then who can I write about I ask you?! I understand it's common practice in Land of the Blogs to describe - in great detail - the everyday wonders of life. I tried that once, and when I went back to edit I wept out of envy for the impressiveness and excitement of my life, so I feel a little snobbish making others wail and gnash their teeth just to show how awesome I am. Parenthetically, I have always loved that there is a g in gnash. Gu-nash. Isn't English awesome in it's clarity? As of this very moment, I'm permanently substituting gnash for chew or bite.

Anyway. In an attempt to fit in with my people of Bloggerdom, I give a happenstance from Sunday which is both inspiring in it's mundaneness and riveting in it's detail. . .

It was HOT when I got home from church at 4:30. At least 200 degrees, and that was with all the windows open, the blinds drawn and the box fans turned up full speed. I stripped down and collapsed onto my bed, which consisted of only thin white cotton sheets since I had pulled off all the blankets the night before. I lay there, miserable, not having eaten all day and so hot that I was contemplating pulling a Britney and shaving my head. The sheets were starting to stick to me as sweat trickled down my neck and legs. I considered if it was worse to lay in heated agony on an empty stomach, or to spend my last bits of energy on walking to the kitchen, only to collapse when I found that all the ice cream and Otter Pops had been devoured by the babies. Naturally I would have to beat them, to teach them a Lesson, and that would not improve temperature conditions. To wither-melt away, or erupt lava from enacting my justice? What to do, what to do.

As I weighed my options, with my box fan only two feet away and pointed directly at me, I began to hallucinate. Or maybe just fall asleep. Who knows. Either way I began to see strange images flash through my mind. Voldemort chasing Harry Potter on a chubby pony, flying Otter Pops that were just beyond reach, me rolling metal balls down ramps at the skate park, and then -- I was in my car. Driving down the non-101 with the top down. I was going so fast, beyond fast. The wind was pushing all the heat and sweat off my body. It was tangling my hair. The wind made the intense sun almost bearable. There were so many curves on the non-101. "I don't remember all these turns on the freeway," dream me thought. I kept speeding, racing the wind down the empty curvy road. I needed the rush of air to cool my burning skin. And then I came to a turn, and I was going too fast and I knew I should slow down but I could make it I could make it the car can handle it but what is that off the turn and is that construction work going on because that looks like construction work and HAVE THEY CLOSED THIS PART OF THE FREEWAY?!?

I jerked awake right as my car had been careening full-speed off the turn, and I was facing my box fan. My box fan that was no more than two feet away, and in that split second I thought of the construction work on the non-101 and I still thought I was flying to my Death By Propeller so I YELLED and threw my hands in front of me to protect my face and SHOVED THE FAN OFF MY DESK.

That's right. I yelled, OUT. LOUD. And then shoved my fan to the floor.

But, you know, just a typical Sunday afternoon. Getting in fights with inanimate objects is my MO. And yes, the box fan survives and continues to faithfully perform its cooling duties.

College Guide to Man Creatures 101

My younger brothers, the twins, have just taken their first plunge into the great NeverNeverLand for young adults: College. They've never lived out of state, unless you count the two years in England they spent serving as missionaries for our church, which I don't.

This has thrown me into a reminiscent mood, and so I was recounting to yet another brother the many categories of Male that exists on a college campus. I realized that this information went somewhat wasted because a) this particular brother is 16 and concerned with only music, water polo and his "6 pack," and b) this could be some beautiful heedings to the twins, but the target audience mistakenly thinks that because they're out of state they have some kind of immunity to my wisdoms. They really ought to know better.

So in the spirit of Back To School Fever, and for the benefit of my brothers -- who may or may not fall in some of the offending categories to follow -- and for all single ladies who are hitting the books this year, I give you some highlights of the wide variety of Male I came to recognize. (Disclaimer: I went to BYU. So . . . maybe not the normal variety of men you'd find on other campuses. In fact, I believe there was a ditty that went something like "BYU: Where the girls are girls and the boys are too." Ah well - embrace the quirks, you know?)

And now to the safari!

The Lingerer

Known for either his bad manners or complete obliviousness of the time, The Lingerer is the guy who makes himself comfy on your couch and stays. And stays and stays. Really long past the customary hour of when friends go back to their own lodgings. It seems as though this unwillingness to leave is not connected to anything in particular. It doesn't matter what the weather is like outside, if it's ESPN or the Lifetime channel on, whether it's only you at home or there are 35 guests over including your beefy uncles -- none of that makes any difference.

Hints like "Oh my is already 2:30? I have to be up in 5 hours!" have no effect on him. No, with The Lingerer the only suitable approach is honesty. "Dude. It's really late/time for class/my normal primping hour. I'm going to bed/leaving for my bio lab/going to my great aunt's wedding. Therefore, you must go home."

Typically The Lingerer is harmless. Sometimes he might even be a good friend. So remember -- you can be kind, but be DIRECT.


The Mooch
Mooches come in all forms, but the most common among dorms and apartments are the breed He Will Be Chummy With You So It Won't Seem So Rude When He Asks You For Things type. He'll shout Hi! and wave on campus, ruffle your hair and put an arm around your shoulders when you pass each other. He might even give you a nickname. But you aren't really friends. The only time you "hang out" is when he comes around to ask for something. Maybe he's a tool, but usually not. The fact is, he either came to school with only a backpack and a toothbrush, or he's a real tight wad.

The most obvious offense of The Mooch is finagling food from you. He'll come to hang out at your place, notice the pillows on your couch (if you're fortunate enough to live off-campus) or the IKEA bedspread and closet organizer (if you . . . get that opportunity to live in dorms), and make the connection that you are Prepared For Life and must therefore have a great stockpile of food. You are, of course, a nice human, so you offer him a cold beverage from your mini-fridge or some toast and applesauce. And that cinches it. Your fate is sealed as the Giver Of Food, and that's just the beginning. Next he'll be "borrowing" your favorite writing pens, your shampoo, your vacuum, your textbooks. All the while systematically draining you of everything from your fresh produce to those nasty fish flavored crackers that might have been there when you first moved in.

There are different theories on how to best break the mooching, but my advice would be to enact a Closed Cupboard policy and only meet him in the library. Or cafeteria, if it's not on your dime.

The Gamer
These guys are often distinguishable by their Pale Bordering On Jaundice palor, the wearing of tennis shoes with all outfits, and common usage of words like "gib" and "scimitar" and "debuff." There are such things as Closet Gamers though, so these signs aren't always so palpable. Typically Gamers stick to themselves, but usually are more than willing to share their extensive knowledge of medieval military tactics and sword parries and feudal uprisings should you ever feel the fancy to ask.

And should you start dating a nice boy who wears dark wash jeans and uses moisturizer, only to be shocked two weeks later when you realize he's a Closet Gamer -- well, your only real options are: live in denial, make patience your best virtue, embrace the World of Warcraft, or turn tail and run.

The Gift From God To All Females
It's hard to know if TGFGTAF poses a real threat. Certainly there are those who do, and you can't put enough distance between their raised trucks and Axe-drenched bodies and yourself. Usually it's wise to err on the side of caution, so have your mace handy in the event your niceness is perceived as an Invitation For Naughtiness.

The rest of TGFGTAF aren't malicious, but what they lack in malevolence they make up for in obnoxiousness. He will either completely disregard you, because you don't look like his Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader Ex-Girlfriend, or he will attempt to collect you as one of his admirers. If the latter -- Beware! TGFGTAF is known to be charming, good looking, and probably exudes twice the amount of pheromones as your normal male.

Hey may compliment your lovely smile or great hair cut, but what he really loves to do is compliment himself. Usually through some self-deprecating humor that really ISN'T. His ego is bigger than the American southwest. He won't ever call you with any kind of question you'd for sure know the answer to, or just to say hey, or even when he sees that old man in shorty-shorts roller skating down the road even though he knows you'd really appreciate that sight.

Unless you want some convenient arm candy to get back at your Ex who just dumped you for no good reason, it's best to let TGFGTAF have the love affair with his own reflection.

The Granola Bar
He might not be Bear Grylls, but Granola Bar makes the term "outdoorsy" an understatement. He's the neighbor you noticed right away because the only thing you saw him carry to and from his old Subaru was camping gear and Nalgene bottles.

The Granola Bar is the nice guy who is always busy doing something. He's never too busy to talk to you about his new plans for recycling though. Or to offer you some of the "delicious" organic whole bran protein fiber bars he just discovered. He is always considerate enough to ask if you'd like to go with him and some friends camping next weekend, or on that thousand mile bike race through the desert, or to a water conservation seminar. And when he brings over some vegan cous-cous that you once mentioned you'd like to try, the topics of eastern philosophy and the American cattle industry are sure to come up.

The Granola Bar is always an adventure and definitely worth befriending, even if you are an Indoors Person Who Likes A Good Hamburger.


The Renaissance Man

Much like illusive White Stag of fairy tales, The Renaissance Man is a fascinating rarity that requires a hunt. He is the ultimate dabbler. Perhaps you'll sit next to him in ceramics and label him as the artsy type. Or have him as your accounting TA and assume he's a 20 year old version of your dad. And then as you get to know him it's like SURPRISE! He slyly checked multiple boxes on the Preferred Stereotype list, because he wasn't happy with just one or two.

Renaissance Man is the guy you come to adore, but also secretly kind of hate. Because he makes you and every other human look like ultra-lazy dolts who waste away their lives by sitting on the La-Z-Boy eating Hostess cupcakes and talking about Kim Kardashian's latest fashion blunder. He probably plays hockey and tennis, is majoring in political science and minoring in calculus, teaches evening cooking classes, has hiked Everest twice, reads everything voraciously, speaks four languages, has an upcoming internship with a firm on Wall Street, displays his post-modern paintings at the local art gallery, never takes his car to a mechanic since he can fix it himself, plays the piano and the violin, and is currently designing his own photo editing software.

Let's face it -- he's a different breed of human. But certainly one that will always be good to have on speed dial in case you suddenly find yourself in the Cash Cab and need to make a call to a friend on that one stumper of a question that only the creatively genius well-rounded humans know the answer to.


'Tis but a taste from the Melting Pot Of Men, I know. But it would take another 10 years to go through them all. Any particular treasures you have stumbled upon that should be added? Do tell. I love me a good laugh at the many Manmories of college life.

After a Ghastly 11 months of Dying From Anticipation -

I feel betrayed.


And I think I won't be the only one.

Chapter 4: THE NEIGHBORS

It's been a while since I've reported anything about THE NEIGHBORS. Partially it's because things have been almost normal over there, and partially it's because I try to forget they exist.

For those unfamiliar with the humans that are housed directly next to me, suffice it to say that over the years they've provided the neighborhood with a plethora of criminal activity, bizarre incidents, and a permanent cloud of cigarette smoke. They're treasures.

So. The youngest, whom we affectionately call Joe Dirt, recently took a giant metaphorical leap: he left the house. For a few hours, but still. Watching J.D.'s comings and goings have become something of a sport for me and my brothers. Twin #1 will be like, "I haven't seen him in three weeks but I know he's in there because I still hear him watching Nickelodeon late at night." And Twin #2 will say, "It's gotta be any day now because he has to come out for air sometime, unless his lungs have evolved to the point where he can breathe in smoke instead of oxygen."

Sometimes we place bets on whether we'll catch a glimpse of him during the week, just to keep it interesting. He's like that illusive snow leopard on Planet Earth that took weeks of watching before the film crew ever got a shot of him, except that J.D. has yet --from what I've seen -- to lope after an animal in the hopes of catching it for his next meal. Which is a shame.

Although, now that I think about it, it's quite possible that J.D. is keeping a low profile in order to continue his burgeoning life of crime. I know it's rude to accuse people of wrongdoing, not like it stops me, but I have a feeling he might be The Mysterious Local Graffiti Artist. A couple weeks ago, as I was leaving my house in the morning, I noticed some lovely spray paint "words" on a lamp post and For Sale sign down the street. Not that I live next to a golf course or anything, and the SWAT team has made an appearance on my street, so I shouldn't be surprised. Still, I was. And methinks that my suspicions are correct. Perhaps some sleuthing is in order . . .

In the meantime, it appears that Joe is currently alive. Oh, and the Momma Dirt has moved back in to that Smoke Den.
Hooray.

Taradise vs. The Hair

Wasn't it just yesterday I was writing hate mail to August? Guess not because this month is just RACING past, which got me to thinking about how much I was supposed to accomplish this summer. I haven't even had an affair with a surfer and/or cowboy yet, which is a well known staple of summertime.
Shameful.

So. For about ten years now I have toyed with the idea of cutting my hair. By which I mean CUT, not trim. I'm not totally foul ya'll - I trim my hair a couple times a year. But it's always been decently long and rather blah. Laquina almost talked me into a Big Cut a few years back, but then I remembered in a rare fit of sanity that round Charlie Brown faces like mine just DO NOT mix with above-the-shoulder bobs.

And then, yesterday and apparently 10 years behind everyone else, I beheld The Latest Haircut To Make Tabloid News:



Emma Watson, better known as Hermoine Granger of the Harry Potter phenomenon. Whom, incidentally, I love. The hair though? Undecided.

Look - Granger is gorgeous and very feminine and makes surprisingly good fashion choices given her age and popularity. But this to me says Prepubescent Choir Boy With Mascara. And HELLO many awkward-length phases while growing out. With any luck she'll attempt that incredible dutch boy bowl-cut a la Nick Carter circa 1990. That would be awesome.

Weirdly though, I can't seem to stop looking at her hair. I think the more I look at it the more I think she pulls it off quite adorably. But is this representative of some unknown fit of Teenage Rebellion that Hermoine experiences in the last Harry Potter films? Because aren't they still filming? If so, will she sport a tasteful wig? I don't think I can take a wig-toting Hermoine Granger seriously. OR will she keep the chop in the movies, thereby ensuing a new sub-plot involving Ron's confusion about his own hair-length which makes him hyper-sensitive about his Masculinity, causing Harry added personal-life angst on top of his professional-life Horcrux Slaying and perhaps a spat with Ginny over the values of short/long hair which in turn cause her to chop off her red locks in a fit of defiance and start a new Hogwarts Club with Hermoine along the lines of the GWAB (Girls Who Are Boys) gang from the fantastic book Slob.
One can only hope.

So. While mourning my lack of action from surfers and cowboys I've been pondering on the pros and cons of A Major Haircut. Obviously not of the pixie cut variety, as I would resemble a slightly tanned bowling ball.

This, truth be told, is all rather pointless because when it comes down to it I'm just too lazy. Still. My split ends reach the small of my back and I know Stacy & Clinton would send me to the salon STAT to fix this hot mess of blondish straggle. Too bad neither they nor Laquina are here to give me a hardy shove in the right direction.

Verdict: The jury is out.

Dear August,

So. You're back. And in case you were wondering, I still have lingering anger towards you and your 31 days.

Oh sure, the beginning was usually a time of laughter and merriment. Swim parties, vacations, lemonade sales. The fun poured down my face in sweat and left burns and new freckles on my shoulders. Remember those good ole days of yore?

Then came mid-month. The pool parties died down, vacations ended, lemonade demand dwindled. A melancholy- nay, a feeling of dread- began to creep into my life. Why, thought I, Doth this feeling of foreboding disturb my peaceful slumbers? My answer came only a few days later. I remember it well: I spent all day with the twins poking a maybe-dead turtle on the other side of the backyard fence. My legs were burned after (unsuccessfully) attempting to 1)wake it up, and 2) knock it into our yard. Exhausted, I spent the evening slathered in aloe vera gel watching TGIF - and that's when I saw it. The reason I'd been anticipating something awful, like death by guillotine or Keith Richards singing me lullabies, coming my way. It was . . . the dreaded Back To School Sales commercials!

It was no longer than two blinks and a gag and I was back at The Stalag. Another nine months of government sanctioned torture, complete with The Gestapo (staff) and Hitler Youth (classmates). All through my childhood and into my young adult life. That, August, is why I've always loathed you.

Now things are different. I've graduated from The Stalag and found myself wandering through East Berlin, as it were. So actually it's not that different.

While ocean breezes keep the sun from melting my deodorant and makeup off every five seconds, and the end of the month ushers in football season instead of The End Of My Life, I find it hard to let go of old feelings and really enjoy your End Of Summer offerings. I might apologize if I thought this hurt you more than it hurts me.

As a means of therapy for my long-standing grudge, I will Party In The USA everyday this month. Nothing says "Over It" like karaoke, Scrabble tournaments and an open bar of diet soft drinks. Don't you agree?

Sincerely,
T (Pain)