Confession Six: If I Applied to Law School Tomorrow, My Personal Statement Might Look a Little Like This* …

To the Dean of Admissions:
When I was first invited to apply to your tier one law school I was, in all honesty, flabbergasted as the mere thoughts of power suits and researching legal briefs danced through my head. I then attributed your generous offer to my serious academic applications to my life, my ethical considerations in the work place and the fact that I am well aware Legally Blonde was first a book – which I have read and own. Yet, upon further consideration, I am suspecting the urgency from your standpoint under which this application falls has come at an examination of my generation; especially those classified as the ‘Daughter’s of Eve.’ Thus I am more than acutely aware of your intentions and I must commend you, you sly minx. We may just have a corner of the market …

I have since romanticized our chance meeting and stimulating conversation – I too believe young women, especially those degenerates at table nine (Note: Cool points to you Dean Vernon Wormer if you get the reference! Double if you get both!), are fast tracking their lives at a speed not even Dr. Spock, William Shattner or Mork could have mathematically foreseen. And no, I am still not sure why Nike has not yet cornered the market on a high heeled running shoe, or an alter complete with a pink lacy finish line held together by doves. I would like to think that one day, with the help of your university’s resources, I could work in their legal department and maybe suggest Jennifer Aniston as the spokes person for such a campaign. If she could don a haircut that would inspire a nation, how then could she not hock this crap?

Yet, I digress and for that I apologize. Please let me get back to the subject at hand. Being a bit of a statistical geek, according to divorcerates.com 80.6 of the divorces in America occur at the hands of women who are younger than 29 years of age. With your knowledge of the law, my knowledge of bad relationships and some furniture of IKEA, we more or less could have our hands full, and a steady stream of court dates. I must admit, I have also considered applying to your Psychology program so that I may obtain a degree that will allow me to council said clients in the biggest Fantasy Draft of their lives and then treat their emotional needs as well. I like to think of it two services, one bill, lots of new shoes for me!

With these values and thoughts in mind, I would like to openly state the avenues for which I would like to explore, in addition to Michigan, at your esteemed institution:

1. The! Love! Of! The! Exclamation! Point! – Does placing a gold/silver/platinum ring on your finger cause the brain to be overly stimulated? If so, I would like to look into a class action suit against jewelers and would also like to bring excited brides to the Court of Grammar.

2. What are the legal ramifications for intentionally creating a horrible view for the 27 bridesmaids of whom the bride requested accompany her through the ceremony? Also, I would like to test “The Cupcake” defense citing those who are forced to wear such dresses can be classified as criminally insane while donning such a horrible get-up.

3. In addition to strict divorce law procedures, I would like to further my efforts in the myriad of plausible defenses and would be more than willing to examine the emotional distress caused to loved ones when the phrase, “But I am a princess!” is squealed. Could a family member at the trial level with such a convincing and supportive argument use such tactics as a defense?

As I hope you can tell, I am more than excited for our academic union. I already have selected a hall that will be reserved as my studying site, and I have ordered save the date reminder cards for each of my major academic tests and projects.

The subject of marriage/divorce law is my obvious path in life – I have dreamed of it since opening my first “Pre-Nup” Barbie. The way she negotiated the Dream House away from Ken – and her stylish briefcase – have always inspired me.

In short, I could not be more happy to answer the most important question you could ever ask of me: Do I accept a full scholarship to your prestigious institution of higher education, including room and board, in challenging course work and in bad, in sickness and in stress, till graduation do us part?

I DO!!!!!!!

*I have decided Wednesday’s are going to be my day to complain about all the people around me getting engaged and obsessing over white dresses, perfect days and all that jazz. I guess I should put a disclaimer on ‘Wedding Wednesday’s’ and say that I am very much in love with my other half and one day will be glad to share all of this with him (on a much smaller scale), but today, as a pair of 25-year-olds, its just not happening for either of us. Heart you honey!

Confession Five: A Mild, Non-Tear Inducing, Tribute to the One Who Introduced Me to Live Muzak

Growing up in Western PA, the younger child of a former Still Mill carpenter and a rabid Stiller fan (Note: Truth be told, both of my parents bleed Black and Gold, yet where my father is famous for cheering “C’mon boys” when our beloved football team needs encouragement, my mother has been known to throw slippers, pillows or other soft objects at a TV when something goes wrong. She also uses changing the laundry as an excuse to stomp out of a room when the defense gives up a first down. Additionally, she threatened CP – my other half and a *GASP !* Cleveland native – with sleeping in the garage, yes the same one I hit {see Confession Four}, because he said he was going to wear a Brown’s jersey to our house.) a myriad of phrases are often repeated … these phrases, better known as Pittsburghese will be a staple in my vocabulary until the day I die – I predict that day to be the one where I refer to a gumband as an, ugh, rubberband. (Yikes!)

Yet, another often shouted phrase passed through my triple pierced ears thanks to the big sister – TBS. (Note: Much like Coco, she needs not be referred to by name, only nickname, more or less to protect the innocent; PS – the innocent in question is me.) Her’s did not involved slang, nor did it need an accent that confuses the AWN sound with the ON sound (read: Donnie vs. Dawnie).

Her phrase was much simpler:

“If you die I am going to be in trouble!”

I wish I knew the origin of this phrase, but can only speculate it came about sometime when she was babysitting me and in my sedated childhood state I was playing quietly by myself (read: doing cartwheels off the couch or jumping from the top step yelling “Look, TBS, I can fly!” when in all reality I should have been yelling, “Look TBS, I am about to crash and break a bone!”). TBS is now 30 and I am 25 … within the past year the phrase was uttered on more than one occasion – and as you can tell, I am still alive; she is yet to “be in trouble”.

Seeing as she used to say this on a daily occurrence (man she got stuck babysitting for free A LOT) one would think this would have lost its importance but it can still make me laugh. It also just proves that I am pretty sure the parents love me more if she is so convinced they are going to be pissed at her if anything happens to me; they worry about the youngest. It’s a perk of being born last.

Let’s stop and think for a few moments of places I might be killed and she might want to avoid …
1. Swimming pools. – Nope went there all the time. As a matter of fact, I used to make it my mission to be more tan that she. Jokes on her because I am pretty sure melanoma can be a bad thing – someone may be in trouble later in life and it isn’t just my epidural layer! Oh we frequented the Wave Pool many times too. She was a fan of the deeper end – I would have been too had we ever rented an intertube!
2. Foreign Country – Oh we did that too. 10 days in London and I was a teenager getting ready to head to college. Sometimes I wonder if the parents weren’t perpetually testing her.
3. Concerts – Now we are getting somewhere. We did these too. Actually more than a lot of people I know.
4. White water rafting – Oh we have the pictures to document this one! By the grace of God, the photographer managed to get a glimpse of a full boat. I am pretty sure the first time we went, there might have been three rapids where I stayed in the boat the entire time. Who needs to navigate with an oar when you can dodge rocks and other jagged objects with your body?
5. Endless games of two-bounce in the backyard / spit in the ocean – I am pretty sure these are the only items on my list where I could ever say, “Yep. Thought I was destined to take a nappy-poo in the dirt” as a young child. (PS-TBS, you did use both hands, just admit it already.)

In reference to #3 TBS actually took me to my first “real” concert at my first “real” venue when I was 12-about-to-be-13. I had just come into my ‘OCD for DMB phase’ (Note: I never really grew out of that) and we were off to see him play. In my mind there is nothing like your first DMB concert (I have been seeing them for more than a decade, on more than 20 occasions in various venues) and we were there to experience the Crash tour. (insert heavens opening and angelic singing. AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!) 13 years later I can still remember Dave wearing a pair of purple pants and a ugly brown shirt. As they started to play I told TBS that I was going to get a job dressing the band once I was older, Yep! That one worked out! I also remember the Ants Marching/Satellite encore (Why, oh why, DMB have you not turned that into Live Trax. vol XX ?!?!)

If anyone has ever been to a DMB concert it is safe to say that 95% of the ticketed population could be arrested at any given time because many strange activities happen when the planets align and Mr. David J. and his band of musical brothers start to fill the air. I feel as though this statement should only support my thoughts more … if you are so afraid of me dying, why DAVE?

That night I learned many valuable lessons which have helped me survive to this day, July 15, 2008.
1. Wait to buy t-shirts from scalpers AFTER the show. The later in the tour season the better; f you are like TBS (who has some strange repressed strand of gypsy blood running through her veins) you can haggle to get multiple t-shirts for a reduced rate. Thus everyone wins. Also, one MUST hold off buying a shirt prior to the concert because, as she drove into my pre-teen brain, you are NOT cool if you wear the bands merchandise to their concert. I am still confused by this one, and have often worn my DMB flip-flops to shows. Sorry dude.
2. Don’t disturb the strangers around you on the lawn. Turns out, the people in front of us waited for the night sky to fall, and, well, got to know each other.
3. That funny smell – the one usually reserved for the art teacher – is nothing you want to deal with. And no, though most of the people around us had not showered in days, it was not their B.O.that kept tickling my nose.
4. Listening to the artists CD on replay, for the entire week leading up to the concert just so all the words are on your mind and you can sing along with the band does not make you cool. It only drives the people around you crazy.
5. Maybe there was a five … I am drawing a blank. Was this the one about watching out for roofies, or was it keep your shoes on because you never know what you are going to step in/on at an outdoor venue?

And though it was not taught at DMB, I would like to add the ever important never eat yellow snow. Since we had dogs for the greater part of our childhoods this was valuable and deserved to me mentioned.

T-minus 50 hours until Colbe Calliat and John Mayer take the stage! I am truly looking forward to:
Hearing some of my favorite songs – LIVE! ... learning new lessons – maybe teaching some of my own ... trying to stay alive – no one needs to be reprimanded because it would ruin the John Mayer happy time!

Confession Four: I am the “World’s Best Driver” – Feel free to give me a gallon of milk

I am not sure what is going on, but I am confident I am the only one in my greater county who took some sort of safe driver’s course as a 16-year-old and managed to retain any little bit of knowledge from that time. (Note: This is quite impressive because there was a lacrosse player who just might have had a cute smile, curly hair and a SWEET Jeep waiting for him once he was legal to cruise in it. Being the high school-era, we IMed often. I was in heaven.)

Before I wax poetically about my perfect NASCAR-driver like skill we might want to first recap my impeccable driving record just for the sake of those who are going to bring it up anyway - I am not ashamed of a few faux pass because even the BEST NASCAR-drivers find themselves in the walls in the midst of a race or two …

16-years-old, November – I was trying to back my cute little convertible out of my parental unit’s garage, hit a bit of ice which made my tires spin and ultimately introduced the side of the car into the side of the garage; apparently the garage had commitment issues and the two were not ready for a relationship ...

Total damage: My power steering was shot, there were a few dents in the car, and I just might have detached some of the frame work from the garage door. Oh and I had to wake my parents up from their slumber, confess what had happened, and the boyfriend was late for curfew. Though he laughed at me and got into a bit of trouble we continued to date for a few more months.

20-years-old, Summertime – I was late for work (it was the first time ever, I promise) and in misjudging the lines on the ground, some how managed to wedge myself next to a concrete poll as I tried to throw it into park.

This would now mark car number two that I managed to dent in four-years.

Total damage: I walked into the Gap, crying and had to hang out at the markdown on the baby wall until my mom got there. Luckily, being on the Baby Gap side, my sobbing was subsided by all the small children who were throwing temper tantrums. Thank God for not having any lollipops with me that day.

Since then I can’t remember any other major accidents, though my parents may have a different opinion. And I might have gotten a few (read: under 10 in less than five states) speeding tickets since first getting that liberating plastic ID but, as of this week I am still the greatest driver in the world.

Reason One: “Hey. James Bond, in American we drive on the right side of the road.”
Upon entering the my apartment complex there is a series of speed bumps, yet whoever the genius was that originally fashioned said speed bumps dissolved one side into the sidewalk and allowed the rest of the speed bump to slope gradually upward. Geometry must not have been a required class at their high school.

Because of this ‘speed slope’, most people, regardless if they are entering or leaving the property, will try to avoid bottoming out on the half hill and gravitate toward the lower side. I have no issues with this practice and have probably done it once or twice myself, yet the real problem comes to a screeching halt when someone does this and there is oncoming traffic! I wish I was joking, but I almost had a head on collision today because I was driving on the correct side of the road down the driveway. Not only did the person take the lower side of the final speed bump, but they then continued on their merry way … in my lane! Maybe it is just me, but if I am in some small car and I see a truck coming at me I am going to dive into my own regulated traffic space. Nope, not these people. After playing chicken (I lost), they proceeded to call me names – and they were not cutesy ones like Darling, Sweetie, or Honey Pie. As a matter of fact, there was a string of syllables that were quite indistinguishable and I was a bit confused when lightening bolts did not immediately fall from the sky.

Reason Two: How darn hard is it to wave a flag?

A couple miles worth of construction has been taking place in front of my work place for the last week or so. As a Pittsburgh native seeing a flagger in a neon yellow vest does nothing for me. I understand there is an ebb and flow to driving in construction, one side moves, then my side is allowed to move. There is no rocket science involved, just two people, reliving the 80’s color wheel, donning hardhats and steeltoed shoes, turning their wrists and getting a tan. … unless you are one of the workers in my town. This morning, hours before Austin Powers left my apt. complex, Captain Intelligent did not look twice before waving me along, and became frantically confused when I did not put my car into first gear and slowly proceed. Had she looked over her opposite shoulder she would have seen the large steel animal, also known as a CAR, coming at her in the single operational lane.

Also seen from this construction site, a man, with a cigarette hanging from his mouth, a cell phone to his ear … WHILE DRIVING A BACK HOE! What is going on here?

In the event that I miss a day of posting, please assume that I have fallen victim to those who wear the construction helmets and look for me somewhere outside of work … or in the yard of the idiots who live at the entrance to my complex; they not only seemed to have been spawned from the shallow end of the gene pool, but they also reside at the shorter side of the speed bump.

Confession Three: Percocet Makes Any and All Conversations 10-Times Funnier

Before you all start thinking that I am going to write about being addicted to Percocet get that idea out of your head now. I actually hate taking medicine and the thought of swallowing, snorting or whatever else can be done to a pill disgusts me. When I am sick, I get in touch with my inner K-9 (as well as my inner whiney-pain-in-the-butt, just ask CP) and usually would rather take an aspirin wrapped in bacon or peanut butter or just not take anything at all.

Now that we have that in the open, I am not the one ‘feelin’ a little happy’ – that’s Coco (Note: All names in my stories will be nothing more than character references. In her case, ‘Coco’ requested I refer to her in this way BEFORE becoming a temporary pill popper. She wanted to add the surname ‘Chanel’ to her alias, but was sorely mistaken to learn that name has already been taken. Also, in the event I was ever to relay any of our more exciting mis-adventures, I am pretty sure anyone involved with the real Coco Chanel would deservingly so, sue me for slander.)

More or less I am pretty sure I now have you all confused. Why, oh why, would I openly discuss the fact that my BFF has been taking Percocet on a public forum?

The answer is simple, she has knee problems. (No, not for THAT reason!!!) Coco was reared in a family that I have often referred to as the Kennedy’s of her quaint mid-western hometown - almost every last one of her 12 aunts and uncles and their spouses are involved in law enforcement or politics. It is almost impossible to spit in that city without hitting someone from her bloodline – if you are lucky they will be out of uniform and will not write you a ticket either! In the nurture vs. nature argument, nature works to her advantage. For as long as I have known her (which is going on the better part of a decade), she has wanted to be XXX lbs (Note: actual numbers denoting the real weight of her skinny butt have been disclosed for my safety) of pissed off, gun-toting, high-speed chasing, handcuff slinging woman in uniform. In order to reach this goal she has had to work-out, often, and to that I attribute the fact that she recently (read: last week) underwent knee surgery. Had she been a collegiate/professional athlete her injury would not have been all that unusual, but living in the DC-metro area, most outsiders would attribute her injury to running for the Metro in high heels. Ugh! Public transportation! My worst nightmare!

I have often considered writing a book entitled “My Friend Coco”. Not only would it be waaaaaayyyy better than “My Friend Leonard” (Note: The writing style drove me crazy!) but it would be funny as all get out. In a one sentence summary: Coco would be a shoe in to win “Last Comic Standing” and the best part is she would not need to prepare material; she would just need to speak. Case in point, as undergrads Coco used to tell “parables” relating all the wrongful actions of the guys that drove her craziest. My favorite, to this day, is that of the cow. More or less she tells the story of a happy cow chewing on some grass in the middle of a field. The cow, who hopes to lead this life for as long as possible, is taken for walk and out of nowhere – BAM! He’s hamburger meat. To her, that is where hope gets you, served on a stale bun as an entrée.

Hours after her surgery, she called me to let me know that all had gone well and because I am such a great friend, I couldn’t help but laugh. I would like to state that I was more than happy to know of the surgery’s success, but I could not help think that as she came out of the anesthesia she sounded a lot like Cartman in the South Park Movie. Moments after the V-Chip is inserted in his brain, the lovable chubmiester despondently says hello to his friends and informs them that he will no longer have the ability to swear – something about her voice and the effort it took to say her words reminded me of that moment in the movie and I, being the loser that I am had to tell her and make fun of her.

Fast forward 24 hours and Coco, with the help of the Happy Pills, is not feeling as much pain and is back to her old self. Come to think of it, she may not have been feeling anything at all! Upon telling her of my afternoon at the museum, she suggests that I try the zoo next weekend. Coco, is a regular at the National Zoo because … wait for it … wait for it … the giraffes make her cry. Yes, you read that correctly and probably need a moment to process that. Go ahead, I’ll hold tight. This all started a few years back, when she first moved to the nation’s capital. I will never forget her calling that day, sobbing, from the zoo, because the giraffes looked so very unhappy in their pens. Since then every time a card is sent to her mailbox it has a giraffe on it both to poke fun and make her laugh. As a matter of fact, another friend of mine and I went as far as buying her a stuffed animal giraffe at a truck stop one summer on our drive to visit her.

While the obsession with the giraffes has not subsided, a new one has grown. --- giant panda’s. This one actually makes a bit of sense. Once again referring to the National Zoo, a few of its residents have made news on more than one occasion. The famous residents in question in this story are Tian Tian (t-YEN t-YEN) and Mei Xiang (may-SHONG), and their offspring, Tai Shan (tie-SHON) - better known as the giant panda’s who are helping to elevate the population of the endangered species. Yet, thanks to the Happy Pills, the duo, according to Coco, are named Ding Dong and Cha Ching; the latter is aptly named so because of all the dough it has brought in. (Note: Seeing as the national zoo is considered to be a member of the Smithsonian group admission is free. Knowing this I am left scratching my head as to where all of this money is coming in.)

Coco also told me the story of a former gentleman caller who wanted to take her out this weekend. Due to his gentlemanly nature, he texted her asking for the date. She responded to him informing him of her recent surgery and made it known she would be on the IRL for a few weeks. Due to his impeccable timing, he is the only person who did not reap the benefits of her Happy Pills and since he regrettably did not even bother to ask if she was feeling ok she rightfully crossed him off the suitor list. My guess is the Happy Pills were beginning to wear off. Had he texted her an hour earlier he might have had a different outcome – too bad for him, but BAM, guess who is a Big MAC now.

Shameful as it maybe, I love telling these type of stories about my friends – especially when they are all hopped up on pain meds. I know it is slightly evil, but they have just as many stupid stories where I have said something that some would consider being on the less intelligent side. According to my amigo’s you would never know I had the ability to acquire three higher education degrees over the course of six years – they may be right, once again proving books smarts ≠ common sense. (Note: For those of you asleep in third grade, ≠ means does not equal.)

Anyway, long distance love and get well wishes are sent you Coco! Hopefully, you will get to hide your pimp cane (Note: prior to surgery she was hobbling around DC in heels and a cane. Oh it was SEXXY and KLASSY!) with Tom Cruise in the closet! Feel better Butters!

Confession Two: ‘Tate’ Refers to More than the Hottie Who Used to Try to Cheat Off Me in PR Class

When I was a sophomore in college I met possibly the cutest fraternity male (read: stereotypical frat boy) at my mid-western university. Tate was 6-feet 2-inches of Greek prettiness who kept off the extra keg lbs. with intramural prowess (he had the coveted “Intramural Champions” t-shirts to prove it too!).

The kid could have come to class wearing Adidas snap pants (see left) and a hoodie (which he did often) or a three piece suit (which he did once) – no matter what he wore, he looked beyond good. Just thinking about it I am still amazed as to how clothes just hung the correct way off his body. Luckily he sat behind me, and though I looked forward to spending three hours with him (and the other 299 kids in the lecture hall) every Wednesday of that semester, I would not have been able to concentrate with him anywhere in my peripheral vision. Yes, I am literally admitting that I was more worried about my grades and would only allocate flirting time to our mid-class break or pre-and-post class interaction. (Cool Kid – Table for one, please) And though just his smile could make me swoon, it was never enough of a justification for me to give in and do his homework, thus ending our courtship of any extracurricular attention with the exception of the occasional liquid bribe when our paths would cross down on Main Street.

Prior to that fateful PR class, the word ‘Tate’ sent chills up and down my spin – and not in the giggly junior high way that the frat boy did. The word ‘Tate’ would float past my ears, into my psyche and would take me back to the Tate Modern Museum in London, England. I was lucky enough to spend 10-days in London with my sister just after graduating from high school. The trip was probably the best of my life … except for Tate Modern day. TBS (the big sister) is a bit of an art buff and was more than excited to try to get me to feel the same way. We were supposed to gain a bit of culture that day by taking in the sites and experiencing something outside of our element; to this day I understand what she was trying to do, but the only thing I gained was the knowledge that modern artists were crazy and possessed some sort of thinking that was way more existential than I was capable of. When I close my eyes I can still see the Erection Machine (tEM); a fully working piece of art complete with wires, bells, whistles and a penis that would rise every hour on the hour. At 18, I had never seen anything, let alone ‘art’, with that much detail and it would become the straw which broke this camels’ back. Actually, it was the piece de resistance that would shut me up for a solid five hours. tEM was stationed in one of the entrance galleries and upon seeing it my stimulation overload would prevent me from speaking. Hell at that moment in time I was virtually incapable of all logical thought. Looking back, if I had to describe the Tate Modern, I can say, without a doubt, I was Alice, the Tate was Wonderland, and tEM was my hookah bearing caterpillar. Upon leaving Wonderland, TBS, who was impressed one structure could send this chatterbox into a sedated state, bought three pounds of Turkish cherries - who knows if it was her intent or not, I ate every last one of them and would not speak until I spit the final pit.

With this history it must be surprising that I decided to visit my local metropolitan art museum today, but sans Turkish cherries I took the plunge and attempted to get a bit of culture into my life. If memory serves me correctly, there is a Sex And The City episode which opens with Carrie, head to toe in Dior, attempting to visit the Met just because she lives in NYC and can. More or less I was channeling my inner Carrie and did the same, except the building was open, in her case, her visit came on an off-day.

Somehow, I managed to cause trouble the moment I stepped into the building. Apparently backpacks are not allowed in the art museum. For whatever reason they have been outlawed and being the rebel that I am, I dared to swing my black Gucci knockoff over my shoulders and was immediately told of my rule breaking. I smiled at the elderly woman, apologized for my indiscretion, and though it was not all that fashionable, was allowed to proceed with the straps on the crook of my arm.

The first gallery I entered was three connecting hallways displaying “Inner Space”. I should have known this was going to be an adventure in culture because as I admired a photo of Jackie Robinson in a suit I was distracted. It took a second glance to notice he was on the phone, in what might have been his study, focusing more on a baseball he was tossing than the conversation which was taking place. The discrepancy that set me off was the frame. Some of the photos were displayed in clean, shiny metal frames, while others in the hallways were mounted on the walls by way of old shotty looking wooden frames. Ugh. Can we say tacky? Plus, there was a couple who continuously walked in front of whatever I was looking at. I had an overwhelming feeling of wanting to go Chuck Norris on their khakie and croc clad arses and had to move along.

On the next level, I found myself in the modern gallery’s. There is something way more inviting when looking at works by Andy Warhol and Jackson Pollock. Though I may not fully understand black strokes on a white canvas or a three dimension Brillo pad box, I am very aware it is not an erecting penis and for that I am grateful – nor hungry – nor silent. I did come face-to-face with several candidates for the Tate Modern (i.e. Jim Dune’s “The Sickle” or Rona Pondick’s “Cat), but for the most part the afternoon was a fairly entertaining way to pass the time.

In the event someone else would like to visit a museum in the near future I would like to offer these insights:

1. Don’t even bother with a purse. Most museum’s offer free admission – though they will ask you for a donation to park. If you would like to purchase anything from the gift store, items are not cheap, and most normal people would not carry enough cash with them to purchase anything worth displaying. Personally, I found a sweet silver ring with a spectacular topaz design in the center upon examining the price tag I came to the realization that I had entered a Tiffany & Co. showroom. I know that I am oblivious to the world around me, but c’mon.

2. Don’t let the geriatric ‘guards’ fool you – they will lay the smack down. Everywhere I looked there was a volunteer from the retirement home in brown pants and a navy blue blazer. Each was given a walkie-talkie and a name badge. I am guessing the former was to inform each other when a suspicious looking intruder (read: me, despite being dressed in head to toe in BR. Maybe it was my pearls that screamed “Watch out, she is going to try to steal something!”)was within round house kicking distance. I honestly had one of the geriatric guards yell at me for writing in GASP ink while in a gallery and proceeded to give me a pencil. Another, and he was my favorite, looked like the grandpa from Sixteen Candles, and yelled "Hello!" not to me, but at me as I entered his domain. At that moment, I swore if Long Duck Dong came out from behind a painting I. WAS. OUTTA. THERE!

Confession One: Flirting with Blogging ... Again

Maybe its not my office, per say, but I do heart pink and wearing power suits ...

It’s a Friday afternoon in the summer (my down ‘season’) and I am still at work … I am the only one in my hallway as a matter of fact. Of the ten office doors, mine is the only one open, with a living, breathing human occupying the space on either side of threshold. (Note: Subtle clues like this will start to make sense and will give rise to the reasoning behind my moniker and why my name makes total sense. )

If you happened to stumble upon my corner of the internet then I am guessing you are going to want the Cliff Notes version of my life and why I see the world as I do … Upon knowing these juicy details I am well aware you run the risk of falling in love with me and feeling the need to visit my site daily. Much like getting in a car and driving anywhere, it’s a risk worth taking – sadly though I cannot offer the safety of a seatbelt. On the flip side, it is perfectly legal to take in my thoughts while intoxicated. Hell, it may even make me appear smarter – think of it as beer goggles for the brain – and I, unlike your ex boy/girlfriends, am not going to be upset if you leave me sloppy messages 3 a.m.

Consider yourself warned, read on anyway, what else do you have to do with your life?

Without giving away enough details that will earn me a 48 Hours Mystery appearance the essentials are as follows:

• I turned 25 less than a month ago and though I have always listened to him, John Mayer’s Room for Squares album makes more and more sense to me everyday. I too have considered ‘keeping my car in drive and leaving this shit behind’ on many occasions, yet because I am forever driving with my gas tank on the lighter side (read: fumes) I am lucky to make it between my apartment and work on any given day.

• This is my second try at blogging. My first was on my now extinct MySpace page. My older sister loved it. She thought I was funny. Much like your mom saying you are funny, I took little stock in this acknowledgement, yet days would go by and she would ask me when I was going to start spell checking my rants and putting them on paper again – she is a stay at home mom so I am pretty sure her pleas were an attempt to have interaction with someone other than Bob the Builder on a random Wednesday afternoon. Oddly enough, I had friends subscribe to my incoherent ramblings too. Some of my more adventurous topics included a love letter to Starbucks and planning my wardrobe for the campaign trail. No I am not running for homecoming queen- though I do have the perfect wrist, wrist, elbow, elbow motion!My other half, better known as CP, was convinced he was going to run for governor.
He is a hippy liberal who is perpetually oppressed and held down by his polo shirts and khakie shorts. As he was explaining his platform to me I was mentally spending my lifesavings outfitting my Jackie O. look. She is, after all, the clear choice of style icon to emulate (read: knockoff), because in the wise words of Warner Huntington, III “Elle, I need a Jackie, not a Marilyn.” (Note: Had Legally Blonde come out a few years later I would be willing to bet a few Monica jokes would have been included in that fateful conversation.)

• I am not promising that I will always deliver wit, charm, sarcasm or even complete sentences. What I think I will give you, my two readers (Hi Meash!) is an honest look at being 25 in the year 2008 and attempting to figure out the world around me.

More or less that whole ‘Quarterlife Crisis Activist’ junk should make sense by now … if not, I am S.O.L since I have about 500 business cards with that exact title on them. Buying in bulk rocks!