The eye sees only what the mind is prepared to comprehend.

Translation: That’s probably why I can never find a damn unicorn ANYWHERE.


It’s time for another riveting round of daily observations! ...don't look so puzzled. You know you yearn to be enlightened by my inner awesomeocity.

-After spending the day subbing for a 2nd grade class, I wonder if I could find a doctor somewhere in the US that would be willing to give a 23 year old a hysterectomy.

-I was watching Glee last night (tell a soul and I will shove you in a locker), which got me thinking…what’s with the growing trend of celebrities whose faces look like a foot? Mr. Schu? Robert Pattinson? Jennifer Aniston? Look at your foot. Google a picture of any of those people- it is remarkably hard to tell the difference. (Side note- the Britney Spears episode was absolutely hilarious…reiterate- STUFF YOU IN A LOCKER)

-What is it about driving a golf cart that automatically makes grown men (50+) revert to ten year old boys? If I see one more old dude doing donuts on the green behind our house I’m gonna set up a camera. Also- women are EXTREMELY vulgar golfers. I kinda like it. I wonder how much money I could make in a day if I sold beer and hotdogs from my yard. We are on the cart path…my entrepreneurial spidey senses are a tingling.

-Watched a few seconds of Will Arnett’s new show “Running Wilde,” which got me thinking- is he capable of playing any character other than Gob Bluth? Also- Arrested Development has and will always be the greatest effing show in the history of shows. I’ve instant netflixed the entire series so many times Netflix probably put me on a government watch list. Oh yes, and I fancy myself a Buster Bluth fan. If you’re reading this blog and you’ve never seen an episode…you would understand so much more about me if you did. They’re the televised version of my family.

-Speaking of…Netflix, if you keep putting Rob Schnieder films under the movies you think I’ll love category- we’re breaking up. Coming soon- my ‘Ode to Netflix (or other ways to spend 13 bucks a month).’

-Dear Ke$ha, Please for the love of God take a shower. And just…stop. The mere sight of you makes me want to wash my hands and burn my clothing.

Anatomy of a Catcall

Translation: why men are evolutionarily inferior to women.

I’d like to start off by stating- yes, I do believe women are superior to men. But without them, who would reach the stuff on the high shelves? I don’t keep a ladder handy.

Any man who’d like to argue this idea with me- your point is moot, because:

a. You can’t give birth
b. You can’t walk in 6 inch heels (unless you’re a drag queen and in which case I group you with us)
c. You’re less likely to graduate from college than a woman
d. Your life span is shorter (this may or may not be attributed to the fact that you suck at the aforementioned points)

I dare any straight man to argue point b with me and still try to prove you’re the superior one.

Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, I’d like to mention while I’m a “hater” it’s usually because men have provided me with excellent reasons to “hate” …but you’re not all evil or philandering jerks. One day I promise to blog about how there are certain things you can do better than us (like get sacked by a 300 lb defensive lineman or pee standing).

I digress…yesterday I was walking through the parking lot at the local grocery store, and a minivan (oh baby, nothing says hot like a loser cruiser) with some rather interesting/woodtick looking men in it all started whistling and hollering in my direction.

I consider myself to be a moderately attractive woman, meaning even on my worst day I know I look better than Lindsay Lohan.

Anyhow, this got me thinking- what in the world do men expect to happen after they Catcall a woman? Cause guys, I gotta tell you, the kind of woman whose loins burn after being whistled at from across a seedy parking lot is probably not the girl you want to bring home to Momma. Generally I’d pinpoint her as the woman you’d like to steer clear of unless you often wonder about the joys of herpes (I’m gonna go out on a limb here and guess genital warts are really NOT that joyful).

Unless of course, you aren’t looking for a woman of high caliber, in which case, whistle on you egg-headed horndog, whistle on.

I’m suspecting if I had approached said van full ‘o hosers, they would’ve either:

a. Rolled up the windows and been too big of a pansy to speak with me.
b. Thrown me a cheesy pick up line like “Did you have lucky charms for breakfast? Because you look magically delicious,” in which case…
c. You wouldn’t be reading this blog because I’d be in jail for assault.

I do have to wonder the efficiency of Catcalling. I’ve never heard of a couple falling madly in love after the man so “dashingly” whistled her way as she stomped past him on her way to work, coffee in hand, poised to be thrown in his face…but instead his act of romanticism swept her and her Starbucks off their feet.

Or imagine the E-harmony ad. ‘Well, Steve completely degraded me when we first met with a catcall, and then I just KNEW he was the one…we’ve been married for a year and he only has three mistresses. It was fate.’ Ahh, true love.

So in conclusion, men- want to impress a woman? How ‘bout ya open the door for her instead of yelling “hey baby nice cans,” in front of your 6 year old son. But if that’s asking too much, perhaps your wife should do the rest of us a favor and not let you leave the house unsupervised. Just a thought.

I'm thinking I might need to start animating some of my blogs. Because the mental image I have of my final points A-C are epictastical.

P.S. I’ve never met a jar I can’t open on my own…sometimes I like to give a guy a freebie morale boost and ask him to open something for me. I’m not completely evil.

"There are rules for the mullet hunt..."

Translation: you never see an episode of COPS where someone with a mullet doesn't get shot...what are these rules you speak of?!?

Well, Pete was the discerning ear I always ran my blogs by before submission, so bear with me. The dog so loved to critique.


(See, he was more than happy to help and laugh at me even when I wasn’t funny so now you all must do the same…)
…………………………………………

When I lived in Texas, I really thought we cornered the market on mullets. I am pretty sure you’re all familiar, but a mullet is a hairstyle best described by Google image searching “Joe Dirt.” That’s right…when you decide the mullet is the right hair choice for you—you’re embracing a lifestyle, not just a trend.

Needless to say, I thought the rebel hair choice known as the mullet would be long gone as I waved to Texas in my rearview mirror and headed to the North. There are few things I have been more wrong about (like the catastrophic time I decided tequila and Goldschlager would pair excellently, or my prediction that the Spice Girls would last forever…oh Past Me, you were so jubilantly foolish).

But when I arrived, Michigan turned into a proverbial “Who’s Who” of the mullet wearing community. Men, teenage boys, grown women, babies, dogs…they all had mullets. I know you question the validity of a dog being able to sport a mullet, but hello, a poodle with overgrown hair is totally rocking one (mental picture status: EPIC). No one is safe.

But there was one in particular I saw today that literally stopped me dead in my tracks, mouth agape, eyes wide, breath ceased in horror/amazement- horrazement. This man was dressed in tattered jeans, and a cut off tee sporting a WWE Raw logo (your first hint he’s quite accustomed to the mullet lifestyle), and work boots. He was wearing a lime green camouflage fishing hat. While usually I would be pointing out the obvious misstep of wearing a lime green hat as camouflage- we have more important things to worry about. Upon removal of the hat/locating device, a mane of long, wavy hair unfolded down his back, nearly to his plumber-peek-a-boo-asscrack, however- in the front it did not do the same.

In the front he had the most impressive Elvis impersonator swirl of hair I have ever seen. It was almost as if you separated the two hair styles you would have Fabio standing next to Mr. Presley himself. Needless to say, I scrambled for my blackberry while trying to muffle my hysterical fit of laughter not to make too much noise.

But I was scared if I got close enough to take a picture, the sheer force of the thing would suck me in and cause me the sudden urge to rebuild a 1975 TransAm or name my first born Cletus (or Bobby Ray if it’s a girl- cause dammit I ain’t raisin’ no sissy!).

I really must apologize to y’all (see I was a good 20 feet away and it affected my grammar) that I was not brave enough to take a photo. This was definitely the most epic mullet I’ve ever seen. But I don’t think I could embrace, let alone, pull off the mullet lifestyle- so please...forgive me for the sake of my barely there sanity and ability to dress and leave the house without looking like my electricity went out.

I thank you ahead of time.

P.S. Anyone reading this with a mullet- I apologize, and I gotta say- Jared Allen is my favorite football player of all time (but did ya’ll a huge disservice by choppin’ that thing off).

P.P.S. I'm really proud I made this entire post without once referring to the mullet credo of "business in the front, party in the back."

To live in hearts we leave behind Is not to die.

Translation: this is a post grieving the loss of the dog I loved so. I promise I will be back to posting blogs entailing Michigan Mullet Count 2010, a rousing look at why I am not goo-goo for Gaga, and a game I like to call "Shoe- or Torture Device?" in a day or two my patient audience. I appreciate your readership so very much, but today I need to be serious.
........................................

I have been trying to keep busy in hopes I will not notice he is gone. But when you’re so used to having a little dog by your side for 18 hours out of the day the absence he has left is beyond obvious.

The house just seems so cold without him, my routine so interrupted. I have no one to sneak Apple Cinnamon Cheerios to in the morning, and when I take my laundry downstairs and look across the hall from the washing machine where his bed was, there is now nothing.

And my heart aches.

I knew this was not going to be easy. Losing the family dog is always inevitable, but no amount of preparation could ever have readied me for holding him in my arms for the last time. Watching the life slip out of him, I have never hurt so much in my entire existence. I want to scream, but no amount of thrashing and flailing will bring him back.

It is unfortunate they don’t do liver transplants for dogs...it was his time. Now he is no longer sick, or hurting in any way. Now it is my family’s time to hurt. I thought perhaps I would feel better today, as I reminisce about how wonderful and crazy that dog was. I have so many fond memories of Pete that I could fill pages upon pages chronicling the 13 years worth of happiness, enjoyment, and companionship he was kind enough to give my family.

But absolutely every part of my waking day involved some aspect of Pete. And 24 hours after he has been gone I find myself unable to be downstairs during the day. He would lie in his doggy bed next to the kitchen table while I got my work done; sit with me on the couch and play, then sleep so soundly. When I check the mail today I will do so alone. When I open the front door I will no longer wait for him to follow me in. At 5:00 last night I went to get a plate to feed him dinner and then I remembered. These habits will be so hard to break.

I think the hardest part is I can no longer look into his little eyes and feel the love he had for me shine from them, then cradle his head in my hands and kiss his furry little forehead and tell him I loved him, too.

Its absolutely amazing how much an animal can affect your life. But Pete was more than a dog- he was a member of our family. I’ve never felt a pain like this when I lost a boyfriend, had my heart broken, or even when I had to give up Shiloh when I moved here. All those things hurt like hell but were a scrape compared to this. I’ve never experienced a hurt so deep even when some of my family and friends have passed. Yes, I mourned and grieved, but with time it got better.

I pray that in time this heals, too. I dealt with the loss of Corky and Maggie. I loved those dogs, as well…but Pete was my best friend. He had more personality in his 25 pound body than anyone I’ve ever met. When I was sad, he would curl up pressed so tightly against me like a little bodyguard keeping me from harm. And that damn dog was the only thing on planet Earth that has ever been able to make me laugh regardless of how I feel inside.

Now life feels very joyless. I have so much aching inside of me, and I put on this strong façade for my family and in public. But truth be told, even the thought of Pete being gone makes me burst into tears. I look down at my side and I think I will always expect him to be there. Because for the majority of 13 out of my 23 years, he was.

The last moments I had with Pete were so distraught and agonizing. Like a quiet storm of violent pain. The look of worry and fear on his face in the vet’s office before he was put to sleep. The sorrow in his eyes while we waited in the car for my stepdad to arrive. He knew he was dying. Pete knew everything.

So when he climbed on to my lap in my Mom’s car I held him as tight as I could. I told him goodbye, and in a way he told me, too. He looked into my eyes with a gaze that almost told me not to worry anymore. That he tried as long as he could, but he had to go now.

I will always remember the feeling of stroking his fur. Of my tears falling onto him as he sat in my lap and hearing my mother cry beside us. Of the very last time I ever got to tell him I loved him, and thank him for being the only boy I gave my heart to that never broke it.

When he was gone, I held his little face in my hands, and I knew that never again in my life would I experience a bond with anyone else like the one I had with Pete.

I am somehow at peace with that. I will have other dogs in the distant future, as I love animals. I want my children to grow up with a family pet the way I grew up with Pete. And when I find that dog, he or she will be put up against the toughest standards left by Petey.

And if that dog is even half as wonderful as Pete was, I will be happy.

"Dogs' lives are too short. Their only fault, really."

Translation: All dogs go to Heaven.

My usual wit and charm will be missing from this post, because I am experiencing the day every pet owner dreads...our beloved rat terrier, Pete, had to be put down this morning.

I knew this loss would hit me hard, but I feel like a part of me is gone forever. That little innocent corner in my heart that so belonged to that dog aches. We're a dog family alright, and anyone else who has lost a pet or ever read "Marley & Me" and wept openly, knows exactly how I am feeling right now. Every where I turn I see him in our home. While it was his time, I don't think I ever could have prepared to let him go.

For 13 years Pete was my best friend, the funniest little dog on the planet, and the only boy I ever loved who never broke my heart. My family and I will miss him more than words can describe. Rest in peace, Petey.

It has become appallingly obvious that our technology has exceeded our humanity.

Translation: Back. Away. From. The. Kindle.

I, like any Red-Blooded American, generally hate on all forms of technology that seem pretentious and then turn around and end up using them anyway. I just don’t tell anyone about it. Or admit to it if cornered. Its 2010 and I don’t even own an IPod (TRUTH. May lightening strike me down if I am lying…).

Still here. Whew.

Tangent aside, I am writing to you about a series of events that all culminated because of my increasing addiction to Twitter (but because I’m a huge perv I usually refer to it as “Twatter” and instead of “tweeting” I’m “twatting.”) Ok, back out of the gutter.

My abode, however humble it may be, is literally located out in B.F.E. ..for those of you who are unfamiliar with that term, Urban Dictionary is going to be your best friend. I am so far out in the middle of Nothingsville (population: 1 extremely concerned Texan, 6 Michiganders), that Twitter’s automatic tracking tool can never seem to find me.

Recently it has suggested I am:
@Prestige Liquor in Detroit (over an hour away)
@Liquor Westside in Detroit (I’m sensing a pattern here)
@New Bethel Baptist Church (it’s too late to redeem yourself now Twitter- we all know you’re a drunk)

…or generally just claims my location is unavailable (sadly, I find this to be the most accurate).

So I did some Twitter bashing, on account of I’m a mean and bitter person. I twatted tweeted the following:

“twitter keeps saying my location is unavailable- let me help you out Twatter... it's B.F.E.”

And then about two hours later my mother is frantically calling for me upstairs to “LOOK OUT THE WINDOW!! OH MY GOD!!”

I was hoping that Johnny Depp had somehow found his way to my home and God had answered all my prayers…but no. There was a tour bus outside my home. Let the gravity of the situation sink in for a moment.

A TOUR BUS. BIGGER THAN THE ONE ON BRETT MICHAEL’S ROCK OF LOVEBUS*.

So in a rather ironic twist of fate, a Tour Bus full of 50 people can somehow find their way to B.F.E., but Twitter/GoogleSkynet (my paranoia over this is a blog for another day, *as is my apparent shitty taste in TV shows) can never seem to locate me.

I guess in the event of a robot uprising, I am safe here?

A few observations and much reasoning lead to error; many observations and a little reasoning to truth.

Translation: I'm about to hit you with some keen observations from my ever-awesome questionable mind.

Daily observations:
I find it hilarious how inappropriate people can be in a public forum. Because when a person puts their foot in their mouth, I like when a network of about 500+ other people can read about it, too.

Hot men in Michigan- they do not exist. But maybe I can meet Kid Rock here and he can show me where the party at?

Twitter- don’t need it, but love to use it. I also use this analogy for any products made by Sephora, my blackberry, and rich men.

I’m addicted to Google. So much so, that when I’m thinking to the furthest recesses of my mind about a puzzling issue, I wish I had an instant search feature.

In congruence with my previous observation when I did a google search of “why are men so…” the following options pulled up:
…stupid
…selfish
…mean
…lazy
…shallow
…complicated

Hands down the best Google search result of course came from Yahoo answers, which is rivaling Google for a spot in my heart. The riveting answer to the million dollar question:

“because they are retarded sex addicts.”

Touché, yahoo answers, touché.


More serious observations:
I’m thinking about moving to the DFW area once I get my provisional teaching license. I really miss Texas but could never see myself back in San Angelo.

I miss the feeling of being loved and wanted by a man. I’m pretty sure if I fell off the face of the Earth right now, my boyfriend would be too busy to notice for a solid month.

I am happy I am headed in the right direction to fulfill my dream of teaching, but sad that I have left behind just about everything I cared about in order to do so.

I am not living life to the fullest- it’s time to go shoe shopping.

"Si quaeris peninsulam amoenam circumspice"

(Literal) Translation: If you seek a pleasant peninsula, look about you.

(Von Devious) Translation: If you seek normalcy in Michigan, you're completely screwed. P.S. Our state motto, much like us, doesn't sound so bad at first, but would be more appropriate if it translated into 'Michigan- there's a whole helluva lotta hosers* here, eh?'

*For my Southern friends, a hoser is the redneck equivalent of the North. Needless to say I am faced with the possibility of running into at least 4.5 people with mullets on a daily basis, and 98% of the general population leaves the house in Lycra or pajamas (both of which are ALWAYS paired with Crocs, of course) and sees absolutely nothing wrong with this.


Which got me thinking (danger!), why the hell are the people here so weird? It goes beyond the people, it even goes beyond the mullet. Like any societal foundation, it starts with the laws.


Like this gem (all of the following mentioned are ACTUAL STATE LAWS, because I'm good people, but even I can't make this shit up):

"There is a law that makes it legal for a farmer to sleep with his pigs, cows, horses, goats, and chickens."

 Brings to life a whole new outlook on being put in the "dog house."

"It is illegal to let your pig run free in Detroit unless it has a ring in its nose."

Ah, so THAT'S why my pig was confiscated...next time I'll know better.

"Any person over the age of 12 may have a license for a handgun as long as he/she has not been convicted of a felony."

Ohhh where do I even begin with this one...I better not piss off any kids in the classroom in inner city Detroit or I will surely get shot, which surprisingly, is something I NEVER worried about in Texas. At least there we can all automatically assume we're armed. Now when those hoity-toity Democrats raise their eyebrows at me when I say I am from Texas/"that big ass state with all the shotguns," I have this little gem to throw in their face.

And the piece de resistance:

"Alligators may not be tied to fire hydrants."

...But Crocs should of course be worn on feet. Are alligators even geographically located in Michigan? Who the hell came up with this law? What was he smoking? Did he share? And most importantly- where the %^*& am I supposed to tie my damn alligator then?

 I'd like to note at this point I didn't even search for Michigan's road laws...oh no...those are so unbelievably retarded even Rain Man would question them. So of course, I am saving those for another post. And to be fair, Texas has some pretty stupid laws too, but at least we have the decency to not wear fuzzy pink slippers with flannel pj's to formal events there. Just sayin.

Always wear expensive shoes. People notice.

Translation: men might also notice if you have a boob hanging out, too.

 Let me set the scene for this conversation:

Approximately one year ago, in my living room in front of a bottle of Riunite Lambrusco so large me and the fattest person you can think of would be able to swim in it, plus Richard Simmons (he just seems like the kind of guy who would have quite the collection of fun-noodles). My partner and crime and I are discussing the haul we just got earlier in the day at a shoe sale. I use my Freudian mojo to note the following:

Me: We’re just substituting one thing for another, Taren…shoes for sex, sex for shoes.

Taren: Yeah but which would you rather be thinking about right now? Shoes or sex?

Me: Sex.

Taren: Are you getting laid tonight?

Me: Well no, but I am wearing shoes.*

*I'd also like to note at this point I own over 200 pair of shoes, which is sadly waaaaayyy more than the amount of times I've had sex in the last calendar year. If I didn't know better/drink so much, I'd say I'm in dire need of help.

First interception of the season...

Seriously, Brett? SERIOUSLY?

Sorry, I bleed purple and gold, I adore my family's home state of Minnesota (even though I grew up in Texas, I hate, hate, hate the Cowgirls)- get this %#$%$%^ Cheese-head off my team. I am having Vietnam-esque flashbacks from last season's NFC Championship game.

Silver lining- at least NASCAR's season isn't over. Never run out of reasons to drink beer, people!

Sometimes you want what you don't deserve.

Translation: you can't have your cake and eat it to you greedy asshole.

I can't help but wonder as a 23 year old, educated and assertive woman...how in God's name do I always end up back at square one?

I wake up every morning and suddenly realize how Bill Murray's character must have felt in the movie "Groundhog's Day." And my friends, something has got to give.

I have moved home to focus on obtaining my master's degree. Its not really home, mind you, just my parent's house. Home is Texas. Home is where I can walk into the bar and a miller is waiting for me by the time I get to the counter (home is also a place of rampant alcoholism, apparently). And now I live in...Michigan. Or as my mother calls it "Wishigan" because she wishes she was in Texas again. I tend to think the nickname is appropriate because I wish people here knew how to drive, dress, and be polite. But unfortunately, I think I need to start formulating some sort of social life here instead of living vicariously through my dear friend's facebook posts back home.


So while I sit here on my ass, wondering if my life will ever resemble anything close to normal, I fear the answer is a resounding HELL TO THE NO. My boyfriend lives 1500 miles away, my friends even further, and my sense of pride is buried somewhere South of hell.

So guess who's picking up writing instead of drinking as a hobby??!

....guess that bachelor's in journalism paid off?