The Snub

So, it happened again.


I don't want to sound like a Cleveland cry-baby but our beloved Cavs were eliminated in the Eastern Conference finals. Boo hoo. When they lost game one to Orlando I started mentally preparing myself for that eventuality so I've almost come to terms with it at this point. I mean, of course we weren't going to the finals, come on. All the experts picked the Cleveland Lebrons to end our 200+ year championship drought and take home the biggy... so naturally we had to F that up. That's life, let's move on. Besides, I'm not here to have a pity party because I've already wasted like 4 days intermittently crying and having tourettes-syndrome like swearing fits. But you probably don't need to hear anymore about that.


No, my friends, instead I'd like to take a minute to discuss what I've come to refer to as "the snub".


You see, after the Cavs terribly depressing loss in game six, ending our dream of an NBA championship, (and causing me to complete my first legitimate "power hour" since college - rage drinking at it's best!), Lebron did what I would imagine any normal person would want to do and stormed out of Amway arena without saying boo to anybody.


Fuck the press, Fuck Howard, Fuck Van Gundy and Fuck TurkeyGlue, Lewis, Alston and the rest of those sharp shooting mofos who could hit a three point shot even if I kicked them square in the balls .7 seconds before handing them the ball.


The man was tired, he was beat up, he was pissed... but most of all, he was a poor sport.


Look, I love Lebron. I have actually fantasized about him during sex. That is not a lie, it happened like 8 days ago. I am thrilled that he plays in Cleveland and for once we have an absolute super star of our very own. A home-town hero so to speak.


But let's call a spade a spade, walking out of that arena without at least shaking the hands of the other players was poor sportsmanship. And it's not like Wally Sczerbiak storming out- I mean who gives (the man threw two air balls for Christ sake). We're talking about the biggest super star in the league, just waltzing right the fuck out of there. Of course it did not go unnoticed.


So now, to add insult to injury, we've got people calling Lebron out for this uncharacteristic display. And that's what has me the most upset; not that he was unsportsmanlike (for shame!) but that his unsportsmanlikeness was so un-like him.


Leborn James is a class act. He is wise beyond his years and the embodiment of a team player. And for all you haters out there (jealous much?) take a look at the stats. The proof is in the pudding, there is no valid argument against James here. (You can keep arguing that James is overrated but you will sound like an uneducated nincompoop... which I'm guessing is what you are.) (And you are jealous as shit.)


So to have him soil his amazing season, his MVP winning season with a display like this makes me sad. I understand why he did it, but I wish he hadn't because I know he's so much better than that. And that's all I can say. This too shall pass.


The good news is this- I have confidence in Lebron James and the Cavs, just like everyone who truly takes time to watch the man play his game. He will bounce back, he will overcome and he will win his championship ring. I just hope he's in Cleveland when he does.


And Lebron, a piece of advice. Cause I've been there, ok? I played rec league, girls slow-pitch softball for like 12 years. Not exactly the NBA playoffs but we had some pretty hard core rivalries. And when we lost to one of them (which we inevitably did, we were terrible) we always shook hands. The trick is, hock a big fat loogie in your hand first. Then see who gets the last laugh.

So, a toaster then?

I now give you a typical email thread sent between myself and my two sisters. This one pertains to Christmas gifts for our parents. Some names have been changed to protect the innocent.


From: Tess Stewart
Sent: Monday, November 24, 2008 1:31 PM
To: Megan Stewart; Natalie Stewart
Subject: X-mas gifts for Mom and Dad

Hi Guys,

Wes and I had the pleasure of accompanying Mom and Dad to Costco this weekend to pick up the holiday bird (22 lbs. nice!). A trip that would normally promote suicidal thoughts (while Mom and Dad talk to [Neighbor Man] and then ponder wine selections with this random old man for what seems like 30 minutes) it was actually a good fact finding mission because I found out that Mom and Dad need a new toaster and a new alarm clock. SO, I figured we could pick that stuff up for their X-Mas gifts. Do you guys want to do a joint gift like last year? I can be in charge of picking it up and I am also open to suggestions if you guys think those things are lame. We can also do something else with that if you want to make it more personal.

Anyways, I thought I would open the dialogue now seeing as that’s way better to do that then any actual work. Shhh, don’t tell.

We can talk about this on Thanksgiving too, yippee I can’t wait!!!

-TS

From: Natalie Stewart
Sent: Monday, November 24, 2008 5:27 PM
To: Megan Stewart; Tess Stewart
Subject: Re: X-mas gifts for Mom and Dad

Ladies, and you are-

I think those are some super ideas Tess! I'll try to come up with some other ideas too but I can't think of anything right now, too much pressure and i'm not a frickin' performing monkey. Can't just pull these things out of my ass. How is [Neighbor Man] anyway? Like that transition? Yeah... I was just thinking back to last year and the awesome gifts we got mom and dad then. And I became livid at the thought of the fact that mom and dad still have not bothered with that digital photo frame. I mean for all we know, tj could have swiped that thing and sold it on E-bay by now. So maybe we could just program it for them. We could easily lift that thing w/o their knowledge, since they have clearly wiped any trace of its existence from their memories at this point, and pick out some nice shots to put on it. The biggest problem i forsee with that is narrowing down to a select few pics, since we are all so damn attractive and the selection would be endless... kind of like this e-mail. So to sum it up- let's steal back mom and dad's digital photo frame, we are very good looking. The end.

Nat

PS. Mom needs a blood pressure cuff, she mentioned it in passing yesterday but lets be honest, she was totally dropping x-mas gift hints. B/c everyone knows that nothing says happy holidays like a blood pressure cuff.

From: Tess Stewart
To: Natalie Stewart; Megan Stewart
Sent: Mon, 24 Nov 2008 5:47 pm
Subject: RE: X-mas gifts for Mom and Dad

Oh my gosh, we seriously have like ESPN or something because I was totally thinking that same exact thing about the photo frame. I was worried that if I brought it up my email would be peppered with so many swear words that it would break our email filter and I would get fired.

Let’s remember to bring at least one camera to thanksgiving and get some really good shots of everyone. I guess I won’t wear sweat pants so I look half way decent in the photos. Nice work!

[Neighbor Man] is great by the way. Really spectacular. They’re having thanksgiving at “the cabin” this year. Just a nice rustic family thanksgiving.

-TS

From: Megan Stewart
Sent: Tuesday, November 25, 2008 12:20 PM
To: Tess Stewart; Natalie Stewart
Subject: Re: X-mas gifts for Mom and Dad

wow. that's all i can say. wow. [Neighbor Man]. freaking [Neighbor Man].

now, for the gift idea review. i like the alarm clock idea. i remember mom saying something about their clock and not being able to change the programmed times. not like it makes a bit of difference with ol' early riser. now, they have those alarm clocks that you can dock i-pods. that could act as a good segue gift. i-pods down the road or whatever....at least for tom, the tech whiz. which begs the question, why hasn't he set up that god-blessed frame?

the blood pressure cuff....we'll give her a roll of quarters and she can go use the one up at drug mart.

tess, you giving up sweat pants on an eating oriented holiday? we have a better chance of playing pick-up-sticks with our butt cheeks.

peace be with you, on this our lord's birth.

megan

Home Sweet Shithole

When Michelle and I graduated from college it was pretty much a no-brainer that we would live together. After you share a 12'x8' refurbished janitor's closet with someone for a whole school year you can pretty much live anywhere together. So, once I was finally able to pull a fast one on an unsuspecting hiring manager and secure myself some gainful employment, we were off looking for the apartment of our dreams! Our selection criteria were pretty basic: cute and within walking (read:stumbling) distance from boozing establishment(s).

We narrowed our search down to the town of Lakewood, known for it's young, somewhat professional vibe and it's high percentage of gays. (We were really hoping to find a sassy gay man to become our new best friend... and we wanted a town whose residents would accept us if they thought we were a couple of lesbots shacking up... which we're totally not... even if we give off that vibe sometime... moving on.)

Lakewood is also known for its abundance of cheap-ass bars. We're talking about 20 bars within a 2 or 3 mile stretch of one road in Lakewood. And at least four of them have dollar drafts AT ALL TIMES. This is good news folks because Michelle and I are cheap, very very cheap. And, there are so many apartment buildings and duplexes with charming old architecture just begging to be inhabited; it's a renter's paradise! Or so we thought... dun dun dun. (That's foreshadowing kids.)

I will spare you the details of our apartment search. Outside of a hilarious run-in with a crazy old bitch who almost became our landlady, (let's just say she thought me a "darling girl" but thought Michelle would be "I don't know, too demanding", yeah, i told you, crazy f-ing bitch), it just wasn't that exciting. We ended up deciding on two bedroom, one bathroom, second floor duplex. We would have a driveway that is shared with the tenant(s) downstairs with one garage space and a washer and dryer in the basement. The only immediate drawbacks we saw were the absence of air conditioning and a dish washer but we liked the charming hard wood floors and built in cabinets and adorable fire place. All in all, save for a few (what we termed at the time) "minor" draw backs, it was a pretty sweet deal.

So we finally moved into our first post-college apartment in June of 2005. We were in the middle of what was actually a triple. There was a lady on the first floor, single, probably about 30 years old, two golden labs, seemed nice enough.

There was a rather creepy man who haled from Massachusetts that lived in the efficiency on the third floor who Michelle's boyfriend took to calling the "Boston Strangler" because to be quite honest I don't think any of us would be shocked if he tried to break into our apartment and murder us at night. Or at least break in to steal some food and laundry detergent because he looked as skinny as a man who hadn't eaten anything but R.C. Cola and Ramen Noodles for the past 7 years and he always wore these really dirty jean shorts that probably could have walked around on their own if he ever dared to take them off. Which I doubt he did. Seriously he probably slept in them. He probably wears them as underwear in the winter under a pair of longer dirty jeans. Ew sorry, I just threw up a little bit in my mouth.


Anywhosky, the apartment turned out to be pretty nice. We ordered matching couches from Sofa Express, threw in some old furniture cast-offs from our parents and bought a dining table and chairs from a going out of business, second hand furniture store. When all was said and done we had a pretty f-ing awesome little place that we were sure would be the envy of all of our friends. And it pretty much was.

It wasn't until that winter when we received our first $500.00 gas bill, (yes you read right, and yes, we cried a lot), that we started to have feelings of hatred for our home. Then when the over-the-door hooks that we bought to hang our winter coats on broke, bringing into harsh light the fact that we didn't have one single extra closet or any real storage space to speak of, we started to hate it even more. And then when the sink wouldn't drain fast enough for us to wash one measly load of dishes before it practically overflowed and we had to pour two bottles of drain-o in it and wait an hour to finish, we were really hatin'.

But the stupid, dirty, loud, white-trash straw that broke the camel's back had to be when Mary (our landlord's bitch) rented the apartment below us to "a nice woman and her 19 year old son" in the summer of 2007.

BULL SHIT!

I don't want to berate our lovely land-lady but give me a break you dumb bitch- there ain't no Mom down there! Yes, that's right, she basically let a 19 year old, his girlfriend and whatever scum bag friends he was rolling with inhabit the downstairs apartment of our building. The weekend they moved in it was a non-stop party. Cars everywhere, beer cans everywhere, lame rock music everywhere, idiots everywhere. I felt like I was at a frat party but not like a good frat where the guys are hot and only rarely use date rape drugs, but one of the dorky frats that lets the old guy that works at Pizza Hut hang out with them and has a dirty, junk-yard type dog hanging around all the time. Not cool. Not even a little bit. Michelle immediately phoned Mary to inform her of the situation and she basically brushed it off. Two perfect angels (that's me and Michelle) who NEVER complained, not even about the likely murderer living upstairs, and she thinks we're overreacting.

It was clear that this wasn't going to get any better before it got way worse so we had no choice but to start shopping around for a new place. We told Mary that very thing and she started to get worried. Let's face it, two good, mostly clean tenants who always paid rent on time are about to walk, now she's ready to listen. She made a couple unannounced visits and, after getting a complaint call from our next door neighbor, decided to take the situation a little more seriously. Which really meant putting us right in the middle.

Do you really think I want to be the one to tell our landlady that every time I come home there is a different car blocking our driveway and a different loser doing his laundry in our laundry room? No Mam. Do you think Michelle wants to be the one to tell her that their idea of picking up their dog's poop is to have a shallow, open box in the middle of the lawn where they chuck the sun-dried poo chunks and let them sit indefinitely? No Sir. Michelle and I were terrified that the retards downstairs would catch wise to the fact that we are the land-lord informants and take it out on our cars or destroy some of our belongings stored in our joint basement.

We made fewer calls to Mary ratting out the punks and when we finally found our new place and told Mary about it she shared with us that she was evicting the downstairs tenants. Oooh, sorry babe, too little too late. I have to admit I felt a little bad for Mary, she now had two vacant apartments with one lone Boston strangler on her hands... not an easy sell. But we stayed with her for two years and our complaints fell on deaf ears. And I should tell you that once you cross Michelle good luck getting back in her good graces. I mean christ- I one time drank the last diet coke in the fridge and now whenever she's ticked at me I hear her muttering "Diet Coke Stealer" under her breath. And that was 6 years ago. She's hardcore, I'm telling you.

The good news is, we ended up securing an even sweeter little abode in a nicer suburb of Cleveland. We have a whole house all to ourselves, increased the number of bathrooms, garage spaces and floors in the home by two each and even have a hot tub. It's one hell of a home that we're hoping will help solidify our status as common law wife and wife.

I guess the moral of the story is this: if you think living in Lakewood, OH with your bosom friend is a good idea when you're 23, you're right, it probably is. But it won't be when you're 25.

Also, if you're a landlord in Lakewood looking to rent out your place to some nice people you should always do background checks. And if your potential tenants hang around with a man in his late 40's who looks like he could be Kevin Federline's father, smells like a walking cigarette, and wears a fedora with a black leather vest at all times- you probably don't want to offer them the place because that guy will probably be doing laundry in the basement at some point and he's even scarier to encounter down there than a man who could be the Boston strangler... I'm just saying.

A Two-Parter!

It is a rare occurrence anymore that I have a weekend when noteworthy events occur both Friday & Saturday night. But it is also a rare occurrence that Christina Aguilera, henceforth known as X-tina, comes into town and we can get into her concert for free, (as occurred this past Friday night). And it’s an even rarer occurrence that Michelle and I hatch a brilliant scheme and actually see it to fruition (as occurred on Saturday night). Suffice it to say we had an eventful weekend. Let’s break down by day and do a little recap, shall we?

FRIDAY NIGHT

As I mentioned, we were given the exciting opportunity to attend the X-tina concert on Friday night. Michelle’s main man Joe is a cop and he was working at the concert so he said he would sneak us in. And of course when I say sneak us in I mean he basically held a door open, none too discreetly, and 5 slightly drunk girls traipsed inside and sat wherever the hell they wanted to. A very covert operation indeed.

Those who were in attendance were me and Michelle (natch), Michelle’s friend from grad school named Holly and Joe’s sister Lisa and her friend Katie. You will of course notice that I didn’t bring anyone along but that’s simply because I have no friends. Moving on.

We decided to do it up “college style”, meaning heavy pre-gaming and all around cheap drinking. Nobody was all that interested in seeing X-tina so we obviously had to get drunk so we could have fun. I ran out and grabbed a couple of pizzas on my way home from work as well as a huge ass bottle of vodka and some mixing agents. Party on. Unfortunately I spent too much time prettying myself up (in the hopes that X-tina would spot me in the audience and, taken with my all around beauty and style, ask me to be one of her backup dancers on the spot) so I didn't really get a chance to get all that liquored up. Not to worry- in keeping with the college style drinking theme, (a time in our life when we would remove the foil bladder of wine from a Franzia box, put it in a mini backpack and take it to bars with us to drink in the bathroom), we poured some drinks into travel coffee mugs and drank them in the cab on the way DT. In lieu of watching opening acts Danity Kane (??) and The Pussycat Dolls we decided our time would be better spent at the Rascal House drinking more beers and alcohols.

But we did make it to the concert in time to see X-tina take the stage and scream into the microphone for over an hour, at one point in black lace chaps. All in all it was an OK concert, much better than it would have been if I would have been sober or had to pay for it.

SATURDAY NIGHT

In last week's installment, I indicated that I went out on a date with a man. I am happy (and somewhat shocked) to report that we have since been on another date and met up this weekend too. This might actually turn into something. God help us all.

Tuesday night this gentleman and I, let's call him Wes, went to a movie. I offered to go out towards his neck of the woods since he had been out here on Saturday and I wanted to reciprocate. Mostly I wanted to see his house (pretty much what I expected). So the date went OK, the movie was crap but we still managed to have a good time. We went back to his place afterwards and sat on his couch and watched TV and chit-chatted and before we knew it it was midnight and we were both tired. So he walked me to my car, gave me a quick peck and I drove off. For those of you keeping score at home that's two dates, two quick goodnight kisses. I have shared more passionate kisses with my college roommates for cripes sake. Those kisses were mostly fueled by extensive amounts of alcohol, weed, or a guy at a bar offering us $2.00 to make out for 10 seconds but they were passionate nonetheless.

I explained my frustration to former roommate Christine and I determined through talking it out with her that it's not a lack of chemistry because I do want things to progress. And I get the same impression from him because at one point on Tuesday night when we were back at his place he did put his hand on my leg and good god, he was not going to move it come hell or high water. Even when his dog jumped up on my lap and started licking my face he left that hand planted firmly on my leg and reached across with his other arm to swat the dog away.

Another discussion with Michelle brought me to the conclusion that maybe he was just a little shy and maybe we needed to loosen up a little. And the answer was so clear! All we needed was a little liquid courage. The same miracle elixir that makes otherwise intellegent and responsible (and heterosexual) people make out with their same-sex roommates so that some drunk frat-boy will give them two dollars in quarters for the juke-box. Bottom line: we needed to do a lil drinkin. (Here's the part where we hatch a brilliant scheme...)

I had dinner plans with some friends on Saturday night and Wes was originally going to be tied up as well. He called me Friday night to tell me his plans had fallen through and to see if I wanted to get together Saturday night. So, sitting at the Rascal House on Friday night before X-tina Michelle, Holly and I decided that I should make it a low key evening, see if I could get him to meet me out here after my dinner and that the four of us could engage in a little group activity. I'm compelled to kiss both of those women on the mouth when I think of how well-executed that plan was. (What is with me and all the references to kissing females, maybe I'm giving off too much of a lesbo vibe, is that my problem???)

In other words, the plan worked like a charm! Michelle, Holly, Wes and I hung out for a minute at our apartment and then went to a nice little Irish bar in Lakewood. There were virtually no other patrons there, possibly on account of some really shitty snow/rain hybrid that was spewing all over the place. Michelle and Holly stuck around for a couple of drinks and made their exit, leaving Wes and I to finish out the night. Before Michelle left she playfully made the comment, "I don't want to see you two back before 2:00 AM!", and we didn't let her down. When we left I was certainly buzzing but not wasted by any means, it was really the ideal level of booziness. And it gave me just the level of confidence I needed, and judging by the events of the evening, gave Wes a little boost as well. We went back to my place and watched TV on the couch in the living room for a little while and then started kissing and as things escalated from there we went to my room where, you know what I think i'll stop now. Not because I'm a lady, mostly because I'm a little slutty. Plus I don't want you to vomit on your keyboard because, trust me when I tell you this, it will probably ruin it... your keyboard that is... leave me alone. Wes left pretty early the next morning but he said he would call me later that night (and he did!) Mission accomplished.


All in all, a very eventful weekend. I got to do some old-school boozing, I got to see a 95 pound woman in lace chaps scream some pop hits, I got to hook up with a guy I like and I only had to break the law to accomplish two of those three things.

Public Enemy No. 1: Mother Nature

I did something out of the ordinary this weekend; I went on a date.

This is a rare occurrence for me. The last time I went out in public with a consenting male, just the two of us, was... well... too long ago for me to say because I would like to maintain some shred of dignity, thank you very much. (I was going to make a joke here about the last time I was out with a man was at the driving range with my Dad last weekend but I drove us there so that was hardly a date. And ew, that's fricking gross) However, sometimes the heavens smile upon me and they put me in the right place at the right time and I end up striking up a conversation with a bona fide man (or very masculine looking woman) and I somehow manage to turn on the charm and all of the sudden we're exchanging numbers and making weekend plans. Then in a matter of a few dates I do something that ultimately repulses him and we never speak again. This exact sequence of events (save for the repulsing, that hasn't happened yet, keep your fingers crossed!) occurred last week and before I knew it I was going on a date on Saturday night.

Now some might argue that you should never agree to a weekend date right out of the gate. You should do something casual on a weeknight before giving up an entire Saturday night for someone you just met.

What if you don't hit it off as well as you did after you had thrown back 5 beers on that first, fateful night and you're stuck together through a whole meal?

Not a problem; have you seen how fast I eat? I can eat an entire Chipotle burrito in just under 34 seconds. I'm fairly confident that if this date went south I could have both our meals finished in under 5 minutes. Christ, that's less time than it takes my friend Christine to drink one 12 oz. beer. Of course she's drunk when she's finished but that's a whole other discussion right there.

What if something better comes along for Saturday night and you've already agreed to this date?

Hahahahahahahahahaha. It feels good to laugh again!

What if he thinks you're a loser because it's Thursday when he asks you out and you tell him your weekend is wide open and he can pick the day?

This is a good point. However, I'm in sales and sometimes no matter how hard you try to hide a product flaw, if it's important enough to the buyer they will find out eventually and it will come back to bite you in the ass. So, since he will inevitably find out that I am a loser it's only worth my time and effort with this guy if he knows up front what he's getting into. To that end, I have already told him I have no plans on the weekend and I'll also probably leave that Justin Timberlake poster hanging above my bed rather than hiding it in the closet like I normally do.

So, judge me if you will, but I went ahead and stepped out on Saturday night with a real live man for dinner and drinks in DT Cleveland. (DT is an abbreviation for downtown and it's a cool thing to say so if you want to be cool you should probably start saying it. Or stop reading this blog, that will also make you instantly cooler.)

Naturally I assumed everyone would get behind me on this venture with their unwavering support. And I'm happy to say for the most part everyone did. Truthfully I only told a handful of people that I was going in the first place. It was easier for some to stomach the news, they got to hear about it over the phone so all they had to do was wish me luck and hang up and I couldn't see their doubtful expressions on the other end of the line. Poor Michelle though, she really bore the brunt of it, she had to help me pick out an outfit, think of conversational topics (tell him about the time you met Ben Roethlisberger is getting a little stale Michelle, sorry), she even had to witness an awkward phone call when my date and I finalized our plans and I tried to give him directions to our apartment. To her credit, she hid her laughter really well.

Unfortunately there was one bitch who just couldn't make this easy for me. Fucking Mother Nature. That whore always comes poking around at the most inopportune times. She's always had it out for me. Ever since she arranged that thunderstorm on the day of my high school graduation party, making my hair frizzy and unmanageable and making the backyard of my parent's house a soggy mess. God knows what she has in store for my wedding day. I'm fairly certain that before she and I had our falling out in the mid 80's, Cleveland had 361 sunny days a year. Now it's closer to 52.

Anyways, Saturday rolled around and she saw it fit to drop a foot of snow in lovely Lakewood, OH. I think it was her last ditch attempt at getting my date cancelled. Well too bad for her the guy I went out with isn't a pussy and he sucked it up and drove out here. Sure, I had to carry an umbrella so that the snow pouring down wouldn't mess up my coiffeur and I think I have frost bite on the side of my feet because I wore heels instead of snow boots but we did the damn thing.

The good news is, since it was a veritable blizzard out, we were pretty much the only ones on the road. It was like that episode of Seinfeld when Kramer buys the mile of highway and widens the lanes and then Elaine is driving down that stretch, swerving all over the place and she's like, "oooh, wide lanes, how luxurious". Our swerving was really more on account of the slippery roads but luckily there were no other cars so it was pretty luxurious. (I actually retold that episode of Seinfeld and likened it to our situation and not only did he laugh, he knew the episode I was talking about. That increased his likelihood of touching a boobie at least ten fold.)

The restaurant and bar were also pretty dead so we didn't have to deal with a bunch of jerks all night and it really gave us a chance to chit chat. (I take that back, the Benny-boo Roethlisberger story went over pretty well. Although he might have only been feigning interest- I had some pretty rocking cleavage that night...) We got back here at about 12:30 and hung out a little more until he left around 2:30 ish I think. And I'm not going to kiss and tell- not because I'm a lady but because nothing really happened so there. Before he left he said he would call on Monday and I just knew he would (and he did!).

I would say all in all it was a success. I think I can add that to my "successful date tally" which has skyrocketed that number to a whopping 3.5 successful dates. I'm thinking it's probably about time I write a how-to book on dating since obviously I'm really good at securing one random date about every 6 months and not completely blowing it. A lot of women look up to me I'm sure.

We've come a long way, baby.

This past weekend I spent an inordinate amount of time with my parents and older sister. (That's not actually true... It was about the same amount of time that I normally spend with them but I didn't want you to think I'm a loser who always hangs out with her parents/older sister. But I guess I just told you I am so there's that.)

On Friday night, I think I slept over there but I can't really remember so moving on. On Saturday, I woke up and got dressed and went straight to the eye doctor, where my sister works, and picked out new glasses. Then I went to my parents house and helped my dad track down his birth certificate so he could finally get his passport. Then my mom and sister came home and all four of us, Mom, Dad, Sister and I went to Bob Evans for lunch. Sunday I woke up, drove around looking for some place with a drive through that would sell me a frozen coke (Burger King, yippee!) and then, on account of the beautiful sunshine and 75+ degree temps, decided to cruise on over to my parents house. There I spent the remainder of the afternoon: I went to the driving range with my Dad, helped my mom prepare dinner, watched some of the Cavs game, etc. I finally went home around 10:00 PM and went to bed. I’m cool.

Where I was going with this, I’m not really sure. Clearly I need a boyfriend but we’re not going to open up that can of worms right now, (or ever, trust me, you don’t want me to get started on this rant). The interesting (read: depressing) realization that I came to this weekend though is how little I’ve moved on since college. This reasoning is two fold.

1. Overall dependence on my parents is nearing an all time high. As evidenced by the preceding, I still rely on my parents a lot. Not quite to the extent as I did in college, when they basically supported me 100% financially, (believe it or not I’m almost completely financially independent at this point, save for the cell phone but I think they’re only still paying for that through some sort of clerical oversight on their part so let's not bring that to their attention, OK?) There's only one thing I need to say to prove this point to you. It's not something I should be proud of but I am and here it is: My Mom packs my lunch for me. We're talking Turkey Sandwich/Grapes/Carrot Sticks/Change for the pop machine, in a brown paper lunch bag, with my name written on it. We do work in the same building (different companies, I'm not that pathetic) so it's not like she drops it off every day (although she does on her days off) but she does pack it for me nonetheless. I think that's all I have to say here, moving on.

2. I still really like to go out and drink heavily. Michelle and I were just talking about this very thing the other day. I forget why we were talking about this as opposed to our usual arsenal of conversational topics such as the merits of side-bangs, why we wish the media would leave poor Britney Spears alone, and who clogged the toilet, but somehow we got on the topic of our drinking habits post-college. Michelle and I both assumed that once we reached a certain age, maybe 24, certainly 25, we would no longer be going out almost every weekend and getting shit-can drunk. Maybe we thought this because we figured we would have settled down and gotten married by now or maybe we just figured it would get old (blasphemous I know!). When it comes right down to it though, we’re just not ready to give up on binge drinking. (I mean I have no life so alcoholism is an obvious choice for me and although Michelle has a BF and therefore a much more extensive social life, said BF is somewhat of a drunk himself so it works out perfectly!) As evidence to prove this point- I went out Saturday night and after several Irish car bombs at Cleats (courtesy of former Browns player Hanford Dixon no less) I went to a party and drank a 40 of Bud heavy and then went to a bar where I stood by the exit and proceeded to smack everyone on the ass as they were leaving. (This went over well with the gentlemen, the ladies not so much...) Now I ask you; do these sound like the actions of a responsible 25 year old professional or a drunk college co-ed???

I’m not normally one for this type of introspection; there was something that spurred it. It was my Mom and her own silly feelings of nostalgia for my glory days. You see, our senior year, when I was living with 5 other girls, mostly all best friends of mine to this day, we decided to have our own little “Mom’s Weekend” spring semester, much in the same vain as a sorority Mom’s weekend (except way fucking better). We had all our Mom’s come in, mostly from parts of Ohio but some making the trip from Michigan and even New Jersey! We went out to dinner and shopped and did the normal Mom/Daughter stuff but then on Saturday night we cut them loose on the town.

And loose they did go.

I don’t want to exaggerate this but it was honestly one of the most fun nights of our senior year. Each mother/daughter pair had their own matching Miami t-shirts on and at first this was a joke for the Moms like, “Oh man Maryanne (or June, or Jan, or Vicki, or Pat), now we won’t be able to separate ourselves from the stupid things our daughters get into!” hahaha gay laughter all around, you get it. Funny, except it ended up being the complete opposite, where all the co-eds were embarrassed to be associated with our respective Mothers because they all got drunk and rowdy and did a ton of stupid shit. I’m not going to get into the specifics here because I don’t want to defame any of our lovely Moms and put their PTA memberships in jeopardy or whatever but suffice it to say it was HILARIOUS.

And as it turns out, this past weekend was the three year anniversary of when the “Tipsy Moms took over Oxford” as my Mom put it… reminding me like three times… within the span of one hour sitting at Bob Evans. And then she says something like, “wow, I really miss that place”, like she was the one who spent four years having a ball there, rather than four years funding it.

So anyways, that’s what got me to thinking about how little I’ve grown since the good old days at MU. It’s a sad, sad commentary on my life to see that I’m still just a loser, pining after my college days.

But I guess that’s better than being a loser pining after my high school days.

Or being a cripple.

Dog ownership: not in our (immediate) future...

As I may have mentioned, I have a roommate named "Michelle". She happens to be someone who I've known for a long time, ever since we were dorky 6th graders. We went to college together, though admittedly we weren't the bosom friends that we are today when we started there. However, through an exciting turn of events that I don't feel like getting into right now, we became roommates sophomore year and have basically lived together ever since.

The beauty of living with someone for almost six years (holy crapoly!) is that you really get to know that person. You know their likes and dislikes, you can read their moods, you know when they need some space or a shoulder to cry on, you know when they're gassy; you have that innate roommate instinct. You also get to the point when you make decisions as a team. Some decisions are great, like the time we decided to throw a holiday party and a local sports celebrity showed up and now we can brag about it all the time to our friends who pretend like they don't give a crap but really they're just jealous (smug bastards). On the other hand some decisions aren't so great- like the time we clogged the toilet and, not having a plunger, decided it would be ok to leave if for the weekend as we went out of town for our friends' wedding.

One decision that we have not been able come to an agreement on is pet ownership. Actually, I guess I can't say all pet ownership because we were the proud parents of Chompers the goldfish until he (she?) died in September of 2006. I remember the funeral now... me holding Chompers in his net over the toilet holding back tears and trying to get Michelle to sing "Amazing Grace" with me, Michelle yelling at me to "flush the damn thing down the toilet and move on with your life"; just beautiful really.

Anyways, back to owning a real pet. More specifically owning a dog. Michelle and I both grew up in households that had dogs. Mine has been dead for a long time but her family dog, Sandy, is still alive and kicking it. So, in an effort to determine if we are really ready to take the plunge and have an animal live with us (but mostly to remind us why we shouldn't) we have agreed to provide a home for Miss Sandy when Michelle's family is out of town. Also, Michelle has no choice in the matter so that plays a part in our decision as well I guess.

We had Sandy this past weekend. She is a full sized golden retriever. We live in a two bedroom apartment. Let the fun begin.

Sandy has stayed with us before so we have some experience in this area. We know to expect her to bark when she hears the dog upstairs running around. We know there will be blond fur all over the apartment when she leaves. We know that we have to stash all of our trash cans because she'll eat, well, anything. We know we need to push our dining room table against the wall so that she can't tip it over. We know the drill. (I'm saying we here a lot but you know I really mean just Michelle, right?) During her most recent stay Michelle brought over Sandy's crate so we could put her in there at night and when we left the house to lessen the damage to our rented abode.

OK, at this point I think I've set the stage enough- on with the reasons we can't have a dog.

1. I hate to draw a comparison to this show because, ew, but watching Michelle and then me and Michelle assemble Sandy's crate on Friday night was like watching Jessica Simpson try to cook/camp/golf/chew gum & walk at the same time/breathe on The Newlyweds- pretty pathetic and all around comical. Nick Lachey should have been standing there watching us with an incredulous smirk on his face, making snide remarks the whole time to his brother Drew. Of course when we put her in there at bed time that night it took her all of 4 seconds to break out and start walking around the house. Dog - 1, Tess & Michelle - 0.

2. In case you're not familiar with having a dog, it's a real commitment. You have to feed and water the thing, take it out whenever it has to pee/poo, pet it and shit. It's a real time commitment indeed. And for two good for nothing 25 year olds who would prefer to run off and do whatever the hell they feel like, whenever the hell they feel like it, a dog throws one hell of a wrench into the works. You might feel like laying in bed until noon but you're going to have to drag your ass out of bed to let that dog out unless you want a little puddle on the ground. (You know I'm totally talking about Michelle getting up to let the dog out, right? I can't stress enough how little help I am in this situation. However, when I'm lying in bed and I hear Michelle have to get up to let that dog out I can only imagine what a drag that would be.)

3. We have started to appreciate that if you are going to have a dog you actually have to be tidier than if you don't have one. Reason being, those animals will put anything in their mouth and try to eat it. My dog's favorite treat was used cupcake wrappers. Sandy has probably ingested hundreds of dollars worth of cash money, both bills and coins, in her lifetime. Michelle told me she'll even eat her own vomit. At this point we know to close all doors and to stash all trash cans. But what about when you've been out drinkin' since 4:00 PM when the OSU game started and you come home at 2:00 AM shit canned? Can you really be held accountable for the crap that ends up on the floor? Say you've got some jackass with a broom lip-syncing to 80's music and dancing around your family room; that's going to kick up some debris. Somehow we managed to get carry out beer home from the bar. And somehow a bottle cap got dropped (thrown) on the ground. And Sandy somehow managed to vacuum it right up in her mouth and eat it. Were we in any condition to be tending to this dog? We've got Michelle near tears trying to wrestle the cap out of Sandy's mouth. We've got her boyfriend Joe trying to find helpful information on Google by typing in things like "Dog Eats Metal" and "Sandy Dog ate a cap". And finally we've got the aforementioned jackass, Joe's cousin Pat, singing 80's hits into a broom while I sit on the couch and laugh. What a team.

Now before you call the APL, I'm happy to report that the dog is fine. But if any lesson can be taken from this I think it would be that you should never let me watch your dog. That goes doubly for your children.