Fact:  I mowed my yard a mere four days ago.

I didn’t weed eat, though. I was procrastinating the weed eating until it got a little cooler. Which it hasn’t. So today I bit the bullet and walked outside and untangled my extension cords (sadly I don’t own a cordless weed eater) and braved the spider-infested shed (I have no proof of spiders actually living there, but it’s a dark, dank SHED) and got the necessary equipment and then…

I actually looked at my yard.

Fact: My rental sits on FOUR lots. FOUR. Most of these lots are grass and trees, which I maintain because my landlords are good people who don’t charge through the nose for rent.

Fact: There are dandelion patches everywhere.

How can this be? I don’t remember this happening last summer! I mowed four days ago! And sometime within the last four days a secret army of dandelion fluff infiltrated my yard and SPAWNED. After much slack-jawed deliberation, I realized it would simply be easier to mow again than to try and attack the weeds with the weed eater.

So now I’m in living room, where it’s a smidge cooler, fueling up with a Coke. Wish me luck. This is WAR.

Oh GOD. I just got back from my (excellent!) vacation (where food was a major theme), and naturally suspected a teensy bit of weight gain. So I tried to wriggle into the cute summer shorts I bought less than a month ago.

My fat ass BARELY fit. Sliding the zipper up was a gargantuan effort, okay? And after looking in the mirror, I discovered I looked less like myself and more like a hotdog stuffed into a too-small bun. Eek! So I grabbed for the shorts I bought on the second day of my vacation – same problem.

The thing is, I carry my weight around my middle. Not my legs and ass, not unless I’m really getting chunky. And my legs? Looked wide. My ass? Now requires blinking lights and a warning sign for backing up.

Thank god I have to mow the lawn tomorrow. I plan to follow that activity with more of the same – things that don’t involve sitting on my butt inhaling butter-slathered pasta from the Olive Garden.

If I fail to blog, it’ll be because I’m out walking the extra pounds off.

1) Road trips are worthless without the following: Sour Patch gummies & corn nuts – the original, accept no substitutes – will cover your basic sweet, sour, and salty. Water is preferable, but not as preferable as coffee. (Yes, I caved and bought a cappuccino at a gas station. I needed it. NEEDED. Anyway, one drink doesn’t mean I’ve fallen off the wagon, dammit). And an iPod, loaded with Foreigner among other things. Nothing like starting out a long trip to ‘Hot Blooded’.

2) Molly HATES Cher.

3) My ass goes numb after approximately 3 hours of non-budging.

4) Eddie’s Corner does not sell dog leashes, so if you happen to be traveling in the area with a dog but, like me, were dumb enough to forget a leash…you’re S.O.L. Although if you’re as desperate creative as I am, you will steal your best friend’s play station controller, loop it through the dog’s collar, and magically have an acceptable alternative. I recommend shameless flirting with any attractive male (especially of the construction worker variety) that dare to give you face about it. Confidence is key when you look like a lunatic.

5) One cappuccino may not be enough to keep you alert after five hours sleep. I recommend sunglasses and cruise control – no one has to know. I’m kidding! But…

6) There really ARE crazier drivers than me! There was a wide-load semi taking a sharp curve going AT LEAST seventy. Smooth move, asshole. And let’s not discuss the bitch in the minivan who kept trying to pass even though there was a string of steady traffic coming from the opposite direction. After the third time she cut someone off (thankfully she started out ahead of me and stayed that way) I was secretly hoping she’d get hit – not enough to cause a serious accident, just enough to scare her into remembering her driver’s ed classes.

I’m here, and I’m already having fun watching Molly trying to bury her rawhide in Kate’s couch. Have a great week, you guys!

The worst outfit: Anything that involves pantyhose. In the right circumstances they might be sexy, but they’re ALWAYS a pain in the ass. And in the back of the knees.

The worst meal: Cow tongue, or liver & onions with cooked spinach. There goes my gag reflex.

The worst hangover: The kind where not only does my head ache, but I realize I’ve done something completely stupid and irreversible.

The worst road trip: The ones that go on forever with blistering heat and broken air conditioning and nothing but desert. (This actually happened to me once in the Arizona/New Mexico area. I started scouting for cactus in case we ran out of water).

The worst facial feature: Cleft chins! This is never sexy. I just can’t handle it. I keep thinking, literally, that the person is a butt-face. And yes, my maturity leaves a lot to be desired.

The worst drink: Flavored water. Water OR flavor, not both.

The worst song: I don’t like most heavy metal. When it’s just screeching and pounding, it’s really no fun to listen to.

The worst sign of affection: I have just two words: foot fetish. Trust me on this one, I know what I’m talking about.

The worst afternoon: Being stuck at work when it’s beautiful and all of my friends are playing at the lake. Obvious but true. Although, I guess being fired would suck even more.

The worst vacation: My mind refuses to compute the idea that a vacation might not be wonderful. Even if it IS somehow horrible, there are stories to tell!

The worst invention: I’m going to catch flack for this, but cell phones. I hate them. I can’t operate them, and I don’t love the idea that even while I’m in the middle of nowhere, enjoying nature, someone could beep me. How will we ever get people to go away again? And don’t even get me started on people answering the damn things during meals.

The worst kind of wedding: The Catholic kind. I know that’s mean, since I’ve never actually been, but I don’t like drawn out ceremonies. My sister’s wedding was 23 minutes, which I suspect is right around perfect. Enough time for people to get sentimental and to show off a costly gown, but NOT enough time for my butt to fall asleep.

The worst album: Do you remember the Spice Girls? When their first album came out, my sister played it over and over and OVER until I knew every word to every song I hated. And then they made a MOVIE, which she owned. And then my other sister made me karaoke to Wanna Be in public. I can’t hear any of those songs without cringing.

The worst accent: I love all accents.

The worst date: We’re sitting there and no one is saying anything because it’s become clear that we aren’t attracted and have nothing in common, and yet our good manners dictate finishing the date. A perfect example of when silence isn’t even close to being golden.

The worst weather: When it’s very, very windy. Storms I can handle – storms are exciting. Wind is just bothersome.

The worst party: Again, I’ve never been to a party that sucked. It’s called a party. The word in itself implies goodness.

The worst sport: Golf! No, wait, golf doesn’t even really count as a sport. Curling!

The worst thing to say: In my personal experience, it’s ‘You’ll find someone else’. That’s what I keep hearing when I get dumped. Next time, I swear I’m coming back with, ‘Oh yeah? WHO?’

The worst day of the week: They’re all equally good or bad as far as I’m concerned.

Now then. I’m leaving on vacation tomorrow, and as much as I wish I could incite your jealousy by declaring some exotic locale – such as Mexico or Club Med – I can’t. Not that you’d believe me anyway. No, I’m going to Billings, which unlike most places in Montana you could actually spot on a map if you wanted to. Because it’s in bold! In Montana when a city is bold it means there are real resturaunts and actual places to shop. And, my god, a CINEMA. For watching the latest releases!

Okay, I’m going to stop before I convince you all I’m a total hick. Despite my current location I’m really not, I swear. My heart belongs to a city girl. Whichs means my heart will be happy for the next week or so.

Clearly, I’m having a lack of writing material. So I stole a meme from Mmmagic to fill the space.

The perfect outfit: Jeans, a comfy tee, and flipflops.

The perfect meal: I love chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes, and string green beans. It’d be even MORE perfect with one of those strawberry bellinis from Olive Garden and tiramisu for dessert. YUM.

The perfect hangover cure: I prefer prevention – a couple of tall glasses of water + Tylenol before bedtime. Or, if I forget, soda first thing in the a.m.

The perfect road trip: Mixed CD’s, hard candy, water & iced coffee, my pillow, & great scenery. Also? Heidi.

The perfect facial feature: I like the eyes. They really do tell you everything you need to know about someone, and it’s a big bonus if they’re sexy or gorgeous.

The perfect drink: Oh coffee, how I miss you.

The perfect song: This is going to secure my place in the nerd hall of fame, but I love ‘Book of Love’ by Peter Gabriel. You can sing me anything…it’s SO romantic.

The perfect sign of affection: Just being thoughtful. It sounds obvious because it is. When a guy asks if I need anything before running to the store, or offers to help fix something that needs fixing…that really says it all.

The perfect afternoon: Me, my friends, and a sunny shore with frozen/cold drinks. Topped off by water sports.

The perfect vacation: I haven’t had it yet, but I’m betting it involves Greece or Ireland. I would LOVE the opportunity to visit those countries.

The perfect invention: As much as I hate & resist technology, the internet was really a genius idea.

The perfect type of wedding: I’d be A-OK with eloping. I hate deadlines and pressure and public speaking. If I don’t elope, my dream wedding involves: a gorgeous masquerade ball the night beforehand. Masks and gowns? So mysterious/romantic. And the perfect dress (I’m thinking strapless or off-the-shoulder). And fresh tulips. And a sexy, completely in love with me groom.

The perfect album: I don’t buy entire albums anymore, but I loved Jagged Little Pill by Alanis Morissette. And you can’t go wrong with Sounds of Summer by the Beach Boys.

The perfect accent: Oh god, I love Irish & Australian & British the best. Forced to choose…I’m going with British. Hearing someone speak that way just flips my switch.

The perfect date: Something along the lines of bowling or miniature golf. Low-key and fun is always a good bet. Also, conversation isn’t forced because of convenient breaks for a little healthy competition. On the other hand, if I really like someone and I’m terrified of seeming like my spastic self and scaring them off right away, a movie is a great way to virtually guarantee a second date.

The perfect weather: 75 degrees, blue skies, NO breeze/wind/gusts.

The perfect party: A themed party! Where you dress up and play games! Like one of those murder-mystery jobs, or a masquerade ball. Yes, I have big love for masquerade balls. I also really like the word ‘masquerade’.

The perfect sport: To watch: football. To play: soccer.

The perfect thing to say: I love you, when you really mean it.

The perfect day of the week: It varies week to week. This week it’ll be Thursday, because that’s the first official day of my vacation.

Sometimes when I close my eyes, I can still feel his arms around me. I remember standing under the stars in a parking lot and stepping into his embrace for the first time. He was so solid, so warm. My feet didn’t even touch the ground on my way home.

He was charming and intellectual. On our first date we were squished into a corner booth in a crowded island-themed bar arguing politics. He was liberal, I was conservative. Our differences didn’t seem to matter. He gave me a piggy back ride to his car. He smelled like spices and the dark.

I dated him because I felt sorry for him. He was attractive enough – tall, built like a basketball player. I wasn’t particularly interested, but he exuded innocence and desperation. And he was a good kisser.

We were friends first, for a long time, but I think we both knew that we would be together eventually. He crossed two states to see me. We had Guinness and steak and watched the St. Patrick’s Day parade. We didn’t flash or spark; we were comfortable with each other. He hogged the covers.

He was my friend’s little brother, and we’d known each other since childhood. What was always harmless flirtation led to something more. He cuddled in the strangest ways – he used to sit on the floor in front of me during movies and hold my legs.

We had long conversations about everything and anything. We understood each other, respected one another. His eyes were kind and honest – they undid me. I still see him sometimes. I always miss him, even when he’s right beside me.

I’m alone now, wondering who my next lover will be. Wherever he is, I hope he knows I’m waiting.

I’m not a very sophisticated human being. I sing along badly to the radio, typically at the top of my lungs with the windows rolled down. I curse like a sailor. My friend (and mother to toddler & infant) has implemented a swear jar to which I owe 25 cents whenever I slip up. I expect to help put her kids through college. My table manners are adequate by my standards (and probably passable at McDonald’s) but I quiver with nerves at the thought of being invited to a resturaunt with any amount of real class.

I accept these things about myself. I understand that I’m not an elegant, sophisticated woman. I’m just me. Thankfully, even I have lines I’m not willing to cross.

I was out for drinks with a friend from my childhood about a week ago. We ran into each other by chance and started catching up and he’s still just as cute as he always was, as well as being much too young for me. We decided to have one beverage at all the local bars, and then set about doing it.

We were into our second beer at bar number 2 when it happened. I was standing beside and slightly behind him and another woman, an older woman that I don’t know very well but have always been friendly with. He asked the room in general if I’m always so happy and carefree, and before anyone could respond she said, “No, she can be a real bitch” – AND SHOVED HER NICOTINE COATED FINGERS IN MY FACE before adding, “You’re in my space.”

EXCUSE THE EVER LOVING FUCK OUT OF ME. Whatever happened to (assuming I was actually that close to her, WHICH I WAS NOT) “Please back up a little” or “Could you give me some room?”

I was appalled. Who shoves their hand in someone else’s face? A BITCH, that’s who. I admit I had a brief fantasy where I snapped her wrist to teach her a valuable lesson about manners, or maybe gnawed her arm off at the elbow. And then I thought, a bar fight? Really? Because that’s what it would be. A few swings, probably some hair pulling on her part (BITCH), and then the inevitable arrival of an annoyed cop who would haul both our asses in – maybe in handcuffs. I might not be classy, but I like to believe I’m too good to be reduced to brawling in a bar (or possibly I was just too lazy to come up with a good explanation for my boss, the sheriff, that would save my job as well as my ass).

I know my temper. It’s very bad, and so I didn’t even speak. I turned, silently, to grab my belongings – and then I hauled ass out of there before saying any of the things I REALLY wanted to say.

I deserve some kind of medal for restraint, I’m sure we can all agree on that. Remember: HAND IN FACE! Never a good plan of action.

I almost feel guilty mentioning a haircut here since I’m still without a digital camera and have no way to post pictures. Part of the thrill of a haircut is letting everyone point and laugh, right? Except I AM going to mention it, because I love it! I chopped off six very long, very heavy inches and now have shoulderlength (barely) hair! I turn my head and it brushes the base of my neck and I feel like I should have my own theme song and carry a badass weapon and wear lots of black Kevlar. I feel light and free! Everything seems newer and better.

And of course my grandmother hates it. But like I said, pointing and laughing is sort of a given.

The date was OK. It’s becoming more and more evident that Fortune Cookie is never going to trust me. He was very standoffish, almost cool – although perfectly polite. I had delicious chicken wings and he had a pricey steak and then we were off to see the new X-Men movie, Wolverine. The movie was terrific – I recommend it. My only regret was that there weren’t more gratuitous Ryan Reynolds scenes, because MMM that is one fine looking man. Even when he has no mouth or eyelids.

Fortune Cookie and I did have fun, and I’m optimistic about the potential for long-lasting friendship. As for anything else…probably not as much.

The problem with twitter, I’ve discovered, is that I now know everything I say here can be summed up in two sentences or less.

This revelation is especially depressing as I’ve absolutely zero intention of cutting back on my word usage.

I’m lonely. So very, deeply lonely. I’m tired of being single.

On the other hand, relationships almost always provoke nothing but eyerolls from me. A lot of people I know are ALL wrapped up in each other. I don’t want to be called eighteen times a day. Or even three. Once or twice is enough, thanks. And while I look forward to a few romantic dates, I don’t want to spend every night with someone. Which probably means I’ll never get married.

And don’t expect me to share everything. I’m a private person (not that you’d know it from this blog). It takes me a long time to really open up and trust people. And if you use that trust to screw me, even accidentally, I’m not so quick to forgive.

I want to be in love, but I want it on my terms, my way. Raise your hand if you think this will happen (ha!).

I guess I don’t really know anything. So not much has changed over the past 27 years.