Adventures in a Nail Salon

The first time I got a manicure was on my 22nd birthday. I was hooked from that moment on. Never in my life had I seen polish on my nails that wasn't lumpy, chipped, or all over my fingers like a four year old attempted to paint them. For a reasonably priced $8, I could have someone cut and file my nails, clean up my cuticles, rub my hands down with a lotiony massage and get freshly polished. Of course, you begin to realize rather quickly if that nail salon really is any good at all. It's hard to tell at first, since they do a lot better than you could ever do, and you have nothing else to compare them to. Then begins the hunt for the perfect nail salon.

In my hometown of Staten Island, there are nail salons literally on every block, usually located next to a pizzeria and a bagel store/deli. Within a one mile radius of my old house, I could walk to about 8 different nail salons. Take that number and times it by 58 square miles. That perfect nail salon might be hard to find. Actually, screw perfect, I'm just looking for half decent. Unfortunately, the best pedicure I've gotten to date wasn't even in this country; it was in Vancouver.

These places use trickery to make you think you're getting a great overall experience. From what I've seen, the nicest looking places are usually the one who will charge the most and give you the worst service. I usually aim for the crusty looking hole in the wall - they know service! I'm not asking for much, just don't make me bleed, don't get polish all over the place (I can do that myself), don't talk about me while I'm sitting right in front of you in languages I can't understand and have a real nail dryer, not just a ceiling fan for me to stick my hands underneath.

How come every time I get
a mani/pedi no one gives
me a pretty pink flower to
hold and wet rocks to
step on?

Nail salons in Virginia are a little different than those in the great state of New York. For one thing, the prices of a manicure are doubled, for service that is exactly the same, or less than that I would have received back home. I've been to three or four different locations down this way before I retreated to painting my own nails this past winter. It didn't look too terrible so long as you looked at them from 10 feet or more away.

After going months and months with bland fingers, I decided two weeks ago to get something called a "permanent french", which is basically some kind of acrylic gel that they put on your nails and then you stick them in this oven looking device with a blue light that bakes them, and voila! Perfect nails. It's amazing how beautiful a girl can feel when her nails are fresh and shiny. Until they start to grow out. Then you feel like homeless white trash.

I decided on my lunch hour today to take a trip to a nail salon to remove the overgrown french tips, which would turn out to be over-all traumatizing experience. I sit down in the broken and dirty computer-like chair and was told to stick my hands into a scalding hot bowl of nail polish remover. While I'm trying to ignore the burning flesh of my fingers, I can't help but notice the giant flat screen TV in the back, playing an honest to god Asian karaoke DVD of American songs sung with an Asian accent. I should mention that all 10 of these songs were from the 80's or early 90's, every "video" of the re-made song involved some Asian woman running through a field and the DVD was on repeat for about an hour before they switched the TV to an Asian movie, dubbed over poorly in a different Asian language with English subtitles.

After the skin on my finger tips had melted away, the manicurist proceeded to take the mechanical nail saw to remove the excess acrylic on my nails that the scalding hot soaking process didn't remove. Unfortunately, she started to get a little impatient and thought it was a better idea to saw away at layers upon layers of nail until flames started shooting up from my burning nail beds.

With bad karaoke music in the background, I walked over to the sink and got a nice whiff of delicious mildew. I guess the owner must have seen my screw face, because she soon lit some incense. So, now not only did the salon smell like mildew, but it smelled like matches and bad Korean incense. I sat down, and took my ring off and sat back because at least now I could get a little hand massage. Or not. Instead, she started to paint my nails, while traces of glue and acrylic remained all over my dry, unlotioned hands.

She begins to examine my face intensely for a good 30 seconds before she opens her mouth and says:

"You want eyebrow wax?"

"Um, no thanks", I said.

Now I'm just sitting there feeling insecure and defeated. What's wrong with my eyebrows? Why would she just offer out a random eyebrow waxing if I clearly don't need it? I have no stray and straggly hairs, I maintain my eyebrows almost too often. A part of me wanted to let her wax them so I could stop feeling like that 15 year old after-school special girl wishing for people to accept the real her.

Finally, after two hours of this nonsense, I sit down in front of the nail dryer, which is literally a box with a light bulb in it and a mini fan, as if the combination would actually dry my nails any differently then if I just blew on my fingers. While sitting there, I noticed that the manicurist proceeded to put the tools she used back into the "Sterile Package" in which they came from. After that she walked over to another girl and practically molested her from behind. I know that nail salons are usually a lax environment, but this seemed above and beyond. Before I could escape, she handed me a card to get a free manicure after paying for six. I don't think I'll be using that card anytime in the future.

Over-Committed

Have you ever met someone who didn't like music? These people confuse me. I mean, they truly make no sense to me. How else are you supposed to get over a bad breakup without listening to Goodbye My Lover by James Blunt while sobbing in the bathtub gripping a bottle of stale red wine? There must be a healthier way to grieve that I have yet to be informed of.

What about music is there not to like, let alone love? I love music so much that I keep really bad songs on my iPod because I feel guilty deleting them. I did enjoy these songs at some point in time; they didn't do anything wrong to me to deserve complete and utter dismissal. I just politely skip over them. The thing is though, my musical tastes have changed so rapidly over the years that a lot of the songs on my iPod get skipped daily. I think there are about two listenable songs per ten skipped songs (and this is out of almost 2400 songs). One solution to this problem would be to simply delete all of the songs I end up skipping over, but that seems like a highly drastic move. What if I happen to be in the mood one day to rock out to Jennifer Love Hewitt's one and only single? I could also make a play list of all the songs that are worth listening to, but I would have to break them down by genre and that seems like a lot of work.

If I was to put my iPod on shuffle like I always do, these are the following songs that would play:

1. Tracy Chapman - Fast Car
(just happens to be one of my favs - so we will give this one a listen.)

2. NaS - Hope
(I used to really love Nas. He's the reason I fell in love with hip hop about 14 years ago. This ship has long sailed, and I need to be in a kind of "mood" to listen to hip hop nowadays. Next.)

3. Nelly Furtado - Maneater
(I used to enjoy this song while getting ready to go out. It used to be a good "driving to the party" song. Every once in a while I'll let it play in my car, but this would usually get skipped. Moving on!)

4. TLC - Creep
(This brings me back to 4th grade when Crazysexycool first dropped. If I'm feeling nostalgic, I'll let it rock. Right now however, I'm not feeling it. Skipped.)

5. Anna Nalick - Shine
(While I do like most of Anna Nalick's songs, this one I don't. I downloaded it on the good faith that it would be as good as her previous songs. To the left, to the left.)

6. Alicia Keys - Tell You Something
(What can I say, I love me some A.Keys. We'll let this one play.)

7. Fredo Star - True Colors
(This is from the Save the Last Dance album - a movie that I really liked when I was 16. I felt a kinship with the white girl falling in love with a *gasp* black guy and then developed a deep bond through dancing and music. I bought the entire album in support of the movie. This song kinda sucks though. Moving on.)

8. 50 Cent feat. Beyonce - Thug Love
(Again, I would have to be in my hip hop mood to listen to this. Right now, that mood isn't here. Next.)

9. Limp Bizkit - Rollin'
(Welcome to 1999/2000 - I hated this song when it first came out, yet it somehow made its way into my music collection, and my iPod. Change this immediately.)

10. Rent Soundtrack - Goodbye Love
(I'm a sucker for most musicals, especially ones about the HIV and gay lovers. We'll let this one play.)

11. Alanis Morissette - Crazy
(I like the original Seal version better. Don't eff with a masterpiece...)

12. Mr. Scruff - Kalimba
(This is barely a song. It's just random musical tones over a bad beat. I'm not entirely sure how the hell it made it's way into my musical collection. Skipped.)

That is precisely two songs played out of ten skipped songs. I can't make this up! I was figuring all this out during my drive back to Virginia today - I had four hours of scientific research to back these foundings up. I do have songs that literally make me cringe every single time they play and I still refuse to get rid of them. I mean, who seriously has La Bouche, Kris Kross and Eddie Murphey on their iPod other than me!? I have to admit I'm embarrassed when someone is in my car and I have to keep my iPod in hand the entire duration of the drive so I can skip over the songs that would attempt to steal my dignity.

I might have to recruit some help to clean out my iTunes library. This is turning into a serious problem.

You are NOT a Professional

I can't help but cringe everytime I utter the words "I have a blog". Everytime I happen to mention to someone that I write, and follow up the statement by some how pointing out that my writing is done on a blog, I get this half cocked look from people, dripping with judgemental disdain. Online blogs have done to writers what YouTube has done to musicians: everyone thinks they have an original talent to share with the world. I'm sorry your mother, or dear Aunt Agnes could never bear to tell you that you're tone deaf, but let me make things clear to you Miss YouTube phenom... you suck. You're not talened, and you're not even pretty enough to fake being talented. Please sit down, step away from the front of the camera and point it at something worth watching, like an ant hill. At least the ants are doing something productive with their lives. So, similar to these musicial YouTube geniuses, most bloggers have zero writing ability. There are a plethora of blog sites out there; so much so now it's almost embarassing. Aside from sites dedicated to blogging, all credible online newspapers and magazine have blogs too, for their already paid journalists to write about what they had for lunch today.

(How many times do you think I can say the word blog during this entry?)

I'm definitely not going to sit here and pretend like everyone should be interested in what I have to say. Really, my blog is the Seinfeld of all blogs: it truly is about nothing. I can string some words together eloquently enough that they might make you giggle, but that's really all I have going for me. I'm an active complainer in writing form, just not in that whiney way that makes you want to poke your eyes out and rock in the corner. I add a cheery, positive spin to my words.

I do have a snobbish opinion of the articles I like to read, and I will not be afraid to voice my opinion. There are some rules that should be standard when writing a blog.

1. Please know and understand basic grammar. If you're in your 20s or older with a college degree and still don't know the difference between "to", "too" and "two" or "they're", "their" and "there", you need to stop writing immediately and go try to breathe underwater.

2. Do not write a blog that is just one big negative rant about the world and how horrible it is and that there is a giant black cloud of death over your life. Bad things happen to everyone; suck it up.

3. If your blog starts off with anything like "mm well what should I write today!? I don't know what to say", please warn me in advance so I can take a Prozac.

4. Please keep your eating disorder between you and your therapist. Documenting your daily caloric intake of 500 or less, while posting pictures of your rib cage and screaming that you're fatter than Kirstie Alley isn't what I would call "relevent reading material".

5. Accept the fact that you may not be that talented. It's okay, but maybe writing just isn't your thing. You don't see me running around tattooing people, or fixing cars. Want to know why? It's because I can't, and I accept my level of ability. Stop lying to yourself.

I've seen blogs that are truely original, edgy and make-your-sides-ache hysterical and I realize that I will never write like those people. I'm sure there's a niche for my style somewhere in the world though. What other creative outlet would I have, if not writing in a blog like the rest of the schmoes out here? Until I can actually figure out a way to make a living off of my thoughts and words, I suppose I'm stuck with your judgement.

Contamination

An upper respiratory infection has been trying to ruin my life in every aspect imaginable for almost a week now. It started last Thursday quietly with a scratchy throat and that "sick feeling" in my body when I woke up. I did my best to ignore it, and revel in the gloriousness of having a personal day off of work the next day. Friday morning came, along with body aches, and a burning throat. I forced myself out of bed and into the nail salon. I promised my chipped polish I would bring life back into my toes that day and wasn't about to back out on my word now. As the hours passed by slowly, my energy level seemed to run further and further away from me. Perhaps a good night's rest would be the cure I needed.

I called my mother Saturday morning. She picked up, said hello and when I offered out my most delightful sounding morning greeting, she paused, and said frightfully "Who is this?!"

"It's me Mom... Heather?"

She told me I sounded like a man.

Sunday came, but my voice had already fled the scene. I sounded like Ving Rhames.

I called out of work Monday morning, but I had to send an email to my boss too because I'm pretty sure he would have thought it was a prank call. I had now developed an ear ache, a cough, and the sneezies on top of my burning throat and man voice. I'm usually anti-doctor when it comes to getting sick. What exactly is the doctor going to say that I don't already know? A cold is a cold. I'll waste money on a co-payment and gas to sit there amongst other sickly people just for the doctor to confirm that I have a cold. She'll tell me to drink hot liquids and get rest.

I'm almost convinced this might be the plague though. So I took a trip to Kaiser.

I dragged myself out of bed, took a shower, made half an attempt to look presentable enough for public viewing, packed my bag full of honey-lemon cough drops and headed out to the Urgent Care center for after hour sick people. Turns out that getting sick outside the hours of 9am to 5pm is inconvenient to Kaiser doctors. When I got there, the building seemed awfully dark though. Wouldn't you know that the power had gone out in half the building, including the Urgent Care center? Plus, all of their patient files are only accessible electronically and backed up no where in paper format. The doctors couldn't see anyone until the computers came back up.

Isn't it just poor planning to have zero backup for medical records? One woman asked them for a note to give to her job stating that she was at least there in the building waiting to get treatment, and the staff told her they couldn't provide this to her because all letters are drawn up on the computer. No one could think to hand write something for her? This should have been the opening scene to one of the Terminator movies.

In any case, I sat there and popped cough drops for three hours and waited as I slowly start smelling like a mentholated foot. I was given a 5 day supply of antibiotics to kill the upper respiratory infection and was sent merrily on my way.

I managed to get up for work Tuesday morning, and put on the sorriest excuse of my wrinkled clothes. I still don't understand why everything was wrinkled, it's not like I keep my clothes in a ball on the floor. Everything was neatly hanging up in my closet. I think my clothes knew I didn't feel well, and they just wanted to present me as the sickest and rattiest looking human being possible. My boss got to work about 2 hours after I did, came into my office and went "Ew, you look like hell. Please go home".

Yeah, he said "Ew".

My friend Niles called me a few hours later to make sure I was still alive. When I picked up the phone and greeted him with a friendly "yo", I heard the same pause my mother gave me when I spoke to her on the phone. He said I sounded like James Gandolfini. I guess I can't pull off that sick, sexy, raspy voice thing too well, since everyone keeps reminding me that I sound like an array of different fat men.

My mother brought me Robitussin and tissues at around midnight, since I now developed the uncontrollable urge to sneeze and cough simultaneously. I didn't get much sleep last night; I think there's traces of my lungs still left on the floor.

I hope to return to humanity tomorrow morning.

Rosetta Stone, Anyone?

No matter where you live you will encounter different accents and dialects that are native to the surrounding area in which you reside. Having spent most of my life growing up in New York, I never realized that some sayings I've known as normal were considered slang to outsiders. I was told yesterday that the New York lingo is too commercial,  but I beg to differ. It may be confused with being commercial only because all awesome famous people tend to hail from New York, so movies are frequently about New York and good hip hop generally reflects the urban vernacular of my home city. I swear I'm not biased.

I spent a few years during high school living in Flagstaff, AZ and the only word that made it's way into daily usage was "dude", which I never said before living there. Flagstaff doesn't have slang, at least not from what I can remember. I think it's because everyone is so laid back, and the air is so thin on top of that mountain that no one can come up with some their own distinctive jargon. I did of course run into the accent difference there. Arizonans have the non-accent accent; they all sound like newscasters. I, on the other hand, do not. While I don't have a very heavy accent, it's still there and noticeable. I can't begin to tell you how many times people would ask me to recite things to them, or have me repeat words so they could giggle at me in amazement like I was some kind of science experiment gone horribly wrong. I hope all those people amounted to nothing.

After living in Northern Virginia for a little over ten months now, I've learned that the people of the DMV (aka DC, Maryland, Virginia) sound... unique. I need a personal translator to talk to my own cousins. I went out to a gathering in DC once, and sat there astounded that I could only grasp about a third of what the conversation was about. If you thought New Yorkers spoke fast, think again. Not only do the DMVers speak faster than New Yorkers but they all sound like they have marbles in their mouths.

  

I would now like to demonstrate some sample sentences you are likely to hear on any given day here in the delightful DC Metro area:

1. "Ugh! Look at his shape-up...and his beat-up Pro Wings. Hes such a bamma"

2. "She's the complete package; looks, smarts and she cool to be around. I had to bun her"

3. "I dared him to touch her butt, but he a gump"
4. "Did u see that dudes shape-up? They was joning at the lunch table all period"
5. "Ima ja blown cuz I went over her house, and her parents were there, so I couldn't smash"
6. "During my free periods, we just be walking around or straight lunchin, cuz we be bored"
7. "Young, Im sick of school" (which is similar too...)
8. "Chill out, joe. It ain't even that serious"
9. "Why you fakin like you got money when you are really as broke as the rest of us?"
10. "That joint was jive tight"

I had to steal all of the above from someone online who was knowledgeable in DC gobbledygook because I feared my brain might have imploded if I attempted to come up with my own sentences. It's easier to figure out some of the meanings when you get to read it; hearing it in live action is a different story. Unfortunately, some of them make absolutely no sense no matter what. I can't comprehend how and/or why people came up with any of these sayings. I'll keep things spicy though and let you figure out the definitions yourself.

Aside from the above issues, there are some strange pronunciation issues here too. The one I would like to make special note of are the names Aaron/Erin or the word Area. First off, to me, the names Aaron and Erin sound dramatically different. I do know in Arizona these names were pronounced the same, but you could still make out what the name was. Down here, however, it's not quite so simple.

New York: Aaron - AAH-ren and Erin - EH-rin

Arizona: Aaron and Erin - AIR-ren

DMV: Aaron and Erin - ERRRRRN

(sounds like an exaggerated "urn", you know, that pretty vase that holds the remains of your dead Uncle Stu)

NY and Arizona: Area - AIR-re-yah

DMV: Area - ERRRR-re-yah

Also, take note that all the words mentioned in the numbered sentences may not be pronounced like a normal human. Take the word joint, for example. We run into the same pronunciation problem with joint as we do with Aaron, Erin and Area. Joint sounds like "jerrrr-nt".

Now, I could almost understand how Aaron and Erin get pronounced so strangely since they both end with the similar sounding "-ren". If we stretched the imagination, I could also almost understand the Area pronunciation. Joint, on the other hand, has no "r" present. There is no logical reason to insert an embellished sound that has no reason for being there!

You people make no sense. I'll stick to my over-commercialized ways. At least everyone understands me.

Saturday Night Fever

Somewhere along life's journey, my youth seems to have escaped me. Large crowds don't interest me, an early bed time seems appealing, liquor makes my head spin, reading glasses are needed when I wear contacts, good wine and conversation over dinner with friends is my idea of rockin' night out, and clubs have become my worst nightmare. I tell you, Friday night comes along and I'm lucky if I can accomplish making it to spin class after working all day, taking a cool shower afterwards, possibly feeding myself and not passing out on the floor next to my bed from pure exhaustion.

After finding out that yet something else was broken on my car on Saturday, the best solution I could come up with to fix everything was to get drunk and play board games. So, I hit up my friend Niles (another transplant from NY living here in Northern Virginia) and told him of my plan. He then proceeded to tell me that he knew of place in DC that provided board games, mini golf, skee ball and alcohol.

When I picked him up he handed me a water bottle with some kind of pink liquid inside - a concoction of triple sec and pink lemonade. I love a good mystery drink every now and then. After a slow drive in my broken shakey car, we arrived at H Street Country Club and I ordered a $10 glass of Grey Goose and cranberry to start the festivities. I was handed practically a shot glass of bright red juice. I asked the bartender to add some more vodka to my drink and he stood there, stared at me, cocked his head to the side, and got glassy eyed. You would think I just asked him to kill my puppy while speaking Farsi.

Perhaps he added too much vodka after that because within 5 minutes I began sweating like I was Whitney Houston running a marathon. My hair was drenched and my makeup was running down my face. It felt like I was going through the changes of life. Did I mention yet that I'm only 26? I think Niles finally started making fun of the sweating after my hair dripped on him while playing mini golf. There really was no hope left for my attempt at looking attractive, I would just have to go for that atheltic look for the rest of the night.

After he shamed me in golf, we took a quick drive to another location in DC, wandered around a bit and stumbled upon this place underneath a mattress store. The music was good, the place had a good vibe, and it was dark so no one could see what a mess I looked like. I danced for about three hours straight, while some random stranger who was poppin bottles kept pouring me champagne. We started to leave at around 3am when the place was closing, and I think I was too sober to witness the mess of drunk bitches all around me. Did I miss the memo that said getting drunk to the point of not knowing what gender you are was the way to go? I specifically remember seeing this one woman, who could barely form two words together without slurring and drooling on herself, being lured out of the club by some old hairy dude. Mmm, I miss being 19!

"Tackle drunk bitches"

I woke up on Sunday at around 1 in the afternoon feeling like a truck hit me and dragged me down a long stretch of unpaved highway. I didn't have a hang over, because I never got drunk the night before, but somehow I over did it by staying awake past 11pm and could no longer function as a human. The most strenuous thing I was able to do was roll from my left side to my right.

I think I'll read a book this Saturday.

An Ode to my Tires

About three weeks ago, I thought it was in my empty bank account's best interest to borrow money from random family members and move out of my brother's apartment. I found this fabulous townhouse about 2 miles away - that came with two roommates. The good news is that I have the master bedroom with it's own private bathroom. Win. My logic behind convincing myself that I could afford this venture was the fact that in X number of weeks, I would receive my financial aid disbursement and all would be right in the world. No matter that I had no money for gas or food - this would just help me walk more and eat less. Another win. Then my car crumbled into a million pieces around me. Well, maybe that's not entirely true.

I fear that this topic may make me sound like such a stereo-typical helpless woman from the 1950's, but I'm going to venture down this road anyway. I am utterly dense when it comes to cars and all of it's workings. The extent of my knowledge when it comes to my beloved Mazda3 is that it's blue, it no longer smells like new car after three years of ownership, I have a wheel lock in my glove compartment, my window wipers are falling apart every time I turn them on, I never seem to have enough window washer fluid in the reservoir and the gas tank is on the left right side. Oh yes, and that I should get an oil change every 3,000 miles. Now enter Wednesday evening.

First things first, the light that indicates low tire pressure came on. No big deal, this has happened before, I'll just swing by the gas station later on and check the tire pressure. Ten minutes later my car starts shaking uncontrollably.

"Hmm, that's odd" I think, "I should pull over!"

There I am on the side of I495 during rush hour traffic with a flat tire. The only thing that crossed my mind was that I didn't have my chap stick with me (I have a slight addiction to it, but that's a topic for another day). I called Geico to send someone out to change my tire (yes, that's right, I don't know how to change a flat) and was told someone would be there within 45 minutes. So I sit and wait, attempt to slather on lip gloss pretending that it was chap stick, and read my car manual. I think that may have been the first time I opened that book, it made a creaking sound when I flipped to the "maintenance schedule" section. Anywho, twenty minutes later my knight on a white horse appears. It was actually Mister McNo-Tooth from VDOT. I was grateful for the assistance, laughed at his lispy jokes and went on my way to get the tire fixed.

$260 later, I left Merchants with a new tire, minus my soul, happiness and dignity. I was also informed of the need for three other new tires, new brake pads, an oil change, and a transmission flush. Hmph. I might as well add that as of about a week ago my front driver's side tire has been making a creaking noise everytime I turn the steering wheel. I'm fairly certain that it will fall off my car as I'm driving in the rain on an unpaved road.

Definition: Murphy's law - an adage or epigram that is typically
stated as "Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong"

So kids, the lessons learned here are as followed:
1. Move when you can't afford to
2. Never take care of your car until things begin to fall off of it
3. Spend money that belongs to other people
4. Never learn how to change a tire
5. Brush your teeth, so you don't end up working for VDOT, speaking an unrecognizable form of English

Breakup Etiquette

While I was sitting in my car during my daily nightmarish commute in the wee hours of the morn', I heard something interesting on the radio regarding things you loved as a kid but now hate as an adult.

"Hmm", I thought to myself, this should be interesting. Let's see how adult I am!

Then I heard the list from the hosts and the callers, such as:

• Gushers
• Spaghetti-O's
• Fruit Roll Ups
• Fish Sticks
• Cap'n Crunch
• Cinnamon Toast Crunch
• Apparently all sugary cereals
• Chicken Nuggets
• Kraft Mac & Cheese
• Cheese n' Crackers (you know, the one with that red stick!?)

Wait a minute... aside from fish sticks, which I can't remember ever eating, I still currently love all of the above. I mean, what's wrong with the Blue Box Blues people!? Does this mean I'm less of an adult? Should I retreat back to the fourth grade, embrace nap time, play scatch-it in the streets with neighborhood friends and fight with my mom about brushing my teeth before bed?

I'm getting off topic here. The point I'm trying to make is that I don't think my food choices make me less adult-like. There are things that come across my mind that prove just how mature and awesome I am. Honestly, I have no idea how I got here on most occasions, nor do I care to question how this happened to me.

One thing I know for sure that proves to myself just how much I've metamorphacized (that's a word, trust me) over time is my abiding desire to avoid fakeness, bullshit and drama, particularly when it comes to relationships. I've had my fill of one dramatic breakup after another, and the next guy I endure a breakup with, I am sure it will go something like this:

Me: Hey guy-I'm-dating. This isn't really working out for me. But I still think you're bad ass, and we still have fun together. How about we take a step back, chill out the romance, and just be best buds, mmkaythanks?

Guy-I'm-Dating: You're awesome too. I really enjoyed our time together. It would be my pleasure to remain friends with you. Thank you for being upfront with me. Did I mention I think you're awesome. Let's go get frozen yogurt!

(I swear this happens in real life.)

In the event the breakup looks more like...

I WISH I NEVER MET YOU!!!!!!

...then you're left with figuring out how to divide up all of your movies and mutual friends. Come to think of it, what exactly are you supposed to do with all of the friends you made together during the course of the relationship? Most times you adopt his friends and vice versa. If the relationship ends, then what? You have to lose your boyfriend, your new friends, and your dignity all at the same time? That's a pretty big blow if you ask me.

No one writes about these situations. There's books, magazine articles, online journals, and blogs dedicated to relationships and how to end them maturely. What about the friends left behind? How do you breakup with your ex's friends? They had no say in your breakup, and now they are left to choose sides. It's really not fair to them.

I think the way to go in these scenarios is to suck it up, grow a pair and live happily ever after amongst all your new friends and ex's. Then bunny rabbits, and butterflies will appear and a rainbow will lead the way to your happily ever after.

The end.

What are you eating?

You may have noticed that people do some really bizarre things when they think no one is looking. Or, perhaps they just don't care if anyone is there to witness their oddities. Which is good; embrace your inner weirdo I say. Have you ever paid attention to some things that people eat or drink though? I was minding my own business at work one morning, preparing my standard 100 calorie bagel (that's satisfying enough for no one mind you), when this woman came into the kitchen, removed her scalding hot cup of water from the microwave, poured in a packet of Sweet & Low, stirred and drank. You can let that notion swim around in your brains for a few more minutes. It's okay, I'll wait.

I mean, who does that?! Didn't the giant alien bug from Men in Black drink sugar water? Is this some new low-cal fake cup of coffee that I'm unaware of?! I thought perhaps at first that I was hallucinating, and gave said co-worker the benefit of the doubt. Maybe it wasn't water in the cup, maybe it was tea. Until I saw it again... and again.

While we're on this topic, I once saw this girl at another job take a bag of potato chips, squeeze about 5 ketchup packets into it, crush the bag between her hands until she had chip stew and ate it with a fork. What did those chips ever do to her to get such treatment? For shame!

On another note, the lights above my desk have been replaced. I never realized I was working in darkness for the past 9 months. Now it's like a tanning salon in here. Was my desk always brown? I think I'm going to turn the lights off so it feels dark and cave-like again.