Facebook (and social media in general) are destructive to the soul

You have to delete.  Deleting ex-boyfriends/whatevers/etc. is the only way to save your precious little soul from being attacked by relentless, unexpected tidbits of information that storm into your consciousness through the “internets.”  The bastards.

For example, you’re having a perfectly happy Friday…like a really wonderful, sun-shiney, doing no work, happy Friday.  It’s the kind of day, where worries aren’t something you can fathom and your most pressing concern is what kind of delicious treat you will have for lunch.  It’s THAT kind of luscious happiness.

Then since you aren’t really doing any work, you decide to login to facebook.  (This seems innocent enough.)  You read your emails, read everyone’s latest status updates, peruse some random photos of people you don’t know, then suddenly you can an itch.  (This is where things go wrong.)  You quietly ask yourself…I wonder what such-and-such ex is up to?  Involuntarily, your curiosity transports you to their page.  Within seconds, you are staring at the casual flirtations of some lovely new face that you have never seen before.  (This is where your day gets ruined.)

Who is this trick?  When did she show up?  Is her body as cute as her face or is this some deceptive photography?  There is only way to answer these questions.  Google.  (Damn you, google, damn you.)

So I googled.  She’s a [insert really awesome job that makes me jealous], she’s a recent addition to his life, and she’s really adorable.  A “this sucks” feeling stabs me repeatedly.  I allow myself to wallow in the fact that she’s probably effortlessly wonderful at all the things I suck at…she probably never has chipped nail polish and always has expertly applied makeup, she probably has a really clean bedroom, and can’t stand to miss a work out, she’s probably always on time, and can’t wait to get married, she probably doesn’t google/facebook stalk, she’s probably perfect and wonderful and charming…whoa.  Deep breath.  Punch self in face.  Come back to reality.

Who cares about her?  I’m pretty bad-ass myself.  So what if I can never keep my nails perfectly polished?  I’m pretty damn cute and I have great hair.  I’m not thin and I hate the gym, but I’ve lost ten pounds this month.  My room is a mess, but it’s filled with adorable dresses.  My job is amazing and every single day I get to help people and change the world (it’s a very small piece of the world…but it’s mine) and someday it will reward me handsomely.    Did I mention that I have fabulous hair?  I also have a PINK frickin cruiser bike, and I’m super witty.

So…no tears for me, no wallowing, no feeling like just because I’m not a size 2 that I’m not good enough…and no letting anyone make me feel bad about myself (especially me – preventing abuse starts at home, after all).   You know what this calls for???  Oh yeah, I’m going there…

Subject: You’re a Douchebag (DCD Trick of the Week)

Dear DC Douchebag,

Email subject lines are for the general subject of the email – they are NOT for the actual text of your email.  For example, the following is a flagrant abuse of the subject line:

Now, I know this doesn’t seem like such a terrible crime (and in the grand scheme of your DCD tricks – it’s pretty low).  However, it’s a flag – a big red, DCD, waving flag that the recipient of said email is warned…they are walking in DCD territory – be alert.

This email says several special things about you, my little DCD friend:

1. You are lazy
2. You think you’re too important to send actual proper emails with a REAL subject, greeting, message, and closing (not that tricky, I promise)
3. You don’t think your potential companion is important enough to even bother with an actual full email – you didn’t even write “hey” in the subject line.  C’mon boys, it’s three extra frickin letters and a tap on the return key.  (Your potential date is TOTALLY worth a tap on the return key).
4. If this is how little effort you’re putting in at the beginning of the “relationship” – sweet Christ – imagine how terrible you will be when you actually feel comfortable!!!

So, buck up – take five extra seconds and write an actual email…OR…and I know this is going to sound crazy, but stick with me.  Why don’t you just CALL the girl???  She’ll appreciate it and you’ll avoid this doucher mistake.

Love always – your guide to living a douchebag-free life,

fanfrickingtastic

Living a douchbag-free existence requires constant vigilance…

…much to my own detriment, I forgot this rule.  More than a year ago, I met this guy and I was pretty sure I hated him.  My DCD-senses were tingling something fierce, but I figured worst case scenario he would be good blogging material.  He was.

The only reason I even entertained his foolishness last year is because I was going through a “low” period, and he smelled blood in the water.  Quickly having come to my senses, I have spent a solid year ignoring him.  However, you know life comes in waves and the past few weeks have been crashing against the rocks.  In a moment of weakness, I didn’t ignore him…stupid girl.  The convo went something like this:

Snarky shark:  Can I take you out this week?

Fanfrickingtastic:  Sure, let me check my schedule at work tomorrow.

Snarky shark:  So are you single or am I just buying you drinks to buy you drinks?

Fanfrickingtastic:  F*ck you.

Snarky shark:  Be careful or you won’t get invited on the boat.  (fft sidenote:  like I care) You should call in sick and come out on the boat (like I don’t have actual work to do).

Fanfrickingtastic:  …

Snarky shark:  You going to bring a bathing suit or just let the girls hang out?  (vomit)

Fanfrickingtastic:  Ridiculous

Snarky shark:  So what are you wearing?

End of convo.

How old am I?  15???  Are we in a yahoo chat room?  Who does this shit work on?  Seriously, this is my own damn fault.  I am embarrassed that I even allowed the conversation to get that far.

I’m going to take a shower to get this feeling of ick off me.

Lyrically speaking, this is…

Rubbish. Midnight Train to Georgia is absolute rubbish. Don’t get me wrong, I bop along and sing the tricky back up vocals like I am an original member of the Pips. HOWEVER, the catchy nature of this tune does not make up for its terrible message. Let’s dissect:

Verse 1:

L.A. proved too much for the man,
So he’s leavin’ the life he’s come to know,
He said he’s goin’ back to find
Ooh, what’s left of his world,
The world he left behind
Not so long ago

Synopsis:  Things got tough for some man, so he’s being a big time quitter and going back to what’s easy after hardly trying at all.

Verse 2:

He kept dreamin’
That someday he’d be a star.
But he sure found out the hard way
That dreams don’t always come true.
So he pawned all his hopes
and he even sold his old car
Bought a one way ticket
To the life he once knew,

Synopsis:  Shit didn’t go as plan, so he sold all his crap (aka he’s broke) and he’s moving 3,000 miles away from you.  Hope you don’t mind.

And after all that, Gladys Knight has the gall to sing:

He said he would
Be leavin
On that midnight train to Georgia, (Did he even consult you???)
And he’s goin’ back
To a simpler place and time.
And I’ll be with him
On that midnight train to Georgia, (I sure as hell hope he bought your ticket)
I’d rather live in his world
Than live without him in mine

What the f*ck, Gladys? You are a following broke man who gave up on his dreams and you (after like two weeks), and you’re going to move to Georgia with him??? Do you know how far away Georgia is from California? I’m sure things are all peachy keen on that 30 hour train ride, but what happens when you actually get to Georgia? What happens when “his dreams” don’t work out in Georgia either? Who is going to dry your tears when you find out he’s sneaking around with some two bit trick? Plus, is your life so sad that you had NOTHING else going on in LA that you can just drop it all to be with him? Pathetic. I am not a fan of this poor decision-making, Gladys, not a fan at all. How did the Pips even let you get away with this business?

Of course, I also believe that you should live without regret and that “what the hell” is almost always the best policy, so who am I to judge?

(world, world)
(is his, his and hers alone)
(world is his)
(his and hers alone)
(all aboard)
(one world)
(her man, his girl)
Ive got to go

BAD news: You Suck.

Mothers of the world – listen up…QUIT babying your little boys.  You are doing women and the world a gross disservice.  Two of my male friends have been babied and the result is ugly – douchebabies.  They think that everything they do is of GREAT importance.  For example,

“I have to read 130 pages for a class, isn’t that so much?  Don’t you feel bad for me?  Aren’t you shocked at that number of pages and awed by my superior intelligence?”

They also think they are always right and have the inside scoop on everything and simply can’t fathom that you might be right.

“Did you see that they gave Jane that big promotion?  Can you believe they give it to her?  Talk about incompetent, have you heard her accent?…Oh, she didn’t get it?  Silly girl, you just don’t have a super secret source of info like me.  Oh, you have documentation that someone else got it?  Oh yeah, I guess my super secret source must have meant something else that you couldn’t possibly know about.”

Finally, they give you a compliment and act like you should be ecstatic.

“You really are so pretty.  Do you know that?  How does it feel to have someone think you are so pretty?  Aren’t I so sweet for giving you a compliment?  Don’t you want to give me one back now?”

LAME.  Douchebabies, you aren’t always right, you don’t know everything, and you are way less important than you give yourself credit for.  But thank you for the drink, I am going home now…alone.

Cab Ride: $13 and all the advice you ever need

“I never wanted to go to no summer camp, let alone jail,” my cab driver, Leo, said as we pulled away from my apartment at 6am. Thus began fifteen minutes of tales from Leo’s misspent youth (his words, not mine). The stories poured out as I listened in bemused silence. My favorite story went something like this:

When Leo was a young kid, he attended Catholic school and he looooved the ladies. To get their attention he would physically pull them into closets, alleys, etc. and attempt (against their will) to “get wit’em.” Obviously, the nuns and assault victims did not appreciate such behavior, so the head nun had a little chitchat with Leo. After the nun posed the question, “Would you try to do to me, what you have been doing to those girls?” Leo finally saw the heavenly light of ladies and ended his predatory adventures. In fact, he took her advice to heart so much that he didn’t try to sleep with his first wife for two months (at which point she thought he was gay and he finally acquiesced to her devilish ways).

Advice for life from Leo:

• When it comes to physical contact, treat all ladies like you would treat a nun. They are, after all, an image of heaven on earth (until they give you permission to rough them up).
• “Ain’t nobody care if you’re unhappy,” so you might as well be happy.
• If you don’t like being around people, stay home.
• Jail is NOT a place you want to go.
• Some kids need to be beat, but kids these days are smart (and will threaten to call child welfare on you)…so beat them and don’t leave marks.
• Fights aren’t worth it, just walk away. UNLESS of course, they diss you in front of your woman, in which case you have permission to beat their head in with a high school cafeteria tray (Larry, a bald guy with a large scar on his head, who lives in downtown DC can attest to the effectiveness of this strategy).
• Life is beautiful.

That cab ride was worth every single penny.

Exciting news to explain my uncalled for absence…

I am getting married!!! Can you believe it?! As you can garner from all of the exclamation points, I am pretty excited about this new engagement. I am probably more excited than my first engagement and on par excited with my second engagement. At this point (approximately one and a half weeks of engagementhood), I am feeling 95% sure that I will actually walk down the aisle this time. I leave 5% doubt, so in the rare chance that I call it off, I will have a cushion to fall back on.

My fiance and I have been dating for close to 3 months. I feel like we have known each other a lifetime. We’ve already seen breathtaking highs and several frightening lows (most of which have involved his choice of footwear). However, we have cleared up all of those issues. I know I have been a little negative about men in the past, but I have a good feeling about this one. We never, ever fight (except for that one time, but he totally didn’t mean it). Anyhow, here is the ring. Isn’t is unbelievably gorgeous??? I’m so lucky!

Engagement Ring

I’ve also made a big personal decision. I am ready for babies! For a long time, I felt really driven in my career and wasn’t so concerned about motherhood. Now, I’m really, super ready. I just graduated, work is kind of boring, and I hear the maternity vitamins make your hair super shiny. So I’ll probably start trying sooner rather than later, cause my hair has been looking pretty dull lately.

So that is the update. I’ll be blogging more frequently about my upcoming nuptials (I’m thinking little sharpie markers for the favors that say “make it permanent”…isn’t that ridiculously cute?!…so many plans, so little time). I’ll also be blogging about the status of my impregnation plan – sexy time!

Finally, I’m lying and not engaged or baby crazy (just in case that wasn’t blatantly obvious), I just didn’t have an excuse for being a bad blogger.

Anyone who knows me (even remotely) knows I can’t take care of a plant let alone another human being. Plus, I get the shakes just helping to plan my best friend’s wedding (what up, BFF!). I thought this small white lie was much more interesting than the truth (i.e. laziness + fanfrickingtastic = 0 blog posts). Great, now that we have that covered…I’ll be back to blogging on a normal schedule!

Commitment-phobe’s Guide to “I love you”

I need baby steps. Itty, bitty, tiny baby relationship steps. A crushed heart will do that to you. It’s like an added bonus of the break up…”Here’s your heart crushed into bite-size pieces (already chewed for easy digestion) and here’s six additional pieces of baggage for your next relationship.” Oh the joys of love!

So here is the easy 20-step fanfrickingtastic guide from commitment-phobe to “I love you” fest of schmoopiness (Note: this guide will also be helpful for those who too easily and too quickly say, “I love you” when what they actually mean is, “I might someday maybe feel like I could possibly feel something close to loving you.”):

Step 1: Cold, indifference

Step 2: I don’t dislike you

Step 3: I’m surprised I don’t dislike you.

Step 4: Weird…I kind of like you. I guess.

Step 5: I like you.

Step 6: I’m surprised I still like you.

Step 7: Wow. I mean, I really surprised that I still like you.

Step 8: I like (plus) you. [Just a half step above like.]

Step 9: I can’t believe I said that I like (plus) you.

Step 10: I heart you. [Inner freak out. Did I just say that I heart you??? Retreat!]

Step 11: I mispoke, I heart (minus) you.

Step 12: I heart you. [This time it's fo shizzle.]

Step 13: I like (minus) you. [Inevitable freak out over heartiness.]

Step 14: Return to step 8, try process again.

Step 15: I really heart you.

Step 16: I think I might be falling for you.

Step 17: I heart you. [Return to safety zone]

Step 18: I might kind of love (minus) you.

Step 19: Crap, I am falling for you.

Step 20: I love you.

This is a perfect system as long as you use it while keeping the following additional rules in mind…

• The male partner should always be a step or two ahead cause they tend to fall fast in the beginning (if you are ahead of them IMMEDIATELY return to Step 1 and stay there for a WHILE).
• Never take more than one step in a date. (Don’t get all smart on me here…a date is defined as our normal understanding of a date and also as any period of time in which you spend more hours of the day together than not.   So, if he stays over until the next day the original date is still in play. If you are separated for only a couple of hours the original date is still in play. No tricky business here…these are baby steps for a reason.)
• Never skip steps.  Never, never skip steps…when in doubt repeat earlier steps sporadically. That will keep your precious heart in check.
• Don’t forget to have fun!

Convenience – Not perfect, but it will do

IMFB, here is your response…finally! Sorry it has taken me so long!

“It’s the perfect trifecta…what could be better than living between a cheap grocery store, a Sheetz gas station, and a dirty, dive bar?!?” According to Fiance #1, the proximity of the aforementioned establishments to our shit hole apartment meant we were living on the most coveted slice of man ground on earth. Even though the apartment (with its brown shag carpeting and fake wood paneled walls) was less than ideal, its amazingly convenient location made it his perfectish, little palace. (Hell, he only slept, ate, and spent 50% of his time in that apartment, why does it matter how nice it is??? It’s got the trifecta!)

This same reasoning can be applied to boys and relationships (at least according to yours truly). They subconsciously do a little balancing equation…whoever they find that satisfies as many of their needs most conveniently wins. It’s simple, painless, and clear cut. If you meet the basic beer, burgers, sex needs and you’re convenient (either in personality, location, religious belief, fill in the blank), then you, dear lucky lady, are the winner of your very own boyfriend.

Now, let’s say you don’t have the convenience factor, and this boy dumps you.  Don’t take the breakup (or the disappearing act) personally. You might be an absolutely fabulous, ridiculously amazing apartment in the sky, but you’re just slightly too far from the nearest dive bar.  (Lame, but true).  So it momentarily sucks that your ego has been bruised, but you’re a hot ass, bangin’ apartment and he’s well… just bangin’ a shit hole of an apartment with brown shag carpeting.

Sidenote: This does not apply to real men like Mr. Fuede McMandals and others. I’m seriously not convenient to Fuede. I am a gigantic pain in the ass. Thanks for putting up with all of my beautifully packaged poo.

Grilled cheese, anyone?

“You should be begging me to be your boyfriend,” Fuede said, as he prepped the chicken. Moments earlier, I had been staring with panicked eyes at four pieces of thawed chicken and wondering how the hell I was going to get them cooked without the aid of the mighty George Foreman mean, lean grilling machine. I could put the steps together…put the chicken in a baking dish, put the dish into the oven, leave it in there for an extended period of time…and voila non-diarrhea-inducing chicken is served. However, I was missing several key facts and my brain went into overload. Can you just put chicken in the dish without anything else? Do I need a spray of some sort? Is there an oil involved? Which oil? Do I even own that kind of oil? How long do I cook the chicken? On what temperature? How do I make sure it won’t poison my guests? These are very serious questions that stood between me and a delicious plate of chicken, rice, and broccoli (I could handle boiling water to make the other two dinner ingredients…I had those bitches covered!  It was just the raw bird products that were giving me trouble).

I said none of this to Fuede. I just used my remaining three brain cells to say, “I don’t know how to cook chicken.” Fuede took a long, slow inhale. It was the same kind of inhale that the country collectively took back in 2000, when Bush said “Rarely is the question asked, ‘Is our children learning?’” It was as if we all realized at the same time that Dubya’s stupidity wasn’t funny. It was serious and we were all f*cked. My domestic disability breathed into Fuede’s lungs and permeated his being the very same way. Though I might look cute standing in the kitchen, I was going to be absolutely useless and we were all pretty much f*cked on the food front.

After the inhale, Fuede rolled his eyes. Hard. He rolled them so hard, I feared it might impact his vision. However, as he went about prepping the chicken (with olive oil…yessss…the secret is mine!), he let out several sighs and I figured all was well. Afterwards we laughed hard, and I did the dishes as penance for being an idiot.

A few more weeks of impressing Fuede with these kinds of skills and I don’t think my relationship panic will be much of an issue anymore. I’m pretty sure he’ll be high tailing it to friendlier kitchens with owners that can make more than just grilled cheese.