Performancing Metrics


What do you do if your friends don’t like your boyfriend?


On a recent happy hour adventure (Perl√©, the awesome new champagne bar in downtown Pittsburgh), I witnessed an uncomfortable encounter with a couple of old broads in the ladies’ room (OMG I’M PEEING!). OK, OK, “old” is relative, but this is how I make my 35-year-old self feel better among women in my age group.

Two friends were gabbing on about how they didn’t like another friend’s new boyfriend. The woman, topic of a heated discussion, was not in attendance in said restroom. The lovely new couple (and entourage of girlfriends… what the fuck, awkward!), however, was seated near us in the lounge.

They called him names and said dirty things about his personality (by the indignant tone of their conversation, it appeared it was their first time meeting him — and frankly, he DID sound like an ass, by their standards and vocabulary). But they carried on as if all was normal while on the Fifth Wheel Date.

I wondered if these “friends” shared in private with their female counterpart their disdain of the new romance. I guess, I HOPE that they would. But these women were no less catty than the 20-something drunk chicks on Carson Street, so I suppose hoping for any sort of maturity (aside from aging hands and sunspots) from them deserved a backwards-heavy, disappearing eye roll.

But… I’VE BEEN HERE — on both sides. I have told friends when I thought a man was no good (which never does anything for the friendship, mind you, so long as said relationship continues), and I’ve been told when a guy was a total jerk or complete weirdo. See: 10SB, HG Shady McShadester, Claymation… and strange Chocolate-covered Strawberry Guy. Need I go on?

God damn, that flood of memories was NOT needed this early in the morning. Man, now I wonder if I lost friends over my current relationship. My stomach hurts…

What would you do if your friends told you that they didn’t like your boyfriend? Would you respect them for telling you? Hate them for being bitches (or jealous, natch, because the likelihood of these other two women being single was 92%)? Or take into consideration that THE GUY YOU ARE DATING MIGHT BE A COMPLETE ASSHOLE.


{conversations with the boyfriend} home decorating


A conversation started about our yearly neighborhood yard sale — which I cannot attend this weekend due to work and derby, but the boyfriend intends to troll early for “the good stuff.” I’m particularly looking to add some old house stuff into our decor for some character.

Me: You know what I like, right?
Boyfriend: No. I see you pick out weird stuff, and I’m all wtf?! But then you put it somewhere, and it looks nice.


An impromptu date night with Bill Maher

An impromptu date night with Bill Maher

I tried to get tickets to Bill Maher for the boyfriend for our anniversary, but I was seemingly the LAST LIBERAL IN PITTSBURGH to hear about him coming to town. It was sold out.

Then, at happy hour dinner on Friday (at Las Velas, naturally), we were trying to figure out our plan of action for the evening. I saw a tweet about the Power game, but couldn’t remember why it wasn’t on my calendar (you know I don’t miss that shit, unless it’s for derby)… oh, because “Bill Maher” was in its place. I pouted, then turned toward a friend sitting beside me at the bar (who also happens to “know some people”) and asked about the possibility of any tickets being available last minute. She made some calls, and at that very minute, two were released for sale. Naturally, we snagged them.

Yeah, he was hilarious. Totally worth it.

Bonus: the Byham sells sippie cups (mine has wine) to take into the theater, which makes the evening even more hilarious.


I think we need a bigger coffee pot.

I think we need a bigger coffee pot.

Are you a coffee drinker? Can you date a non-coffee drinker?

This important issue is oftentimes a non-negotiable in relationships — a divisive and significant offense to us, the coffee-drinking souls of the dating world… and the purpose behind the fourth chapter of my never-to-be-finished book: “Never Trust a Guy Who Doesn’t Drink Coffee.” AB & I were on opposite sides of the caffeinated spectrum. But he, non-coffee drinker, purchased a pot for his apartment when we started dating and having sleepovers. That was the only way it would work.


Evidence: a CAPPUCCINO!

He seriously went from “I like drinking a few Dr Peppers a month” to “I NEED COFFEE EVERY DAY TO FUNCTION!” in a matter of weeks. With only a touch of cream-and-sugar, that risk taker! I imagine he now “gets” my nonfunctioning personality tendencies in the mornings. Obviously, I can finally trust him, now that he’s shunned his non-caffeinated days.


Winning the War of the Battle of the TVs… and the sexes.


I’ve finally convinced the boyfriend that we needed to remove the TV from our bedroom for various reasons relative to my insomnia and to, um… “other” certain bedroom activities. This, after arguing against the TV in the living room — the current and planned relocation of said bedroom TV; he has a separate media room, so I haven’t been adamant about giving up ALL OF THE TVs — upon moving into our new house.


Half winning?

I convinced him to give up cable very early on in the relationship (I’m six five years cable-free — edited, to reflect that I had to look up the final air date of The Sopranos. That, being my final day of paying for cable.), but I don’t really watch much TV — it’s a major distraction and, frankly, I think it leads to a sedentary lifestyle (one that doesn’t really interest me all that much, save for The Stupid Bachelor, which I usually watch online, and Desperate Housewives, which is in its final two or three episodes). But if I get some fucking sleep and some… ahem, more of the “other” then, I consider it a win in my two-can-opener household.

How do you deal with televisions throughout the house? Do you have one in your bedroom? Is this asking for TOO MUCH CHANGE?!


3 Years of Irish Drunken Love

3 Years of Irish Drunken Love

This post also known as: Can you believe someone has put up with my shit for three years?

On St. Patrick’s Day, there are drunks and rainbows. And some little people… but that would fuck up this allegory. Let’s pretend that the holiday exploits little CATS, k?

In this path of life categorized as a relationship, two quarter-Irish people met on a day infamous for drinking and saw some rainbows. I still cannot believe I didn’t shave for, like, DAYS before that day either. One thing I will, oddly, always remember. Because, let’s be serious: I DIDN’T WANT TO DATE THIS PERSON. Something about him intrigued me. I’m pretty sure that I told him that on our first “official” date. There really wasn’t any courting period, other than me ignoring him and dating super assholes for eight months before I finally gave him a chance. First date, true story, he packed an overnight bag (how arrogant and appropriate, right?) and followed me back to my place. And with the exception of business travel, we’ve been on overnighters ever since.

Sappy-but-true, AB is my pot o’ gold at the end of all this dating-for-something adventure. I’ve never followed my head or the advice of others when it came to relationships. Perhaps that’s a small character flaw amidst many, many larger ones. But I never regret listening to my heart. No matter how many times I exclaimed, “FUCK THIS ASSHOLE!”

Yeah, FUCK THAT, because I’d rather be living my life like THIS again. Um, not. But seriously, that was the weekend before we started dating. He ended up at that bar with me. We made out. And then I made out with someone else. Winner.

That asshole — or Arrogant Bastard, as it were — has become my true life partner. Still an asshole, yes, and certainly arrogant, but I don’t love him any less because of it. Because that’s fucking love. And with love, you just roll your eyes a whole lot. He doesn’t just “put up with me,” he accepts me. Rainbows or not. Drunk or sober. Two cats or three. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD EVERYTHING IS LEAKING IN THIS HOUSE!!! Oh yes, even through all the nagging and ALL CAPS, that man knows how to love me…

and I love him right back.


{the week} I like wine with my wine, thankyouverymuch!

{the week} I like wine with my wine, thankyouverymuch!

And my wine with my vodka. But not really, because I’M OLD AND CANNOT HANDLE THE HANGOVERS. Ahem.

the week: Valentine’s Day was this week… you know, that holiday that I poo-poo’d. We kept on the tradition I started last year of having fondue (celebrated on Sunday, since Tuesday was a practice night for me). It was delicious. And reaffirms all I need is him and cheese and bread and wine and my cats to be happy forever and ever amen. The boyfriend got me a card, which happens… never. Naturally, in my current whack-a-doodle hormonal state, I cried.

He also got me this:

…which is still in mail purgatory. But, SQUEE! You know what’s better than love? Finding someone who knows you SO well.

Err, I meant *puke*

And then on Monday, I had cheese for dinner AGAIN. It definitely was not as delicious as the melty, dippy goodness.

I also got this month’s Foodzie box — which was the Date Night Box. It included: durum wheat Mohawk pasta, Fig & Port Vinaigrette, roasted salted pecans, Mendocino sea salt and a Port wine caramel chocolate bar.

Animals humping on that wrapper, by the way!

That chocolate bar is from Sweeteeth in Charleston, SC. Did you read that it’s filled with port wine and caramel? And I’m having it with my wine for dinner.

PS: who’s already looking forward to Anthrocon this summer?

We’re hosting a small bottleshare gathering with some friends this weekend, which means I’ll be spending my Friday night lint-rolling every sitting surface in my house. While drinking a bottle from my new wine club delivery. And that chocolate bar.

We also have a fun Elite party to attend at Penn Brewery, courtesy of Yelp!

Which totally reminded me about that time when I told a waiter “no thanks” in response to taking home my leftover lunch by actually saying, “No. I’m having vodka for dinner.” That time was this week.

For all you pudding lovers: Saturday is the Valentine’s Day Pudding Massacre (aka: PUDDING WRESTLING). Be at Belvedere’s.

weekly reading wrap-up: Still on the same book as last week… I need to get in a few short ones this month before vacation.

seven things, seven days
1. cheese plate and giant heart-shaped red velvet cake at Sonoma Grille… with some of AB’s coworkers. I’m crashing this consultant party!
2. I painted my nails twice in two weeks. WHO AM I?
3. Turntable Kitchen was not worth the monthly subscription. Meh. Definitely sticking with Foodzie.
4. Birchbox was ridiculous this month too — not “lip tattoos” ridiculous, sadly. Regardless, I’m ready to unsubscribe.
5. Arsenal Plum Cider. Yum!
6. handwritten notes from bloggers are awesome. (thanks, Rachel!)
7. vacation countdown has begun!


{awesome sauce} IT EXISTS!

{awesome sauce} IT EXISTS!

Someone on your shopping list need some extra AWESOME?

Or maybe, as the product description suggests, your peanut butter and jelly sandwich needs some AWESOME… Do what now? For serious:

You’ve used the expression; now put it in your mouth! Awesomesauce is 12 oz of delicious, spicy, garlicky sauce that will make most anything you make taste more awesome. What’s that, you say? You only make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches? Well, have you tried a peanut butter and awesome sandwich? Yeah. Chew on that.

I wish clients would let me write product descriptions like this.

*112% of your recommended daily dose of awesome.
I’m seriously considering making this my blog mantra.


{holiday spirit} Mel’s Christmas Gift Guide for the men who annoy, tolerate or complete you.

{holiday spirit} Mel’s Christmas Gift Guide for the men who annoy, tolerate or complete you.

Ho-Ho-Ho! - Thanks for agreeing not to buy each other anything for Christmas and then making me feel guilty by buying something anyway.

Oh, so now it’s the last minute and essentially you’re fucked. But I’m going to share this gift guide with you anyway. So… CONGRATS! You survived long enough to not get dumped before Christmas. I mean, no man is that much of a dick he’d dump you the day before a holiday and after all the gifts are purchased, right?


Men’s gifts come in three easy shopping categories:

  • Have to Have Every New Gadget
  • Sure I’ll Cook For You
  • Needs a Makeover

Likewise, these categories fit into three various stages of relationship:

  • Unsure How to Label Us
  • Spent at Least One Holiday Together
  • Get the Fuck Out (which I covered in the post with a friendly kick in the nuts)

A gadget guy this season wants anything that includes the words: handheld, 3D, Blu-ray, Sonos, or iPhone. Think in terms of device or electronic accessory (and if he’s a Mac Head or an Android Ass), and spend according to aforementioned Status of Relationship and individual budgetary concerns. PS: If one or both of you is employed, then FUCK CHRISTMAS, and go cuddle kitties at the animal shelter.

Unsure: get him one of those 3-in-1 USB sync-n-charger thingie-do-hicker or a car phone charger.
Holiday Togetherness: he’s probably been drooling over the likes of a Roku or Mac Mini. MAYBE YOU CAN FINALLY CANCEL CABLE AND SPEND MORE TIME TOGETHER! Or a Bluetooth iPad keyboard.
Fuck Him: a Garmin

Credit: dklimke via flickr

The home chef will steal your heart… right through your stomach. Then gut it with expensive knives when you complain about the temperature of your undercooked steak. With promises of dinner on the table every night to being the go-to cook for parties and potlucks, you can thank him for making you fat with these nifty kitchen ideas.

Unsure: wow, you’re fucked. DID YOU READ ABOUT THE KNIVES?! Calm your nerves (and the man with the butcher chop) with a digital scale, a nice spice rack or matching place settings.
Together-4-EVER: cast iron skillets, a Cuisinart or anything to do with bacon- or beer-of-the-month club.
Fuck Him: an apron that reads, “I RUB MY MEAT FOR TWO MINUTES!

Who can wait for resolutions? ’tis the mother-fucking season for changing him. Change your hair, change your life, right? Clothing, shoes — replace those damn holy socks too. Shit, retool his entire underwear drawer to what YOU want to see him wear. I don’t care what level of comfortability you are in this relationship. Nobody wants to look at shitty (heh) undergarments. Who cares if his saggy balls are uncomfortable in boxer briefs. RYAN GOSLING SAYS SO!

Unsure: a set of trial size toiletry products — complete with new dop kit, a magazine subscription to GQ or… or… JEDI BATHROBE!
I LOVE YOU, SO I CAN BE COMPLETELY HONEST WITH YOU: a gift certificate for a mani-pedi (hell, a day at the spa!) or a new electric razor. And get that boy a grown-up man bag already!
Fuck Him: a baby.

Dating a hipster? I cannot fucking help you. Are mustaches still cool?

Need some gift guidance for your lady friend? Then you missed my Christmas Gift Guide to Get Your Holly in Her Jolly.


{musical interlude} hey, baby, that’s our song!


You know that saying about smell being tied to memory? Boy, does music seemingly pull out some wonky emotions for me. I got a flash of horrific nostalgic memory upon listening to Boyz II Men’s Twenty (courtesy of Rdio) this afternoon. Seriously, I heard “I Shoulda Lied” and I wanted to go back in time and kick all my ex-boyfriends in the throat. Ew.

HSS brought me to the Boyz II Men concert when we were all “little.” I don’t remember the year — maybe I was 19 or 20. Well, we only went because of BABYFACE. Our song: “When Can I See You Again?” Why? Because it made sense that we started a relationship that can only be described as “incredibly long distanced when you’re in high school with no car.” And we wrote letters because e-mail didn’t exist then either. And holy shit, I’m old.

Side note: this was totally the last song Babyface played during that concert, and Tevin Campbell totally opened on that bill. HILARIOUS. And awesome.

Reversing time, this silly Mr. Big song reminds me of that time in 9th grade when I finally got some sense of “popularity” (and less picked-on loser-dom) because my junior high crush, Greg whats-his-name, danced with me at the dance. Or was it 8th grade? Regardless, HOW THE HELL DO YOU SLOW DANCE TO THIS SONG?
But you’ll sing along anyways because I know you know all the words…

And if you read this blog a lot since 2003, you know that I had a terrible dating history in my 20s. Which, obviously, brings about some moody music.

The Fiance played a lot of Sarah McLachlan and Dido during our first few months of dating (and then some, I suppose). And I loved that first Dido album. Now: RUINED. Hearing anything from either one — including our song “Thank You” — makes me want to stab eardrums and puke. Hey, it’s kinda Exorcist-like, which is a barrage of metaphors for ex-boyfriend bullshit.
I initially typed “baggage” which tells you something else.

Gah. *puke*

I cannot listen to Coldplay’s La Vida because I just downloaded the song at the height of my demise with 10SB. And as life certainly likes to fuck with me, I remember hearing it en route of him MOVING MY SHIT ACROSS TOWN… back to my self-inhabited condo. Dick. Hearing it makes me want to punch things. Including him, if I ever see him again.
Wow, how long can you hold onto anger? Answer: FOREVER.

In equally disturbing break-up premonitions, I was sincerely listening to a lot of Fiona Apple towards the end of my “relationship” with L. “Never is a Promise” is incredibly sad and somehow predicted exactly what I would be going through. And damn… hearing it now reminds me of that pain. But it could have been much worse: I could have ended up with a cheating baseball player who wasn’t mature enough to face his life choices. Or give me back my shit. Seven years later, and all I want is my fucking suede boots back.

AB & I have a song too, naturally. He picked it; he’s cute. Really, when it came to him, I never really thought about those silly relationship things anymore. Is that weird? No, it’s simple, is what it is (even if I didn’t make it easy for him to date me). Hence, this Gaelic Storm tune makes perfect sense, with our long courting period (of me turning him down) and especially because our anniversary falls on St. Patrick’s Day.
And, it makes me happy.

Enjoy this trip down musical memory lane? Do you have a song that defines your current relationship, as well as your formers ones?


The epitome of Battle of the Sexes.

The epitome of Battle of the Sexes.


This is dumb.

I brought to this relationship an almost-new hand can opener that has the most awesome of rubber grips and non-rusted, can cutter-mechanisms. Seen on left.

His: old, rusted, barely turns, hardly cuts and is completely awkward to use. Seen on right.

We upgraded most of his hand-me-down utensils and such when I first moved in; my “stuff” was noticeably nicer — and lesser used. Yet he REFUSES to get rid of this stupid, old contraption. He “likes it.” Amongst a lot of other double shit around the kitchen, which I’ve finally started to pack up this week.

And I KNOW he’ll notice if it’s missing.

So, we continue to live on in a household with two freaking can openers.

Please tell me someone else has this problem.


We had a conversation about… Hanson.


Yes, that would be Hanson, the band… err, the singers, rather. What the hell do you call them? But I think this conversation was really about sex. Or crossing things off your bucket list.

I’m not certain.

Mel: Hanson is on Dancing With the Stars. Don’t you want to watch it?
(mind you, we don’t have cable, and cannot get the local ABC affiliate channel in at our apartment)
AB: {blank stare}
Mel: Didn’t you purposely sleep with a Hanson fan?
AB: She was Australian.
Mel: {blank stare}
AB: You know — two birds, one stone.
Mel: {laughing} I don’t even know what that means. In this case, anyway.
AB: I add stuff to my list, as I do ‘em.

But seriously, I heard NKOTB was on the night after?! I need to HULU this shit.


Oh, the dreamy places you’ll go!

Oh, the dreamy places you’ll go!



I had a dream last night where someone asked me how many people I’ve been in love with. In my dream, I answered, “Five.”

I really hate dreams about ex-boyfriends.

While seemingly a fair number (I remember even in my subconscious state having to think about it), there are obvious “mutations” of what constitutes “love” depending on a variety of factors. Even if the words were never said to one another. For instance, what I considered to be “in love” ten years ago is quite different as I see it today. Also, I completely and whole-heartedly agree that you can love more than one person at the same time. What can I say; my heart is just that big. And so is my penis. Seriously, wanna see it?

If that number were true, however, my “five” would be (in no particular order, but giving my CURRENT boyfriend the number #1 position only seems… properly credited):

1. AB
2. HSS
3. The Fiance
4. SSD
5. 10SB

My, I’ll be pissed at myself (or sure to hear about it) if there is someone I forgot to be included as part of this list.

AB: Enough said, right? I mean, I only talk about him ALL THE TIME. And how incredible of a person he is — and how incredible of a person he’s made ME. Without a doubt, the truest and most sincere of true loves to be had. I’m very lucky.

HSS: The High School Sweetheart. The “first love.” The volatile, young, passionate, ANGRY, kill-for-him kind of love. We dated (on-and-off) for… about six years. Somewhere in my aging, I actually forgot how long we dated. Since the summer before our senior year in high school (yes, he was my senior prom date), until some time in my early 20s. If you had a high school boyfriend, you KNOW how difficult it is to let this person go — physically and emotionally. The truth is (regardless of the cheating vengeance between the two of us), we grew apart, and it was hard for both of us to admit it. I’m happy to call him my friend today — and see him (finally) in a healthy relationship with someone who seemingly complements him well.

The Fiance: And just as soon as you finally realize you need to let someone go, another comes into the picture to remind you of what love is all about. I admit, it’s still strange to imagine myself with a FIANCE. I moved in with this guy three weeks after meeting him, and I wasn’t more sure of ANYTHING in my life. We endured a long, committed, healthy and open relationship for almost three years. But about a year in, a tragedy occurred that caused an emotional rift — and eventual distance. It was never really the same. The engagement happened long after we fell slowly apart, separated, I moved out, and we once again reconnected. At the time, and almost immediately, engagement seemed to be the right thing to do (and to prove to others that we were SERIOUS this time). As you know, this is NO reason to get engaged, let alone get married. We fell apart again soon after (and I had to move my stuff out AGAIN).

SSD was the acronym for his job (followed by the word “dude”). I never told him that I loved him, although I had a good friend who made SURE he knew after our emotionally-charged, messy, I-want-to-drive-off-a-bridge “break up”… and I think I sent him a letter. Anyways, we had no labels; we never talked about the status of the relationship — we only had fun. We were long distance, so every time we were together, only the best of memories were created. And in the moment, I was all for it. It was… perfect. Especially, in that I could “keep” my own life. That is, until it was over. And then I realized how big a part he was of it. And it was DEVASTATING. Especially considering that I spent probably one year too many in something that was never even defined. The details are still fuzzy to me, but he didn’t think I was serious about him (I probably wasn’t IN THEORY, but in my heart, I was), and those feelings were much of how I felt about HIM. Ain’t that a recipe for dating disaster?

To be honest, I struggled back-and-forth at my inclusion of 10SB. I was in a miserable part of life, and looking to cling to anything (or anyone, rather) who gave me the chance — and the right amount of attention. It was a horrible, horrible relationship, based on the mind of a woman (ahem, me) who just was not in a good or confident place in her life. That’s not to discount “what we had” (even though, in my mind, he’s still a total, irrational… dick), but I certainly learned a lot from that experience. Most of all, about what I want and need in a compatible partnership. That, sadly, was just not it.

How many LOVES would you put on your list?

Photo credit: rustman, courtesy of flickr.


Is that a pick-up line?


In Chicago, after completely passing out from a day full of beer drinking, AB jolted awake out of nowhere and exclaimed:

It’s like I need a GPS to find you in this bed.

For a second I thought he was sleep talking, so I started laughing at him. But then his drunk ass wanted to make out.


Another year drunker…


On this day, two years ago, I went home with some random drunk.

Scratch that, he wasn’t so much “random” as he was a “stalker.” Kinda.

Regardless, I liked his penis, so we continued dating. And then I did what you’re not supposed to: fell in love with the damn Arrogant Bastard.

And because of that, my life has completely changed for the better. {insert “awwwwwww”} Truly, some days I love this man so fucking hard I don’t know what to do with it (TWSS). He motivates me; he balances me; he makes fun of me when I cry before boarding airplanes, or when I think about our cats on vacation. He’s taught me everything about transparency and nothing about cooking (because I’m not doing that shit). My heart has softened; my penis has hardened… wait, I already used that word in this post. My ability to screw things up has weakened (he just won’t let me).

For everything I ever wanted in a lifetime partnership, I found (and even some things I didn’t, like, socks on the floor in front of the hamper): friendship, honesty, commitment, communication, trust and above all, my-whole-heart-in love. Cheers this St. Patrick’s Day and to a wonderful two years, AB.


The {financial} battle of the sexes


I’m have no shame in admitting that I am NOT the breadwinner in this household. I just started my writing business last year and well, the boyfriend is a computer science dork. I will likely never be able to reach that kind of nerd-specific income, even if I published three books and regularly contributed to People Magazine. And I’m totally OK with it — my lifestyle is a LOT less stressful (fun, natch). We both love what we do, and share in household wants/needs/expenses, and that’s truly all that matters. We are a team.

Until it’s bonus time. We don’t spend it ALL, but do save a portion to do something fun or buy something we’ve been coveting. And while woman is still from Venus; man took a U-turn at a Black Hole.

Bonus time = woman thinks about adding a comfy side chair and ottoman, so she has a place to sit when he hogs the couch, and maybe adds flat panel tv stands to the apartment, since she hates glass tables (and a splurge maybe on a new pair of straight leg jeans JUST BECAUSE… well, because her ass grew three times its size from roller derby last year).

And man thinks about acquiring an iPad (even though HE ALREADY HAS ONE from his last bonus). And maybe some new underwear and socks.

The woman sees RED — and it is overloaded with PLUGS and EXTENSION CORDS. Which cannot be hidden any longer by those damn glass tabletops! *sigh*

Granted the items included in the woman’s redesign model in total would STILL be less than one piece of electronic equipment.

Can I least get the “old” one?

And I still want a telescope.

Men, women: how do you spend your little extra bit of bonus money? Shared household items, vacations or splurge?


Kind of a “would you rather” question.


Ooh-ooh! A great post from Heiss Chic today over at Technical Support.

I’m curious what you think (and please join in the conversation over at her blog too!): on a day when you look exceptionally good, would you rather run into your ex-boyfriend or your boyfriend’s ex?

As I commented on her blog that I could give two shits about my boyfriend’s exes (if you can even call them that… herein referred to as Temporary Bar Skanks). But running into my ex? I best be looking my best. And that means hair, make-up, clothes, weight… AND having my hotter-than-him boyfriend on my arm. HELL-O!

Your thoughts?


No, it’s not. You’re wrong.


As previously mentioned, the boyfriend and I suffer from a variety of communication issues (as I’m sure MOST couples can relate to).

Because of that, we have the stupidest arguments. Anyways, I was totally PMS-bitchy this week and kitchen-sinked him about his poor cleaning skills and something about fecal matter on the counter. Seriously, he put the LID of the litter box ON THE KITCHEN COUNTER. I flipped. OUT. I probably digged on him for not working out regularly too because that’s what females do — we get it ALL in when we’re pissed.

I shit you not we bickered — on a sub-freezing chilly walk over to the casino — whether a restaurant in Cleveland served family style meals (it doesn’t) and whether it was set up for large parties (it’s not). These sort of “discussions” typically end with AB saying “I’m done.” And then the communication is cut off. BECAUSE HE IS APPARENTLY ALWAYS RIGHT (ahem… not).

Surprisingly, our relationship is super-healthy because he eventually concedes (I know, I am TOTALLY irresistible even when angry), and I just silently clean everything with bleach and Lysol. We rarely raise our voices, so our disagreements can never be referred to as “fighting.” And by “we,” I mean, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him that mad, and we’ve already established that I’m a nagging bitch, so that sound is most definitely my shrilly voice.

Also: I go to bed angry. I wake up happy. And return to my semi-loveable self after having twelve cups of coffee.

What was your stupidest fight in your relationship?


White Christmas: the Cleveland, err Akron, Frontier


We went back to Ohio for five days, of which we spent most in the Akron area — AND I got to see all of my sisters (and two out of three brothers). Our family did a pasta bar slash White Elephant Party that I hope to celebrate similarly for the next decade. So much great (cheesy, saucy) food and fun gifts under one roof (and I stole a much-sought-after Smucker’s Sundae gift set from my mom during my second turn). And more than a couple inappropriate porn references.

Christmas is complete, now that I know what GONZO is.

For all you relationship wonderers (and for those newbie lurking nebbies): NO we did not get engaged this Christmas (like everyone else seems to). That’s not going to happen. For now or ever, so save that to your calendar, roll it up and smoke it already. BUT… I did get a super-sparkly diamond something-something that made me cry, so that’s enough of that mushy mumbling under your breath. He went to Jared? Pfffftttt… he went to Louis Anthony.

As for the rest of my holiday fa-la-la-la-la’s, this one beat out several other favorites on record for giftings:

An iPhone FM transmitter/charger for the car. We downloaded the MapQuest app on our way home too (now with vocal turn-by-turn directions!), which makes driving even easier for me in Pittsburgh and the need for another GPS useless (the last was stolen from my car).

For collective presents, we received a handheld steamer, a set of hampers and laundry accessories and another cupboard full of random kitchen accessories. Including a vegetable scrubber that I thought was an intentionally-guided dish brush. For our outdoor activities and subsequent camping trips: a bike backpack (for me) and a soft beer cooler (for both).

His parents are the best with stocking gifts: Chapsticks, toothbrushes, toothpaste, Wisps… and Cephalon-specific cleaning sponges (since I ruined all his pans). And FINALLY a much-needed replacement MAC make-up brush. I swear, I’ve had this thing as long as my blog.

Also: Gel socks? Never heard of them. But my new favorite way to both pamper and gross myself out.

The boyfriend was extra attentive at purchasing me David Sedaris’ new book
and a pair of Tom’s boots that I was drooling over, upon seeing on the feet of a Melt Bar & Grilled server back in October. Their “One for One” mission is amazing. And so are these vegan crafted olive wrap boots.

He also added in a much-coveted Steel City Derby Demons tee (tryouts in March!!!).

And then I got my ‘Burgh Verified t-shirt from Boring Pittsburgh in the mail. So, I’m all sorts of black-and-yellow permanence now. With pride.

But sincerely and without a doubt, the most awesome of awesome gifts (besides those diamonds, of course) was one that I created myself: my first article published in Pittsburgh Magazine, released just after Christmas. And I can officially mark all my goals for 2010 as completed.


You Know What I Hate?


Well, that title is rhetorical because there is an ever-rotating laundry and “honey-do” list of things I hate. Add to that:

  • Crowds
  • Dirty pans that sit on the stove for three days (and especially that grill pan that I cannot use the scrubber on… UGH)
  • Touching surfaces in public (doors, revolving doors, railings, elevator buttons)
  • Elevators, for that matter
  • Slow drivers in the PASSING lane (this is mostly an Ohio problem, so thank you, Pennsylvania)
  • The Apple sales associate who got that damn Paul McCartney Christmas song stuck in my head all weekend

But I really, REALLY hate that I can’t be an angry bitch face to AB.

I get mad naturally because he wants to put needless speakers all over the freaking apartment when there’s things that NEED to be done, such as scrubbing the bathtub — or laundry has piled up and, well, it’s Football Sunday — what woman wouldn’t? And I’m exceptionally short and unpleasant when I HAVEN’T HAD BREAKFAST(!!!) while attempting to play Frogger with every third person who walks-five-steps-and-stops in The Strip. But when I calm down (just a bit) to ask what his stupid intentions are, he puts on this innocent, smirky grin, as if to say, “You’re so funny when you try to be mean” instead of fearful of me being mad.

And I can’t stop the breaking smile while trying to reprimand his inane decisions.

DAMMIT! Why won’t he let me be a bitch?

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