Is it completely normal to be 30-something-years old and suffer from arachnophobia?  I’m going to go ahead and answer for you and say yes, it is absolutely normal to be middle aged and still deathly afraid of spiders.

I had a near-death experience with one just a few days ago.  I was the passenger of a vehicle and a spider tried to sneak-attack me from the side window.  Luckily, my quick-like reflexes helped my narrow escape and landed me in the lap of the driver.   Quite the nuisance for the driver, I’m sure.  But he wasn’t the one who had his life flash before his eyes.  I had no other choice.  It was either sacrifice my life in the legs of the spider, or save it by sacrificing time in the driver’s lap for the duration of the trip.  By choosing the latter, I live to see another day.

This isn’t my first brush with death with these eight-legged freaks, oh no.  They have come for my life before.  I’ll never forget when one, white in color, attempted to end me by jumping on my steering wheel.  Yet again, I had to sacrifice the body and exit the vehicle.  Luckily, the passenger was capable of steering the vehicle to a stop at the next intersection.  I had no other choice, it had to be done.

Ever have a tarantula in your garage?  I have.   Worse day of my life.  I screamed bloody murder and ran fast enough to enter in the Boston Marathon.  I hate to be the bad guy, but SOMEBODY had to get the spider out of the garage.  So, I forced my roommate to do it.  I didn’t want to be the dictator, but lives were at stake and someone needed to be the enforcer and final decision-maker.  I, at least, grabbed a plastic container and handed it to my roommate for spider disposal.  See?  I do more than just bark orders, I chip in as well.

“Jumping” spiders are tricky, leaping from one sneak attack mode to the next.  You never know where their final jumping destination will be.  Right when you think you have out witted their rapid reflexes, they side jolt and you’ve put yourself back in the line of fire.

“Fuzzy” spiders are just creepy and gross.  Their fuzz alone is enough for me to go screaming in the opposite direction.  ‘Nuff said.

There are three situations that are the worse for me: A spider on a toilet seat, a spider on a light switch, and a potential spider crawling up the side while you’re in bed…. Alone.

The toilet seat because your pants are down and this automatically makes you vulnerable.  And, a public toilet?  Even worse!  In one second you’ve got your pants down to your ankles and a spider attacks out of nowhere.  In another split second you’ve jolted out of the public stall landing face-down, ass up and on display for all of public to see.

Try walking into a dark room and reaching for a light switch just to be met by a man-eating spider waiting to pounce.  I’m surprised I haven’t caused myself to go into a cardiac arrest.

And last but not least, the infamous potential of a spider taking your life while sleeping in bed alone.  The “alone” part is most significant.  When there are two people in the bed, you have a 50/50 chance of escaping with your life.  When you’re alone, the odds of survival are significantly less.

When there is an additional body in the bed with you, start with Plan A: scream bloody murder to at least give the other person a fighting chance, then cover them up with the comforter to give yourself the remaining fighting chance to get the hell out of dodge.  If this doesn’t work, go with Plan B: If there is the slight chance that your bed partner escapes before you do, keep flailing about to decrease your chances of being attacked and start crying hysterically yelling, “Why would you leave me?!” Then, hopefully, they’ll come back to the scene of the crime and the spider will take their life instead, like originally planned.

I know that all of the above may seem like selfish acts, but remember, your life is at stake here.  At what great lengths would you go to save your own?

Pack Your Bags, Lady!

Somewhere, in the land of female, there is a guidebook that insists women bring every single hair and makeup product that they have ever owned and pack it with them when they travel, even if that travel consists of only driving down the block and staying for one night.

When I decided to venture into the world of “womanhood”  NO ONE shared this with me… NO ONE!  I did not realize that in order for me to replicate the same look that I oh-so-eloquently “throw together” in the mornings that I MUST carry ALL of the same damn products with me when traveling in order to achieve the same “throw together” affect, which my post Glam-it UP! clearly states that I am not good at perfecting this skill.

I thought my new “less than tom-boyish and more feminine” routine that I’ve been practicing for the past year was rather simple when comparing it to the routines of other women.  Until I had to pack for a trip, that is.

After doing so for a couple of trips this past summer, I’ve decided that this whole process is crap.  What happened to simplicity?  What happened to a woman hopping out of bed and the world seeing her as beautiful in her own natural way?

Thus, my adventure always begins with how to pack the essentially nonessential products to continue my longer-than-necessary beauty regime while on the road:

Shower Time- Hotel Shampoo and Conditioner are both crap, especially for those of us with long hair.  If you want to fight and bald your way through brushing your hair after using the provided complimentary soap, then by all means, continue.   But, if your goal is to come out with manageable locks, then plan on adding your own hair soap to the products list.

Body Soap- Ok honestly, it’s a hit or miss.  I don’t mind using the thin bar of soap provided, but every time I get out of the shower I’m filled with immediate regret after sighting the dry scaly skin that haunts me in the aftermath.

Body Lotion- Everywhere!  Now, some hotels provide a complimentary bottle of body lotion and some hotels do not.  Hey, if you want to risk not having body lotion in your room, then go without.  But me?  That’s a risk I’m not willing to take.

Facial Protectent and Face Moisturizer for Oil Skin- I’m plagued with oily skin.  Thanks, parents, for that one.   Anyway, in order for me to apply makeup, I must apply a moisturizer specially made for oily skin to prevent my face from looking extra oily.  I have yet to even notice any dramatic improvement with my continued use.  The Facial Protectant is used because the sales lady said I had to.  Yep, I’m a sucker.

Hair products- While the magical face stuff is “working its magic”, I apply a leave-in conditioner and moroccan argan oil to prevent my naturally frizzy/curly hair from being unruly.  I move on to other processes while allowing for product “setting” time (ugh…)

Makeup- The drudgery of makeup product application.  The process itself is exhausting, time-consuming and absolutely tedious!  List includes:

Eye makeup: Eye primer (helps keep the color in place and adds vibrancy to color), multitude of eye shadow colors, eye liner, mascara, and eyebrow liner (trust me, my eyebrows require it).  Don’t forget all the brushes that go along with applying eye shadows.

Face-Coverage: Foundation all over face, bronzer and/or blush to the cheekbone area, finishing powder and finishing spritzer spray (I’m sure the sales lady saw the “sucker” sign stamped on my forehead on that one too).  Don’t forget all the brushes that go along with it.  I don’t even scratch the surface on the products that a lot of girls use, such as concealer for acne, concealer for dark circles, face primer,  contouring powders, etc.  The list goes on.

Back to the Hair- Don’t forget all the tools that go along with fixing the hair for the day.  The hair dryer and hair straightener and/or any other hair tools that your imagination can come up with.  Oh!  And any finishing sprays that are currently on the market.  Because, you know, after all that bull crap you just went through it would be a pity if it all went to shit as soon as you stepped out the door.

Final hoorah is putting on clothes, picking out shoes And the PURSE to MATCH! Because what would be the point in going through all that trouble if you’re stepping out wearing a garbage bag?

What has this boiled down to?  About 50 articles of crap that gets lugged in its own special travel bag from point A to point B.

Most days, I don’t go through any of this trouble… at all, actually.  I’ve narrowed down my beauty routine to only take place on my days off from work, for a special event or the sighting of a “special someone”.  Seems like the opposite action for most.  But, considering I sit in a room all night long with little-to-no human contact, it would be pointless to go through the daunting task.  Now, if a change of employment is achieved, then maybe, just maybe, would this role reverse and fit in with the rest of society.

For now, I guess I’ll continue playing dress-up one to two days out of the week and maybe, just maybe, it’ll come to some good use and I’ll land a chance to also wear a few of those cool dresses collecting dust in the back of my closet  🙂

Funny Mother Fucker

The best way I start my day is when I wake up, open my eyes and say “I’m a funny mother fucker!”

I don’t know why, but as soon as this thought crosses my mind, I know immediately that I’m about to have the best day ever.  Even my stumbling sleepwalk over to the Keurig is done with far better swag than the typical run-of-the-mill kind of day.  Before I know it, I’m showing that coffee-making bitch who’s boss, struttin’ my stuff on in to the bedroom to make my bed (like a boss!) and hopping in that shower singing “Makin’ it RAIN up in here!”

Continue reading “Funny Mother Fucker”


There’s nothing worse than showing up at a bar… Sober… Single… with a gigantic purse on your shoulder, because NOBODY tells you NOT to CARRY your MONSTROSITY of a PURSE in a BAR!

Read: And the PURSE to MATCH!

Yep, I’m a newbie to the world of “big city” bars.  Apparently, there’s a secret girl code that you’re supposed to automatically know.  You DO NOT show up in a T-shirt referencing bicycles, jeans and a pair of crappy slip-on flat shoes.  Oh no… APPARENTLY, the appropriate attire consists of no purse whatsoever, bleached blonde hair with enough hairspray to ignite a small fire, and clothes that cost so much for such “barely there” material.

NO ONE shared this with me…. No one…

Anyway, what made the night even more interesting was the fact that I was sober.  A sober people-watcher looking around like a fly on the wall can be enough entertainment for the entire night, trust me.

For how small I am, I somehow managed to knock people over with my purse, or get myself knocked over.  After a couple of hours of this ridiculousness, the purse had to go.

Ok, now back in the bar with my official “re-entry” hand stamp and purse free!  Time to dance!  Because there’s nothing else to do and my legs wouldn’t quit wiggling from the oh-so-rocking country music booming from the hidden speakers (did I mention I was in a country bar?).

I also forgot to mention that my life has NEVER consisted of proper dancing skills.  I felt sorry for my partner before we even started.  Thankfully, it was a friend of mine that was quite polite and taught me how to properly “cut a rug” in a room full of country.  Thanks man!  And SORRY!  I know I’m terrible, but persistence will prevail!  As I’ve decided to liven things up and take some dancing lessons.

Ok, let’s go back to the people watching.  What I learned from my night out at the bar (mind the sarcasm):

Bleached blonde hair is the way to go- If all else fails and the beehive you’ve created on the crown of your head doesn’t do the trick, at least you have your bleached blonde hair to fall back on.  Somewhere at some point in time, there were a group of people that decided only blonde hair is attractive and any girl who wants to uphold this standard MUST come equipped with bleach applied to the head.

Mask yourself- There’s nothing wrong with wearing make-up.  Even as new as I am to the world of woman hood and glamming it up, even I enjoy the special effects that coverage and color have to offer.  But, according to Big TEXAS, if you’re going out to the bar you better put on at least 3 layers to disguise who you truly are.  With all that dancing and prancing around that you’re about to do out on the dance floor, some of that might wear off and heaven forbid anyone catch a glimpse of what you might look like in the morning.

Skin-it to Win-it- The less you wear means the more you spend on your outfit, which means the less you leave to the imagination of what you will look like naked.  OR!  Spend the right amount on clothes and you will possibly create an ILLUSION of what you look like naked…. I’m sure any way you slice it, you’ll make it work in your favor.  What ever happened to just being “you” and people thinking you’re awesome that way?  I didn’t win any points with my bicycle shirt that night, so maybe I’m completely wrong 🙂

Break a Hip!- It’s really sad when a 70 year old is getting more action out on the dance floor than I am.  Granted, those were the WORSE display of hair extensions I’ve ever seen. But hey, even she knew the golden rule of having bleached blonde hair.  What’s more sad, her daughter and granddaughter were out there cutting a rug with her!

I don’t know. Maybe I could learn a thing or two from the girls of night.  Times have changed since my last venture inside a bar and maybe I do need to “Glam-it UP” a bit.  As long as I don’t forget who I am along the way.  Because, honestly, I think I’m pretty fucking awesome!

And the PURSE to MATCH!

WTF goes in a purse?

Ok, for those of you who don’t actually KNOW me, I’m a newbie to the world of “purse carrying” and figuring out what’s suppose to go in it. So, essentially, this is about how to pack random shit in a purse.

Current weapons of choice:

Miniature flower umbrella- which has YET to serve a purpose

2 notebooks- 1 for tracking my iron pumping occurrences in the gym, and 2 for tracking my perpetual spending (still not serving a purpose)

Wallet- $21 a bunch of cards I never use

2 pens- even though I prefer to use pencil

1 bobby pin- it’s a hair “thingy” for you fellas that don’t know

ID badge- for my oh-so-important place of employment

1 case- carrying my iPod with my badass purple Skullcandy earbuds

MASSIVE cell phone- I still miss my dinosaur phone

Victoria’s Secret “Angel” Lotion– funny, I don’t feel like an Angel

Jack Black Lip Balm- no, not the guy from Tenacious D

Purple miniature hair brush- which, I hate because it actually hurts my head to use

Metal locker lock- this could also be used as a weapon while walking to and from the gym

Rolled-up cash amounting to $50- nope, still haven’t put that in my wallet with the rest of my cash

Car keys- I hate the sound of me carrying my own keys and I’m not exactly sure why.  Everyone else can do it, just not me

Phone charger- you know, just in case I run into an outlet that needs a charger

Silver case- carrying three mini tampons

I just realized that I have A LOT of “miniatures” going on in the ol’ purse… is there a miniature man in there, by chance?  One with a billion dollars?  Not today, it seems.

So, what this boils down to is I have a bunch of randomness going on in there.  Mostly just to fill the space of this monstrosity of a bag that society says that I need to carry.  Where did this stem from?  Reaching “middle age” and comparing myself to other “middle aged” women.  I started noticing these massively colorful bags that women choose to carry around with them and decided that maybe I, too, should be carrying a massively colorful bag.

So far, this experiment is not going too well.  I never remember to zip the damn thing up while I’m toting it around, I’m constantly knocking people over with it, like I did at Big TEXAS, and I haven’t quite figured out the proper way of “wearing” it or “displaying” it.  I’m not quite sure what the correct term would be to describe the “carrying” process of a purse.  Although, I am leaning towards using the term “displaying” due to the fact that these suckers are ridiculously expensive, overly decorated and large enough to sneak in a small child into the movie theater.

I’m comfortable with labeling my purse as mid-size.  I couldn’t quite hide a small child in there, but I could definitely pack an iPad 4, with a keyboard and case (future expense yay!).

Ok so, what is it that middle aged women carry in their secret shoulder luggage?  Why does it NEED to be zipped up?  Is there a traveling gnome in there being held captive?  Are there purse-carrying necessities that I should be aware of?

Moral of the story?  If you want to fit in with other middle aged women, then go buy yourself an oversized suitcase to wear on your persons at all times that will eventually lead to countless visits to the Chiropractor.  OR!  Just don’t give a sh*t and carry whatever you want.  For now, I’ll continue toting around this monstrosity hoping to, one day, come to some sort of a conclusion as to whether I should continue or discontinue.

To be continued…. 🙂

Cat Lady

I am the “Cat Lady”

But not by choice!

I’m actually not an animal person, although I do currently possess one feline. Which I’m not quite sure if he possesses me or if I possess him.  Never the matter.  I wasn’t going to let his scrawny ass die outside in the snow, so my guilt-ridden conscience took over that one freezing night about two years ago and sealed my fate as the cliché single, permanently available, Cat Lady.

We do not hold any special “pet ownership” bond whatsoever.  I’m sure if he could talk it would be about the same as it is now – silence.  We do hold certain expectations of one another.  He expects me to feed him and clean up his poop. In return, I expect him to remind me to feed him, and for him to leave me poop that I must clean up.  A silent, mutual understanding.

He doesn’t expect or demand any “petting” time from me whatsoever, nor do I even remember that he even exists throughout my day.  I can’t speak on his behalf but I can assure you he is perfectly content with this arrangement, as it works for me as well.  I do occasionally talk to him, as if he understands a one word I’m actually saying; or gives a flying flip, rather.   I’ll chalk it up as good therapy.

As much as I complain about cleaning up after this feline, I’ve decided that I’m glad we coexist. With me being single and not owning very much of any type of furniture, at least I can say I have a fuckin’ cat.

RESPONSIBILITY.  Usually, pet ownership happens in adolescence to teach a child the responsibility of a life other than their own.  Clean up after it.  Feed it.  Take it for a walk.  Or, leash it in the backyard, like I do with my cat (don’t judge me).  I’ve never experienced true pet ownership until two years ago and, of course, I get the one cat that didn’t come pre-wired with a personality.  He just plops on the ground.  All the time.  Nothing else.  Completely motionless and emotionless.

I guess I can say, the one “cat-like” personality that still reigns true is his inevitable ability to wake me up between 4:30 and 6:30 in the morning to… well, just be awake with him.  He begins by making his way into my bedroom, starts meowing at me, then finally resorts to clawing at my blanket until I shoot an evil eye back at him for interrupting my much needed beauty sleep.  And then he just sits there, staring at me.  WTF?  I finally ask him, “what the hell is it that you want from me?”  His rebuttal remains “silence is golden”.

Finally, I find my way out of bed and feeding him his wet food (gross) and crawling back into bed.  A mere 10 minutes later, take a wild guess where he is.  Repeating steps 1-3 to wake my ass up again.   But, for what this time?  Oh!  Pardon me.  I forgot to open the damn window blinds for you so that you can stalk your prey of squirrels and birds.  10 minutes later.  Still no satisfaction for this damn cat.  Now, he just wants me up.  But for what?  Nothing.  At this point, I feel like we should be playing charades so I can at least have a shot at figuring out what the hell it is that he wants from me.  It’s like talking to an infant “use your words!”  Except all I get in return is a constant meowing.

Ugh…  “Do you want me to pet you?”  Scratching the back and belly.  I swear, if he claws me again he’s going outside!  Permanently!  But, him and I both know that this won’t happen.  I’m too much of a softy and he’s been too spoiled living it up on the inside.  Finally, I’m curling up in a ball in my empty bed full of blankets and he has settled his way back at the window.  Like I said, I’m glad we coexist.  Who else is going to interrupt my sleep?  Besides, I’m a good talker and he’s a good listener.  It just “works”.


If I were a book in the library and needed to “shelve” myself based on a subject, I would have to just toss myself in the pile along with the other MISC titles and authors and hope that the librarian figures it out.  This is, by no means, an insult in any sense of the word.  I simply don’t fall in the lines of the typical social norms of a woman in her 30’s. No, I didn’t say I was “better” or “above” anyone else either. I’m simply “ME”.

Watching television never really crosses my mind.  I couldn’t tell you the names of shows and I certainly don’t have a clue what you’re talking about when you describe them to me, which also explains my issues with vocabulary.

Continue reading “Library”

Feet I

Anyone who knows me is aware of how much I DO NOT like feet.  I’ve never had a problem with my own, just everyone else’s.  When I’m out and about, minding my own business, and someone comes along invading my space by showing off their feet in either barefoot form or some open-toed pair of shoes, I have to stop everything I’m doing and glare at them with an evil eye.

And it’s not just once!  I have to continue making glances at these feet as if they are giving me an ugly look or taunting me.  It’s like a car accident- terrible chain of events but EVERYONE has to stop what they’re doing and stare.  My own foot habits use to be that I wouldn’t even wear open-toed shoes unless my feet were “up-to-par” for the chance that everyone else would be glaring down at my own.  I’ve never been a frequenter with a pedicure, but I use to go to great lengths to make sure they were pampered.

Well, the other day I wore sandals and I kept staring at my own feet and came to the conclusion that I no longer like my own feet either.  I finally looked down and said to them, “I don’t even know who you are anymore!”  But it’s true!  I DON’T recognize my own feet anymore! I can’t decide if they look bigger, or “wider” or the toe nails just don’t have the same “youthfulness” that they once had.  Can’t quite put my finger on it; nor do I literally want to.

It’s the whole “getting older” thing that I’m not quite fond of, especially when it comes to below the ankles.  It’s common for other women my age to make it a point to get pedicures, but I’ve never worried or thought of doing the same.  Should I?  Would this new adventure fill in the gaps of this distorted relationship that I now have with my lower extremities?  Will I finally understand what the big “hoop-la” is about getting pedicures and hanging out with a bunch of other feet AND allowing a complete stranger to violate mine?

To Be Continued…..                        Feet II