The type.

My mom says I’ve picked up strays since I was three years old. First, it started with worms. I would find a worm on the sidewalk and felt bad that there were no little wormy friends around to keep it company…and in my shoebox filled with dirt it went (and it would promptly die in 2 days). Then, I moved on to dogs, cats and bunnies. As I reached my twenties, my fascination with strays quickly diverted from worms to people…mostly men…fixer uppers..a different kind of worm. “But, they have potential!” Famous last words. Luckily, I learned rather quickly that this was a guaranteed detour to heartache and distrust and have since moved on to bigger and better things…like being single! But, it made me think…is the “bad boy fixer upper” my “TYPE?” Puff.
I effing hope not. Most girls are attracted to this type. Rough around the edges and soft and warm like a cookie outta the oven when you’re all alone snuggled up on a couch. Usually, the soft ooshy gooshyness of this tough guy cookie becomes a hard, concretesque, blob of douchebag who breaks your heart. So, in recent years, months, I’ve decided…I need to…change…my…type. Granted, not every guy I’ve been attracted to has been a total a-hole, but it’s like they have a honing device and can find me and sucker punch me and BAM, I’m hooked!Puff.
I’ve know girls who want the geek.Lovvvve the geek. Clark Kent…who turns into Superman once the lights go down! Reoooow! But then, once they have the geek, do they wish that they would be the tough guy if some guy gives you a tough time at a club? Do they want said geek to become a puffer fish himself and explode into a vengeful wrath of fury and protect his woman!? Puff.
Are we ever fully satisfied!?
We want the guy who will dance at a wedding, but split another dudes lip if he needs to. The guy who can practically recite Catcher in the Rye (or at least knows what it is!), but can mount our TV because he owns every tool on earth. The guy who will buy us tampons and then change the oil in our car…god bless dirty “I work for a living” hands!Puff.
Someone recently said to me that girls want men to go to work and make the money and be the “big man of the house” and then go home and put on an apron and “get in touch with their feelings.” He promptly then said that this concept was bullshit. Puff. We can’t have it all for one human being, but luckily we have friends who fill those gaps that said manpiece doesn’t quite fulfill.
For instance….take a dear friend of mine. Married to the “perfect guy.” He has a great job, great family and they all play trivia on the weekends. However, when they sit at a table together, the only thing perfect is the oven roasted chicken between them. They barely…even…like…each other. But he is her “type” and she is his. They look faneffingtastic on paper and most people think they are the quintessential couple. The problem is… neither one is the others type in reality. While she loves to hike, he likes to play video games. While she watched HGTV, he watches porn. But by golly, they look smokin hot in their wedding pictures! Such a “perfect” couple. Puff.

So once upon a time, we all created the perfect mate, but maybe if we just open our eyes a little more to the important things like love, respect and loyalty and look for those things instead of the “good on paper” bull…then maybe having a “type” doesn’t matter so much. And please, don’t let your daughters play with worms. Depuff.

A Table for Puff

Welcome to the world of singledom. Table for one…uno…two minus one…one plus zero…so…lo! Sure being single has its perks, but the “let’s get back into the dating pool” world totally, 100%...blows! Yesterday I was told that I’m naïve for believing that real love actually exists and that one can be in a relationship without cheating. I’m sorry, did I miss the memo that people have turned into complete dbags in the past 5 years!? Puff. So with those thoughts in my back pocket, I reluctantly accepted an offer to go “grab a drink.” Now, stop me if I’m wrong, but typically on a first date, if you’re asked by the dude, should maybe, partially be planned? Oh no, not this charmer…Not only did I have to pick the place, but I had to pick the time, what HE drank, and had to tell him what was acceptable to wear! I didn’t even have my hair dyer on before I was ready to bail. Puff.
So Prince Charming shows up in his lame Mustang…clearly an extension of what he may be ehhh hemm…lacking annnd not to mention my least favorite car of all time…. and as I’m watching this tall piece of hotness get out of his car, it happened…he grabs his red solo cup from the console and there, right in front of me…a huge, black, nasty wad of chew came spewing from his mouth into the cup! Retreattttt, Rettttreeeat!!! Oh God, it’s too late, he’s already seen me…if this dude even remotely thinks I’m kissing him goodnight he is sorely mistaken. I’ll more likely be checking to see if his lower gums are even intact! Barf! Puff.
45 minutes,17 yawns (on his part), one bud light, one glass of wine and a $13.00 tab later… I sat there wanting to morph to anywhere else but there, and finally it was over. I sat in my car for a minute and thought to myself, “Is this as good as it effing gets!?” Has dating become so casual that it’s OKAY to not expect chivalry and even some decency!?Puff. I gave said dbag a one armed hug and promptly drove home.In my quest of not settling I suddenly felt empowered and realized that no, indeed I am NOT naïve. I have every right to believe that there’s a “good one” out there for me and that the guy won’t cheat…or dip. I I curled up on my couch in my snowflake pajamas and thought to myself, that wine bar was really great, but next time, I’ll take a table for one. Depuff.

FacePuff!

Dear Facebook-
The past two years I have had a severe love/hate relationship with you. Sure, you’ve connected me with high school compadres and my third grade boyfriend who kissed me in his pool, but you have also morphed me into a jealous click happy raging lunatic. Puff. Because of you I have checked the status of the ex girlfriend of the ex boyfriend, then clicked on a picture to read the comments, only to click on the name of the ex boyfriends sister to find out her profile is private (Damn it!). Because of you I have wasted precious work time perusing pictures of my seventh grade friend’s ugly baby, all because it’s better than an Excel spreadsheet. Puff. You have made the phrase, "I face book stalked you" an everyday thing...I mean all you need is an e-mail address or a location and BAM!Puff.
And Facebook, here’s a little piece of advice…how about you don’t suggest my ex-husband and ex-boyfriends as people I “May Know.” Yeah, facebook, I know em…I’ve effing seeing them NAKED! I’ve been their facebook official girlfriend, been deleted and been blocked…SO NO FACEBOOK, I DO NOT WANT TO ADD THEM AS MY FRIEND SO EFF OFF!!!Puff. You have invaded my otherwise peaceful existence with a tagged picture of one friend who is friends with an ex and then there… on my home page is my ex…happy, half naked and smoking with some fat chick on his arm. No thanks. DELETED. Puff.
You have made me make life decisions about who should realllly be on my friends list…I mean, does my “friends” list mean I’m friends with these people, cause if it does, I’ve been a horrible friend because frankly facebook I barely talk to any of them!Puff. You have made me question my own life by showing me everyone I graduated with and their sweet little babies…and then there’s me…divorced and babyless. If only I could live in my own little single world without babies and houses and perfect little lives invading my bitter existence.Puff.
Yes facebook, you are my, and the rest of the worlds guilty pleasure and I love you for showing me how fat my middle school bully is now (haha suck it meany!). I adore you for keeping me busy at the doctor’s office and for making my blackberry’s little red crackberry light go off when no one is a textin, but facebook…you bitch…get your effing act together!!!! Depuff.
Love, me and my awesome click happy girlfriends

The art of Puff.

“This is MY party…MY house and MY birthday!!!!! I just want to screammmmmmm!!!!!”
Last weekend I was hired to be the nanny for an 8 year old girls slumber party…and the above statement..is what I witnessed. This tiny girl threw a temper tantrum so gargantuan that I thought she was about to morph into the Incredible Hulk and take down everything in her path.
At first, I watched in disgust as this little girl screamed and sobbed at her own surprise birthday party. Puff. Some of her friends, who of course were cheerleaders (side note-if I were 8, these girls would have been my worst enemies!) continued to do Russians and splits on one side of the room, while her other friends watched in horror as the birthday princess had a complete effing meltdown….and I…found myself being jealous. Puff.
When we’re eight we are completely entitled to a meltdown…a temper tantrum if you will. It’s like she got a “get out of life” free card just because she was eight. Granted, her issues were slightly less trivial than mine…if she got the flower frosting on her cake, and who was going to be lucky enough to sleep next to the birthday girl. But it made me think…wouldn’t it be nice if we, as twenty or thirty somethings, were entitled to a temper tantrum!!?? Puff.
The whole concept of being a puffer is that we hold things in until we can no longer stand it, and we puff. But how great would it be if we could scream “BUT this is MY life! And I want HIM!!!!” about the boy who we liked and didn’t like us back. Or, if we aren’t being paid enough…we could walk into our bosses office, tears running down our face, cheeks red, and yell, “BUT I’M NOT GETTING PAID ENOUGH! GIVE ME MORE MONEY! NOWWWWWWWW!” Even writing that is therapeutic. Puff.
As adults, we are supposed to be poised and graceful. We handle rejection in the solitude of a bathroom stall or in the car listening to Sarah Bareilles. We are certainly not entitiled to have a meltdown the instant we hear something disappointing to us. Puff.
Birthday girl’s meltdown lasted a good ten minutes…and by the end of it all, she was left with tear stained cheeks, a piece of cookie cake…and in time out.
Would it be worth having a time out if we could just have a little temper tantrum once in a while? I left the next morning and practiced in my car…and it felt damn good. Depuff.

Here's to Hope.

Hope. There’s a little part of us that yearns for the type of love that shakes us to the core…the type of love that is dangerous, witty, affectionate, sexy, compassionate, funny , honest and warm. If love is what we hope for, is the grass always greener on the other side once we’ve found it?…Or does it mean that we haven’t even found our great love in the first place? Puff.
Sure, being single has its perks. You’re free to leave the kitchen cabinet open as long as you please and if you want to use the softest toilet paper on the market because it feels good on your toosh…you can do that too. But at night, we are are all alone with our thoughts, regardless of who is next to us (or not next to us) in our bed. We are left with the thought that this…is…my….life. Puff. And then you wonder, “Am I settling? Is there something better out there?” In my case, I’ve dubbed myself the “runaway.”Does this mean that I’m scared of commitment? No. Does it mean that the next poor fella that decides to date me is destined for a dramatic departure from yours truly…No. It mean that I refuse to settle. Puff.
I want to smile and laugh. I want to look across the room at a Christmas party and say, “God I love that man.” And so far, that has not happened for me. I’ve loved, and I’ve been loved, but have not been so in love that I can’t picture my life without the other person. Puff. Perhaps I’m destined to be a cat lady and devote my time to charities and feeding local strays. Puff.
And how, how do we keep ourselves from being attracted to the same type of person? My nail lady said in her Vietnamese accent, “Go fo geeky. Geeky good. Hot no good. Hot man hurt you. Geeky man tweat you like preencess.” Her name is Jenny and I adore her. Is that the truth? Do we have to completely change what we “look” for!? Some of us are addicted to musicians... A LOT of us are attracted to the guy we can fix (those are fun! Ugh!)…so how do we STOP ourselves from being drawn to them like sad little magnets? Puff.
For now, though, in the midst of my recent singledom, the only thing I will settle for is chocolate chip over peanut butter or Mexican over Thai. And maybe, just maybe, hope will follow through. Depuff.

Puffer Fish Unite!

Once upon a time in a little place called friendship, girlfriends were created, and they are quickly taking over the shoulda, woulda, coulda’s of the world. “I knew you would come back here after talking to your girlfriends and feel all high and mighty. They probably told you ‘you can do it! Don’t settle!,’ and you listened.” This…was actually said to me. Puff. Often, our boyfriends, husbands, whatever…think that we don’t have a mind of our own and that we are all Sex in the City clones who are attached at the hip and can’t even wipe without our girlfriends present. Talk about misunderstood! Puff.
Sweet little ignorant boys (they’re all boys until proven otherwise)… not only do we have minds of our own, but often times, we are lucky enough to find a gal, or a handful of gals who are just as sassy…just as smart and just as outspoken as us and that…intimidates…the shit…out of you. Puff.We can drink a bottle of wine and dance around to Britney Spears in our undies and laugh. And then, we can encourage the amazing women that are our friends to look in the mirror and see what we see, and to never settle for anyone who doesn’t see that. Puff.
“I don’t even like your friends and I don’t care if they like me.” A tell tale sign that said boy in question is not right for you. You see, women may seek their opposites in a mate, but when it comes to girlfriends, we seek a kindred spirit. We look for ourselves in a friend. We look for someone who will bring us up when we are down, someone who will make us laugh when our cheeks are mascara stained and someone who will find a bathroom for you when you reallllly have to go. We look…for our soulmates. Boys will come and go, but a friend is a soulmate who comes into your life, sometimes just for a season, and always makes us appreciate who we are and why we do what we do.
So in the end, my response to the beginning statement of this puff…my response to the boy who “ACCUSED” me of listening to my friends…my response was “You bet your ass I listened to them!” Depuff.
…For my soulmates

Puffy Gut

In life we’re told to “listen to your gut.” I listen to my gut when I want Mexican food or when a brownie sundae is calling my name, but I have severe issues with listening to my gut gut…the gut, the whisper inside of you that says, “Wooohoo, helllllew, this is wrong!Abandon ship!” That gut…Puff. I’m finding it hard to believe that there is someone for everyone and if there is, I just get skipped right on by by Cupid, and get crapped on by the dysfunctional relationship gods. Call this a pity puff, but damn you gut, why!!??? Puff.
There are times in a relationship where you say to yourself, RED LIGHT, RED EFFING LIGHT, but you pass it off as a “flaw” in their personality and justify it because you love them. Is someone supposed to change for the other person, is that what makes relationships work? Should you have to alter your thoughts and chameleonize yourself just so you can say, “So and So and I believe that…?” So you can be a couple…a union, who believes and feels the same things. No thanks. Puff. And herein lies the problem, you can’t just go around dumping people just because they do something you don’t like. It’s about learning from them and appreciating them for who they are, and you take the good and that bad. But once again, you have GOT to listen to your gut. Puff.
Someone once said to me, “You’ll know as soon as you make your decision if it’s the right one.” The relief that comes with reclaiming your independence and your singlehood is bittersweet. In general, it’s a miserable experience, but if you’ve listened to your gut, and the bastard said, “Time to say sianara sistah!,” then you know you’ve made the right choice. And then, if you’re anything like me, you feel like thee most douchetastic bitch on earth for actually being honest with yourself and the person you love. Puff.
In the end, it is YOU that matters. It is the girl who still listens to New Kids on the Block, the girl who shares ice cream with her dog and the girl who can’t help but go with her gut…it’s that girl that matters. Ship Abandoned.Depuff.

A Puff for the Dumped.

A waste of time? “Seven years, four months and three days down the effing tubes.” The common response to the perfect, or so you thought, relationship that just blew up like grenade right..in front…of your face. Puff. Does it happen in a day, a month, a year maybe? When does the dumper decide.. “I’m done.” And the more disturbing question, how long do they wait until they actually get the balls to tell you how they feel? I think we’ve all been in both scenarios and it sucks either way, but man does it craptastically suck when you are the one being dumped. Puff.
When do you become strangers…roommates even, and when do you go from being IN love to just loving the other person? Did our grandparents, who were married for sixty years to each other…were they REALLY in love for the ENTIRE time, and if so, where the hell do I sign up for that!? Puff. Whether you’re the dumper or the dumpee, ending a relationship is never easy. It takes two to effing tango and If you’re the only one dancing…and you’re dancing in circles around the other person…it WILL NOT work. There’s a fine line between wanting to make a relationship work and letting yourself be walked all over like a freshly mowed lawn. Puff.
Granted, every day in a relationship is not filled with puppies and buttercups, but for the love of all things LOVE, can it at least be at least be a little fabulous.!? Puff. Sometimes, you don’t think about happiness in relationships until you’re sitting at a restaurant…looking at all of the couples around and you think to yourself, “Hmmm, they’re actually talking…having a full out conversation about something.!” There’s laughing and flirting, and touching and loving, and all you’ve got is a half eaten bowl of salsa and simultaneous facebooking at your table. Puff.
Often we mistake our reaction to their reaction as our own emotion. You dump them, they cry, you take them back because you think it’s the right move, but really, you just…feel bad…for them. And don’t forget, you love them…but you’re not in love with them. And by the way, hearing that statement come out of anyone’s mouth is like taking a bullet. A big fat “YOU’RE NOT GOOD ENOUGH” bullet. Puff. You break up, you cry until you can’t cry anymore and eventually you stop crying.
The point is, we HAVE to make ourselves happy. And whether you’re the dumper or the dumpee, it just means that that relationship just wasn’t the one for you…and you’ll be ok.Depuff.
For BT

Grab some puffs...

The first time I saw my ex husband after we had separated was FAR from graceful. There I was…at a bar…with my party girl cohort, and we were ready to celebrate a night of singlehood. I walked in like I owned the joint…huge smile, huge cleavage and a huge…HOLY SHIT…out of all the bars in this cheesy beach town, why, out of all bars does HE have to be here!? My girlfriend shreaked as if she had just seen a rat and quickly ushered me under a stair well, but not before I was spotted by the ex and his scantily clad and beer chugging entourage. I immediately left feeling defeated.Puff.
In retrospect I should have walked right up to him, said “Oh hi, fancy seeing you here,” and walked away, flaunting my post divorce hot bod for all to see. But NO! That is NOT the way the real world…or a girls world works! We don’t want to say hello! No! We want to run and hide and probably cry and maybe even vomit! It’s so easy, once we see them…or hear about them, to remember the good times and glorify them, so that by the time we get back in our car or we sign off our computer…we want to cry, and probably do…and then we watch The Notebook and cry even more! Boo effing hoo!Puff.
We certainly don’t want their beer guzzling, porn watching, non sensitive, immature ass, so then WHY do we become so mortified and upset when we see them or hear that they’ve moved on, even if we, moved on before them!? I think the reason is simple. As women, we put ourselves back into our old shoes and try to figure out WHY that wasn’t us. Why is new girlfriend/wife good enough to take on trips and I wasn’t? Why does she get to be the mother of your child and I, who spent a bajillion years with you, am not? We love the “what if’s?” Ugh. Puff!
So what has worked for me? Crying…crying usually works. Kidding, I’m kidding! Listen to some good chick music, look around your current world and be proud of how you got here. Thank said ex for teaching you what you don’t want, and maybe even some things you do want. Take a deep breath, grab a piece of chocolate and move…on. Depuff.

Chameleon.

I remember standing in Home Depot the day I left my husband (now ex-husband). At that point I was still trying to make thee hardest decision I’ve ever made….little did I know I was just a few hours from leaving everything behind. I stood in Home Depot picking out paint colors for my new home with my husband. While I was being instructed as to which colors HE liked and HE wanted in the house, my eyes drifted to the Disney collection of colors on the far side of the wall that would soon represent my life. I saw a vibrantly awesome shade of hot pink. I picked up the paint swatch and said to my best friend, “This is me. I’m hot pink. I lost that part of me. Where’s the hot pink!? I am NOT camo green!” It was at that moment that I realized that I had changed….for a man and for a life I thought was what I wanted. Puff.
There are times in a relationship where we step back and have a moment of clarity, an “ah ha” moment where we ask ourselves, “Do I actually enjoy this? Or do I do it because HE enjoys it?” This…is a tough question. We all know girls who are chameleons. If they date a guy who’s into sports, the girl suddenly knows everything about said boys favorite players and sports teams. She invests in cute pink sports jerseys and indulges in Sunday football with the utmost enthusiasm (this is usually the point where I want to punch her), when months ago they were complaining about how much they hate football season. So where is the line between Chameleon and Adjustment. At what point are we changing ourselves to coexist with the other person rather than just partaking in a few of their interests? Puff.
Sometimes, like in my situation, it blindsides you and before you know it, you’ve lost yourself, or who you used to be. I HATE camping and I found myself pretending to enjoy it because my husband liked it. I slept in mildewey tents and peed outside (which I am MISERABLE at doing!) all because I had convinced myself that because he loved it, and I loved him…that I too, loved camping. I did not. I do love singing. And dancing. And writing. I love going to bookstores. I forgot who that person was until the week after I left my husband and my best friend put a journal on my desk at work with the simple inscription, “Hoping you find your inspiration.” I have NOT stopped writing ever since. So, is it the guys fault or is it our fault for letting ourselves get so intertwined in someone elses life that we forget what WE actually enjoy. I’ll often people watch, especially at parties or social gatherings, and I’ll watch the girl, sitting loyally next to her fella, nodding at everything he says. She laughs when he laughs, rarely speaks and certainly never asserts her opinion. I often wonder what she’s like when she’s with her girlfriends, or alone in the car. Puff.
I still write in my journal, and nestled inside the front cover is a taped Hot Pink Disney paint swatch reminding me to never lose the hot pink that is me.Depuff.

Jabba the Puff.

"Wow, you were definitely smaller then!" The older I get the more I realize that I will NEVER look the way I did when I was 19....ever again, and THAT, is depressing. We look at ourselves everyday in the mirror and typically think that not much has changed since our carefree days of college. And then you see it, a picture of yourself in college, and you think to yourself..."Wait, I can't be wearing shorts in that picture, I don't wear shorts." And then he (as in your sensitively retarded boyfriend) says, "Look how small your legs were back then!" Puff.

Not only do I now want to put a lifesize snuggie over my entire body, but I immediately look down at my legs....then at the picture...then back at my legs, and realize that not only was that me, but "WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO MY EFFING LEGS AND WHAT THE HELL DID I EAT THAT MAKES ME FEEL LIKE JABBA THE HUT NOW!?" I retort with, "I don't look that much different!" knowing full well that I probably have eaten my weight in the skinny bitch that was me ten years ago....and then some. And then they alllllways say, "But I like you the way you are now." Right. Why don't you just give me a fat kid pity pat and give me a snack pack!? Ugh. Puff.

Getting older is not fun, and I'm not even 30 yet. When did I go from being a petite college chick to being a "thick" (for the record I hate that word!) professional woman...whenever it was, I want that time back and I want to tell myself to wear every tube tob, every junior size and every pair of shorts I possibly could because I will never look like that again. Wow....talk about a proverbial smack in the face, which by the way is now showing its first sign of wrinkles. Puff.

But I will say this...Although my pant size has grown and I've gone from "chicken legs" to "softball legs," I still get carded for Rated R movies, and I still get whistled at when I go running, and I still have a birthday every year...which in itself is a blessing. DePuff.

Puffy things I don't wanna see!

Last night, for the first time in a very long time, I changed for the gym in the Ladies Locker room. Typically I have no problem walking around in my bra and underwear (you will NEVER hear me use the word panties…I despise it!), even when I’m not feeling my hottest. But, who in the world told these chicks that walking around with all of their lady parts exposed was ok!? Puff.
I remember sitting in the YMCA ladies locker room with my mom when I was 8 or 9 and it was just a sea of floppy boobs. I remember thinking, “Whoa this is weird!” and feeling reallllly uncomfortable coming face to face…errr nose to boobs with ladies who looked like my principal. This is exactly how my experience was last night. Boobs…lots and lots of sagging, sweaty boobs greeted me the instant I stepped foot in to the Nakey Zone…aka…ladies locker room. I mean, am I not supposed to stare!? I feel like I’ve stepped back into my eight year old self and instantly feel awkward and want to be invisible. There’s only one half of a bench available and the other half of the bench is occupied by a very large pair of cream colored Hanes her ways. This only means one thing…there’s someone…very close by…whose bum belongs in those things! And before I can make my move to a bathroom stall or another bench, I see her. She is old. She is white. Irredescently white, with bright purple varicose veins begging to get out of her pasty legs. I try not to look, but she’s right next to me! I put my ipod on, but then that makes it almost pornish…providing a soundtrack to the nakedness…eww! Her boobs are large and there is no distinction in color from areola to boob….none! Weird! And then, of course, the 70’s bush. PUT THE UNDIES ON LADY! NO ONE wants to see this. I look around to see if anyone else is as uncomfortable as me, and other women are just carrying on half dressed conversations about their kids and their cats. Puff.
Eventually, Hanes her way puts on her undies and I breathe a huge sigh of relief. I go into auto pilot and change as fast as humanly possible and pretty much run out of the locker room. My entire spin class, I’m plagued with the images I’ve just witnessed in the “comfort” of the Ladies Locker Room and I decided that I will ALWAYS…ALWAYS change before I get to the gym. De-puff.

Smooch.

The moment is here. You're about to have your first smooch with the gorgeous piece of man that has just taken you out for the second time...or maybe first.You've imagined what it's like to kiss him. You watched the way a drop of water caught his lip after he took a sip of water, and the way he licked it off. That could be you!You could be the drip! You've imagined standing on your tippy toes and him leaning down to kiss you. He'll touch your chin with his finger ever so slightly and it will be heaven. You've inhaled 4 pieces of gum, 1 tic tac and used a brush-up in the bathroom all in preparation for this moment. You close your eyes, minty fresh breath ready to go, and pucker up...and then it happens...TONGUE! Lots and lots of sloppy boy tongue grossness! PUFF!
Where did some boys learn to kiss? Last time I checked, we were born with tonsels for a reason and I'm pretty sure the male tongue is not supposed to violate and/or try to remove them during a sensual smooch. They touch your face like they're going to give you a tom cuise "jerry maguire" kinda kiss, and instead he ends up vaccum sucking your face and it ends up being more like the exorcist! A perfectly good guy...ruined...kaput...all because the poor fella doesn't know how to work his mouth and all of its innards! Puff.
And now let me introduce you to the no tongue "This is my sweet side" kisser. Bore. These fellas do lots...and lots of short overly lippy kisses. There's not even an instant where we, as ladies who loovvve romance and passion, even get remotely turned on...not even a smidge! There's no time to even get the turned on twinge! It's like little lip cotton balls being dabbed on your face every 3 seconds...again...BORE!They kiss your eyelids, the top of your ears, and of course the tip of your nose with the danityness of a freaking butterfly...Not hot...Not hot at all. Puff.
The kiss can make or break the potential for another date. No matter how smart, good looking, charming or irresistable the boy may be...it's all about the kiss.De-puff.

A single puff.

In the past two years I have had many moments of clarity, some so profound that I can’t help but give myself a figurative slap in the face. I’m a Cancer…so technically I can’t “help” the way I am sometimes. I mean, my astrology book tells me that Cancers are sensitive, emotional, have stomach issues (hellllllo IBS! That’s right…I said it!) AND have big boobs (hello double effing D!). So if that’s accurate, can I blame my astrological sign on being an overanalyzing, often irrational maniac!? Please say yes. Puff.
Why, please somebody tell me WHHHHHY, I can’t seem to grasp the concept of letting things go. And it’s not just me! In my circle of friends it’s amazing how many times we will bring up the crummy things that people have said or done, months or sometimes even YEARS ago and no matter what fantastic things they’ve done since said crummy event, we NEVER….EVER forget! Puff.
“Remember when he told me that he didn’t like my favorite pair of pants because they made me look like I had swamp ass!?” We’ve allll had a moment like this! You think you’re looking F-I-N-E and then BAM, he doesn’t like it! However, nine out the ten times you dress up to go out you practically can’t leave the house without him trying to molest you! But still, you will not forget the one time he didn’t like your damn pants. Puff.
The older I get the more I tend to overanalyze things and I think I’ve figured out why. I’m almost 30. I thought I would have my life right where it needed to be by 30. Not so much! So, when things don’t go according to “plan,” it’s like you’re running out of time to make…shit…happen. Be married, have a baby, have core group of friends, great job and nice house. Whoa. Talk about pressure! Who the hell said we had to have life and alllll of its perfections down to a science by the time we are 30!? Puff.
Is it easier to be single because we just don’t want to deal with the let down of ANOTHER douchelord messing with our life plan!? Here’s how it goes down…You and Prince kind- of –charming have been dating for 6 months. 6 months…that’s half a year. Half a year closer to you being another year older. Half a year closer to you maybe or maybe not having said perfect life. No effing pressure! Sheesh! So, if it doesn’t work out have you wasted 6 months on someone, when you should have been with someone else? ORRR, do you take it for what it was worth and be thankful for the fun you had and the lessons you learned?! Hmm…I go with choice A! I mean, tick tock people! I got over that whole “be thankful for what you had and what you learned” bullshit 1 divorce and 3712839 bad dates ago! Puff.
The one thing we can count on is that no matter what, we will be ok. We were ok before crappy, not so crappy, and life changing relationships….so we’ll be ok after. We can count on ourselves, our family and our girlfriends to be there when life throws us a curveball and the “plan” doesn’t go quite the way you thought it would. Take chances, but don’t settle. Love, but don’t lose yourself. And at the end of the day, and on my last day of 29, with that thought in my pocket, I know that I’ll be A-OK, no matter what. De-puff.

A Sign for the Puff

I think I had a major sign from the “Stop eating yourself into your fatpants” gods today. No lie. I was at lunch with a friend, and once again, I was chomping on the salty goodness of tortilla chips and salsa, a routine activity for me. I was thinking to myself, “Man, these things are delicious, I can’t wait to have anoth-----------“ OUUUUUUUUUUCHHHHHHHH!Right there, in mid bite, an itty bitty rock of salt leapt off of the chip and into my right eyeball. This….hurt like a bitch. A BITTTTCH! One eye closed Puff.
I quickly grabbed a wet napkin and plunged it into my eyeball trying to melt the meteor of salt that just embedded itself into my contact. It took two napkins, half a glass of water, one contact lense and looking like a crackwhore in the middle of a restaurant for me to say to myself, “PUT THE CHIPS DOWN!” Speaking of crackwhores…I am a chipwhore. Who the hell needs drugs when you can fiend for something much more delicious? ANNND certainly no one’s gonna plot an intervention over your adoration of the tortilla chip? At least crack makes you skinny! Bad joke. But still…Puff.
The older we get the more I realize what bitches age and metabolism are. My roommate and I had an ENORMOUS candy drawer in college that we had to fill weekly because we showed no mercy to a Twix bar. Now, I even think about a Twix bar and my ass not only grows a little bit, but I also get a stomach ache. What happened to just doin whatcha want!? Eating whatcha want? I’ll tell ya…Skinny Bitches took all that glory and soak it up for themselves. Not only that, but for those of us who actually have to work on our aging bods, it gets more and more…oh, and more discouraging trying to attain a great…or even pretty good bod. Puff.
This puff will be short and will end with a rhyme.
How do we lose weight if we don’t have the time
You pick up a chip and almost lose sight
And all you want is another bite
The things that taste good are so bad, but delish
I’d rather eat pizza instead of grilled fish
I’d die for some ice cream
I’d sing for some cheese
But I really want to just fit in my jeans
So with much hesitation, I’ll say with a sigh
I’m gonna lay low on the things that are fried
I may wine a little, I’ll bitch and I’ll huff
But nothin’s as good as a much needed DE-PUFF!

MeatPuffs

The Gym.Is.Hilarious. Nowhere else on earth can you find such an eclectic group of people allll trying to achieve the same goal. Look HOT. In general, I am a people watcher. I’ve always wanted to know everything about everyone and often wonder, “What’s their story?” The gym is a fantastic place to do this. Not only can you be incognito because you’re struttin yourself on the elliptical, but you can also have a soundtrack for this incredible journey all in the form of an ipod.
The gym is A LOT like high school. Puff. You’ve got your meatheads, your fat kids
(I may or may not fit in that category…depends on who’s doing cardio next to me!), your “wanna be” meatheads, your workout barbies and your couples. The best part about the gym is the outfits that these gaggles of gregarious gymgoers sport while lifting, spinning and running.
One corner of my gym is like a mini South Beach with a vast aray of wolverine like men in thee smallest tanktop you’ve ever seen on a man… all held together by miniscule “sleeves.” They’re pecs bulge out from either side and they walk like they’ve just been violated by something in their southern hemisphere. No thanks. Puff.
The other, more ridiculous version of a meathead is straiiiight outta Jersey Shore. They own stock in LA Looks hair gel and probably sleep in a tanning bed at night. These guys wear winter hats with those cute little brims perched to the side with huge sweatpants and a T shirt that they’ve intentionally shrunk 36 times in the dryer to get it just right. They probably played football in high school and think they’re still Captain. Go team! Puff. These guys make me want to vomit into my treadmill cup holder simply just watching them. Sure, they’re in shape and they’re there to work out, but the moves these fellas make is straight outta National Effing Geographic. “Watch carefully as the Lion (Meathead) stalks its prey (Skinny Bitch). He lurks through the grasslands (treadmills) and makes his way slowly towards his next meal (next conquest) and suddenly, BAM, ATTACK, the cheetah lunges (approaches carefully not to mess up his perfectly gelled do) and takes down his prey (idiot girl who thinks he’s cute and has never done this before.) These people need their own gym... and maybe even their own planet. Puff.
Fat Kids. I’m not commenting on the fat kids. They’re at the gym…they’re doing their thing. Good for them.
Wanna Be Meatheads. Ahhh ha! Hilarious. Probably my favorite spectacle at the gym. Often decked out with a bandana (which yes, I am guilty of once sporting the bandana…it was pink and it was cute! Suck it!) hugging their hedgehog like coiffe for dear life and usually some sort of lame tribal tattoo on their arm. They’re skin has never even been even remotely kissed by a ray of sunshine and they usually have some sort of perv patch growing somewhere sporadically on their face. However, these guys walk around like they owwwwn this gym, think that chicks love them and usually come in pairs. Keep an eye out. Puff.
Workout Barbie. I complain enough about Skinny Bitches so I will only say one thing. I seriously saw a skinny bitch with FAKE eyelashes reapplying lipgloss while taking a kickboxing class and flirting with the guy next to her. Nuff said. Puff.

I also have a woman in my spin class who insists on doing ballet mid class. Right.
Couples. There is ZERO need to make out at the gym. Puff.
With that being said, I wear my black pants and black t shirt and black jacket (imposter North Face Jacket) that’s covered in dog hair. My hair is still a little bit wet from the shower I took 10 hours ago and plopped into a messy bun and I think my granny panties may be suffocating. But instead of a bitchfest I write this as a thank you…Thank you to all of you fantastically ridiculous people at the gym for making my workout go by SO much faster, and to my ipod, for putting a soundtrack to it all! De-puff!

Chocolate Cake A la Puff

If I could have a conversation with my 17 year old self the first thing I would say is…For the love of all things standardized, STUDY WAY MORE for your SAT’s, that way maybe when you’re 28 you won’t be stuck in a job you hate! Then I would tell myself NOT to cut my own bangs and to not date any more boys whose names begin with B. I remember my dad telling me to “pay attention to all of the history in England and France because you may never get this opportunity again.” Come again, by history did you mean foreign boys? Because I’m pretty sure that’s the ONLY think I paid attention to. Hindsight is a bitch. Puff.
Regret and hindsight are two different things. I REGRET eating the piece of 3 day old chocolate cake today that was stuffed with so much cherry pie filling goodness that I almost had a mini O. But, in hindsight, would I still eat it? You bet my ever growing ass I would. I REGRET not wearing knee highs with my pumps today because it’s 30 degrees outside. But, in hindsight, my feet look way cuter without them! And then the more serious note…the ever popular and always uncomfortable question…Do I REGRET getting married? And if my answer is yes, then what is my hindsight? And if my answer is No, then why did I get divorced? A lot of people say they don’t live with regrets because the things they have done in their life have made them who they are and have taught them a lesson. ..So what’s my excuse. Puff.
What is my answer to that question? I do regret getting married. I do. How can I possibly wish that I would ever feel that way? How could I not regret feeling ashamed that I made the wrong choice? Puff. Now on to my hindsight. In hindsight, I realized I have figurative balls the size of watermelons and that I am A-Ok livin life all by myself. So many of us wish we could change something in our past. A decision we made, a person we dated, a job we took or something we said. We harp on the what if’s? The truth of the matter is if we focus on the “Look at what happened,” instead of the “what if’s” we may be a little better off.
For instance, what if I didn’t eat that cake? Answer: I’d be sitting at my desk clawing at my mousepad and fiending for anything remotely chocolate. What if I did wear knee highs? I’d probably have had to go to CVS to buy some clear nailpolish to fix the runner I have in my pantyhose! And what if I hadn’t gotten married? Who the heck knows….That’s the best part about the “What if’s”….You never know what would have happened if you didn’t make the choice you did.
As women, we are tough cookies who can be balls of mush. We overanalyze and harp on things we can’t change…I…am the queen of this. Something I have learned is that we can't control the things that end up making us stronger, but we can cerainly learn how to evaluate why things happened and appreciate them for the purpose that they served. Instead of saying , “WHY MEEEEE!” Maybe say, “Ok, My turn…now what!?” and find a solution. We have more strength in us than we even know and if we can all just take a little gander at the inner cookie of toughness, our hindsight can be a great thing!....With that said, still NEVER EVER cut your own bangs.De-puff.

Yes.No.Maybe

Yes.Maybe.No.
Three itsy bitsy words that have been embedded in our heads as girls from the first time we liked a boy. When we’re younger it’s pretty easy to tell if you’re official or not…If his notebook says I ♥ so and so on it, you’re in like Flint (I always thought it was FLynn, apparently it's FLINT! WHO knew!?). If he lets you borrow his hoodie or a movie…GOLDEN. If you’re still confused, you pass him some origami shaped note with the simple phrase: Do you Like ME? Yes. No. Maybe. Circle One. And as untrained, naïve boys they usually answered us honestly. The older we get, the harder it is to tell if we’re their girlfriend…they’re girl…friend orrrr simply just their “I’m gonna call her the instant I’m a hornball” friend. We can’t pass them a note anymore and if we dare ask if we are “official,” we look like marriage hungry losers. Puff.
And it’s not like we’re asking after 5 minutes of dating, or whatever it is we’re doing. Typically, you’ve already done the deed, met some friends, maybe even the parents…but the second you throw out the word GIRLFRIEND they act like little lab rats shuttering from the sight of a lab coat. Talk about awkward! Very rarely does a guy say, “Hey, I really enjoy spending time with you and I don’t want to date, rail or spend most of my time with anyone else.” Because if they say that they might as well say, “I’m agreeing to sleep with you, and only you until we break up.” The thought of commitment typically scares boys right out of their damn britches. It’s like love is a little war to them and the second the girlfriend bomb is dropped, they think RETREAT, RE-EFFING-TREAT! Puff.
UNFORTUNATELY, once again, Facebook has created a status monster. If his status says “single,” when in fact, he’s dating YOU…it might as well say, “Chick I’m sleeping with and seeing everyday just isn’t quite awesome enough to announce to my 535 FB friends that I’m dating her yet.” Hmph and Puff! I wish our status could say, “He kinda has a small weeny, is scared of commitment and LIKES greys anatomy, but I like him anyway!” That would be faneffingtastic. Puff.
So, this begs the question…How in the world are we supposed to know without asking!? Do we wait for them to introduce us as their “girl,” and does “my girl” mean girlfriend!? How long do we effing wait for them to invite us to be in an effing relationship on Facebook(and p.s.- Have I mentioned that FB is a spawn for all things jealousy and neuroticism!?) Moving on… Why in the world can’t we ask!? I mean, sheesh, it’s not like we’re getting any younger! To make matters more confusing, unlike when we had their hoodie in high school, if we end up with a pair of their pajama bottoms, or even meet their mom, who by the way loves us, this STILL doesn’t mean you’re OFFICIAL. PUFF.
While there’s no official answer to the official question, I say go ahead and ask em and if he acts like a punk, then at least you didn’t waste your damn time! Yes. No. Maybe. We may not be passing notes, we may not be claiming hoodies, but these boys should be writing our names allllll ovvah their proverbial notebooks, and if they aren’t then move.the heck.on! De-puff!

Punky Puffer!

"I still wanna be friends though..." Ahh, the infamous words from the guy who wants to let us down gently. In my life I've been the dumper and the dumpee in relationships. I've let em down gently and I've also been known to pull the ole cold shoulder trick. I've written more "i wanna break up with you" letters than I care to admit...but never have I ever said, "I still want to be friends!" Never. In guy code, generally, "You're a great friend," really means, "We had great sex and while I have zero emotional commitment to you, I'd still like to rail you as often as possible." I don't exactly think this sentiment comes with matching best friend braclets. Is it possible to be friends with an ex? Sure. Once you're both over eachother and have moved on, and can confidently and non-ackwardly discuss your new lovahs! However, I've noticed that guys, those sneaky bastards, like to swoop on in with the "friend" move almost as soon as they dump your ass. While you're still listening to Pink's "I'm still a Rockstar" on repeat and have barely dried your tears, homeboy sends you a text that reads, "I need your opinion on something."Puff.
Well since we ARE friends, sure, I'll give you my opinion on something...what is it, clothes, food, new job? And here it comes, said dbag says, "So I've been talking this girl and-----" Before you can even fight through comprehending the rest of that sentence, you are instantly brought down to Punky Brewster level. You're like "kid sister," except you just saw this dude naked 2 weeks ago. Vomit. Puff. He wants to know YOUR opinion on why his new skinny bitch of the month doesn't respond to all of his texts, or doesn't want to meet his family, whatever it is.... And this, ladies, this is when it's decision time. To have any kind of relationship, you should have been friends first? Right!? So, as his friend, you could suck it up and give him your opinion. Well, Punky Effing Brewster, SCUHHRREEEWWW that! Lemme break it down for ya:
Boy breaks up with you.
"Let's be friends"
Boy meets new girl..aka...skinny bitch (they're all skinny bitches)
New girl doens't like boy so much
Boy comes to you for advice
You politely give him advice
New girl breaks up with boy anyway because he's a dbag
Boy runs back to you, sad, needing affection
AND BAM...you wake up naked, knowing your BFF just used you for rebound sex!
See how that works. PUFF.
So, before we go being accessible sex to ur ex boyfriends, let's think twice about what it really means...and let's hold off on matching BFF Bracelets. De-puff.

Fancy...Pants...

"You look like a Million Bucks"...This phrase has an entirely new meaning to me as of this past weekend. A few weeks ago I bought a pair of designer jeans at a SUPER discount, and every time I wear them I feel like I need to yank my shirt up just a smidge so that the gold tag embellished pocket can glisten for all to see. Of course I wear these designer duds with my $6 Old Navy Shoes and plain white long sleeved shirt I got on clearance at kohls for $2.90. Sidenote...Kohls has AMAZING sales...and their candles! Yum! I digress. I found myself on Sunday walking around a swanky mall feelin good cause I had my fancy pants on. I even had the balls to walk into Nordstrom like I owned the joint...and there it was...Puff.
A gaggle of pre pubescent, soccer playing, brace faced thirteen year olds covered in so much name brand gorgeousness I had to take a picture. There was Michael Kors, Coach, The North Face, Rockin Republic AND I think in the midst of all that couture I even saw a Prada...a real one. I felt an instant high off of seeing such gorgeousness, such lavishness...such, wait... when I was 13 my mom took me to Bradlees and I was lucky if I even got Hanes undies and these little brats and their rubber band mouths get MY (as in the one I've been socking away $25 a month for!) Michael Kors bag! PUUUUFFFFF!
I...was...jealous of these little twits (hence my bitterness and juvenile remarks about said 13 year olds!)who didn't work a damn day in their life to earn such perfection hanging from their still growing arms! Do they even realize how lucky they are to have such greatness!? Surely not. And then I started thinking about the kids in their school...who can barely afford the Faded Glory brand from Wal Mart and have no idea who Michael Kors is. I remember the first time I saw a GAP bag...I was in eighth grade and saw the navy blue bag with those fantastic white letters. I said "What is G-A-P?" to the popluar bitch holding the bag. "Hahahahah you guys, you guys, she doesn't know what the GAP is! Don't you ever like shop at the mall!?" No, you stupid horse faced slut (she wasn't then, but sistah friend had about 3 kids by the age of 18...suck it!)...I don't shop at the mall, we umm, can't afford it. I had never felt so embarassed or worthless. Contemplative Puff...
Seeing these little pre-madonnas at Nordstrom brought me right back to eighth grade and I instantly wanted to wrap my whole body in my plain white Tee...with no visibility of the "coolness" on my back pocket. I realized that status is like a blind taste test. Dr. Thunder vs. Dr. Pepper...Dr. Thunder may in fact taste better, but Docttttahhh Pepppah's got the name and it's $1.25 for a can, not 25 cents. Wow."Wow, I love those jeans, what are they!?" Common, common question in a group of women. You better hope you're wearing something noteworthy orrrrr you simply say, "I can't remmmember what kind these are..but I got them at Nordy's!" When you know full well...you got em on super clearance at Target. God Bless TJ MAXX...at least they make it possible to own at least one pair of fancy pants and not promise your first born to the sales clerk! Apprently expensive dictates cool, but um, have ya seen a runway show...That shit is UG-UH-LEEEE and I wouldn't be caught dead in half of it! Vomit and Puff!
Are we happier when we have money to buy whatever we want and not have to worry about bills? You bet your ass. Would it have been nice to be born into the Lucky Sperm Club where everything is simply handed to us? I used to think so. But then I met said members of this elite "club" and realized not only do they have any regard for society or the less fortunate, but most of the luckey speremers I know...druggies and sluts. Excellent. No thanks. I have zero respect for people who don't earn what they have and don't appreciate the things they are GIVEN. Whoever thinks money makes you a good person...no dice my friend, no dice. Do the C's on your coach bag make you a better person...Hell to the No. Are my no name flats the most comforable shoes I've ever worn? Yes...sweet Jesus I love them! When you're down in the dumps and need a shoulder to cry on, do you care if that shoulder is decorated in Hanes or Ann Taylor? Nope! I walked away from Nordstrom hoping with all my heart that that gaggle of tweens fully appreciates what they're flaunting allll over their eighth grade classrooms...because somewhere in that class there's a little girl wearing no name jeans and has no idea what The Gap is...and that, pre-madonnas, is A-Ok.De...puff.

Cream Puff

In the movie version on my life I walk around my house in Christian Louboutin heels and a Juicy Couture bikini and there is not one ounce of imperfection on my ass...or thighs...or stomach. I can wear ANY jeans I want and if I'm feelin sassy, I'll even slip my skinny ass into a pair of Juniors. That's right "Angels" and "Mudd," I'm comin for you bitches! Puff.
Weight. You bitch.The way you effect a woman's sense of worth is impecable. And why..please for the love of all that is remotely fair, tell me whhhhy do we always lose weight when we're upset...when we're wallowing in our sorrows? I walked 8 miles a day...every day...when I was deciding to leave my husband. Those 8 miles a day were thee most therapeutic steps of my life...and I lost a good 30 pounds....Then, I got over it. Puff.
Food. Glorious, amazing food is both my best friend the kind of enemy I want to spit on and even kick a little. I cannot walk down the cookie aisle without imagining the sweet taste of a double stuffed oreo...those things are like little pillows of perfection placed between two chocolate slices of heaven. And cheese....cheese is the most amazing food on the planet. Anything you can add to grits, eat plain or on a burger is an incredible, incredible food. And who the hell can pass up a brownie...a warm, fudgey corner piece of a brownie is like the best sex you've ever had...except you don't have to see yourself naked. Score! But then...then I think of my ass, and how it resembles a shelf. My ass literally starts in the middle of my back and takes it sweet time coming to an end. It has a mind of it's own when I dance, run or even walk. Some guys love big bums, ummm have they seen this thing!? Puff.
And let's discuss the "muffin top." I will never forget the first time I saw a picture of myself, trying to breathe in a pair of size 4 jeans...and there it was...the top that was muffin. That couldn't be me!? No way. But I remember thinking the jeans just sat a little funny...no my little puffer self...you ate yourself into needing a much bigger pair of pants! Even if you cut any remnant that there was even a size ever noted on what you're wearing...you know...you know that those size 4's, or 8's or whatever you once were that made you happy...those are but a distant memory...and now, now you are in you effing "fat pants." Screw you fat pants. Puff.
Weight watchers told me that for my "petite" size of 5'1" I should weigh 109 pounds. Hi, weight watchers, my right thigh weighs 109 pounds! I almost spit out my 2 point itty bitty snack bar when they told me that...and by the way...if you eat the whole box of snack bars...that's only 8 points, so that's ok, right?! Puff.
I have discovered in recent months that despite the skinny bitches at the gym who make me want to rip every ounce of fat off my body, and the way my ass looks in the mirror in spin class...that I actually semi-enjoy working out. I can relieve some stress, have a little dance party on the eliptical listening to my ipod, and I can think about allll those people who have described me as "cute," or "chubby!" Everyday... I decide to go to the gym so that the ENORMOUS pile of "Pants with Potential" can kiss my shrinking ass, cause I'm comin for ya. De-puff.

Worth the Fight?

I've been pondering whether I'm bitter or not? If me, writing about ex boyfriends, ex husbands and genuine dirt bags around the globe is because I'm insecure and bitter...Heck yes I'm bitter...But I am NOT insecure. Guys have this incredible way of making us feel like we have no backbone and no gusto sometimes! Sometimes they can make us feel so incredible, but when it comes down to an argument, somehow WE always end up feeling bad, even if they...in fact...are the douche bag in the scenario! How does this happen? And why do we go back once they've made us feel like poo? Watching a good friend cry is never an easy thing to witness, and typically I become like a mama lion protecting her young. I'll go straight for the jugular of any guy that belittles, cheats on, hits or generally hurts any one of this puffer's friends. Puff.
The comradery of girlfriends is unbelievable. Once I sat in my living room and cried on the phone to one a friend that "No one would ever fight for me. I wasn't worth fighting for." And within 30 minutes I had a D'Giorno pizza, chips, wine and "Sex and the city" at my doorstep in the form of one amazing friend. Love can make us take down our walls, can make us forget that at one point in our life we swore off men , and give us new found confidence. But the second we are hurt, we are sent into a disastrous tailspin filled with ben & jerry's, slutty decisions and lots and lots of wine. I've never hated and loved and emotion so much in my entire life.Puff.
The good news is that when we're on the couch in our pj's that we've worn for 3 days straight...with mascara stained cheeks, sitting in the dark...we can look to our right, and sometimes our left if we're extra lucky, and see the silver lining that is our friends...and for that, I may just give this love thing another shot. Depuff.

Waffles...

Spaghetti and Waffles. A friend of mine told me about a book called "Men Are Like Waffles, Women are Like Spaghetti..." So, what does that mean? It means...MOST men can compartmentalize things, whereas women smoosh everything together into one, messy, entangled blob of emotion. However, in the past two weeks I've had two girlfriends tell me about the guys they've been dating. These "prince charmings" not only have spaghetti for brains but are so removed from the idea of a waffle, that one would almost think these guys came fully equipped with a vag! On another note, I've also been introduced to this guy, who said to a friend, "I don't have to chase you anymore. I have whatever I want with you. And on a Guy and a Girl level, that is not good for me at all. Once the girl is trying, I get turned off real quick." This, my friends, is an actual quote and I've never been so appalled at the reality of this quote in my life. The Chase. The damned Chase. We aren't effing gazelles fellas. We are women and if you'de just give a sistah a chance, you may see that your idealistic notions of the eternal chase is a bunch of bullshit. Puff.
Guys. Waffle headed guys have this AMAZING way of being able to separate love, sex, money, work, ex-girlfriends, friends and family. Whereas, we, the spaghettis, can ALWAYS find some way to intermingle all of these categories into one overanalyzed ball of mush...which usually ends in tears, at least for me. For instance, girl finds a letter from ex girlfriend from 3 years ago...girl automatically assumes boy has feelings for ex. Is he still talking to her? Why did he keep it? Does he love her? Oh God, is he sleeping with someone else? He's sleeping with someone else. In most cases, this usually leads to a "talk" where said girl usually ends up looking like a pathetic, insecure, irrational ball of firey jealousy. Whoa. Once again, Satan...rational mind back...please!? Thanks.Puff.
Guys, however, unless it's staring them in the face, there is zero overanalyzing involved. Zero. Boy finds letter. Boy puts letter back. That's it. Puff.
We are not insecure. We are spaghetti and we mush...we mush everything together and that's ok. Am I emotional? Sure. Are most women I know emotional? Yep. But this, this is what makes us the best friends and greatest moms. This is what makes us who we are. I also think that the mush factor also means we have an incredible intuition that let's us know when something is wrong with our children when we're miles away from them...It gives us the strength to get through love, marriage, divorce,births, deaths and tragedy. And for that, I'll take my spaghetti brain any day. De-Puff.

She's a Bitch...

Some days it just hits me. Women...are bitches. Living in the uber religious state that is Virginia, I've learned that bitches can really be classified in different categories. We've already covered the "Skinny Bitches" so we won't revisit that one, but the vast aray of mean and vindictive women on this planet is nothing short of amazing.
Let's discuss the religious hypocritical bitch...she'll tell you that she prayed for you last night because she heard you curse, but you better believe she'll judge ya and practically burn holes in your skin with the way she looks at you! She'll demand a corner office, thinks gays are an "abomination" and will be the first one to take 97 "Free samples," but it's ok, because shes " a christian." Puff.
On to the next one. The Fake Bitch. For the record, don't invite people who you don't like or vice versa to any sort of event...wedding, baby shower, bat mitsfah...whatever...just don't do it. Fake Bitches will do this JUST so they a)look like they aren't bitches 2)know there's a chance to humiliate you and c)When you leave crying the fake bitch can say,"I was making an effort by inviting her!" The "fake" in fake bitch may as well say "vindictive, selfish condescending whoreface." These are my least favorite. These bitches kill you with kindness and tell you they like your shirt, and then go to their gaggle of other bitches and say "Eww, do you see her shirt!? Sooo ugly!" These girls will swoop up your boyfriend...and your best friends allll while playing buddy, buddy with you, and before you know it, you've been blindsided. This happens all too often and these bitches deserve a warning sign on their foreheads.
The Driving Bitch. These ladies have serious road balls. Not only will they flash a middle acrylic fingernail at you in a heartbeat, but they'll do it alll while going 38 in a 65. These ladies don't dare roll down their window, and the second you're at a stop light next to her, she "has a phone call!" Ha! Puff.
Are we all guilty of being a little bitchy sometimes? Sure thing! You betcha! Case and point...this blog. Someone I know once said to me about a bitch encounter, " She knows what she's doing, and he (as in The head honcho upstairs) knows what she's doing. When you do good...you feel good. When you do bad, you feel bad." And that, my friends, is all that really matters. But I say it feels a little bit better to be nice...genuinely nice...no fakeness or middle acrylic fingernails necessary. Depuff.

Dear Rom-Coms...

I've come to the conclusion that "Sleepless in Seattle" created the monster that is me. I became a hopeless romantic the instant I saw Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan at the top of that stupid empire state building. I think I was maybe in 5th grade when that movie came out and ever since then, I've wanted all relationships to be synonymous with the rom-coms of my generation. Puff. Let's be honest, I'm no Meg Ryan, Kate Hudson or Julia Roberts...Just plain ole me. And hello, plain ole me...this is your subconscious speaking...those bitches aren't real! Kate Hudson, in real life, divorced that dude from the black crowes...and Julia Roberts...was married to Lyle Lovett! Guhhhrrrooosss! But somehow we forget all of that the instant these ladies are swept of their Louboutins by the gorgeous creatures that are Matthew McConaughey and George Clooney. Puff.
In essence, our boyfriends don't stand an effing chance. These poor boys, who have probably not even seen said chick flicks are competing not only against someone who doesn't really exist, but against something they typically know nothing about...and was written by a woman, or a gay man (God bless em!) Granted, real guys have their moments of sweetness, which in my case, are unequivocally appreciated, but the stupid tom hanks factor always come into play in my mind. Puff.
Let's discuss this. What if we stop comparing and appreciate the things they do that make us smile? Stop hoping for our fellas to show up in the middle of a gala in his jeans and flops to proclaim his love for us for all to see. Ain't happening. What if we get back to basics and just appreciate a funny joke or when they pay for our dinner. And what kills me is that the hopeless romantic in us won't let these crazy notions go, which is ultimately unfair to whatever poor chap decides to date us.
So to Tom Hanks and all rom-coms ever created...I love you. You have shown me what being a romantic is all about...but for the love of all that is real and genuine on this effing earth, give the real guy a chance! De-puff.

Rough Drafts

The older we get the more ex boyfriends we have and the more new girlfriends they get. Let's face it...they're your ex for a reason...but I'll be damned if the next girl is prettier, more successfull or god forbid skinnier than me! My ex-husband and I had created a list of places we wanted to go together and thanks to his "I'm going to put you dead last on my list of important things in life" mentality...we never went...to any of them. I wasn't asking to go to Fiji...just New York effing city...and as luck would have it, the first time I have to send him an e-mail through facebook (which in itself is a disastrous pit of jealousy and misconception!)right there...in big cheesey smile photos...my ex and his new, skinny girlfriend..at the Empire State Building. Thanks for that. Ass. PUFF.
The point is, why is it that we feel like it's a personal vendetta against us when they move on...even if we're the one that ended it?! Here's my theory. It's like we're the rough draft. Guys can push our buttons,test our boundaries and see how many times they can completely forget something important we've said until we finally toss in the towel, or vice versa. And this is when the real frustration begins.PUFF.
In essence you've molded them into what a perfect (or not so unbearable) guy should be...but not only is it too late for you to reap the benefits, but some other chick gets to benefit, allllll while thinking, "His ex-girlfriend must have been crazy to let him go!" Double Effing Puff.
The worst of all scenarios is when you actually know the new girlfriend/wife/baby mama...whatever she is. You know her...maybe you've even hung out alll together. You.Your ex. Her. Her ex. Did they have chemistry then? What am I, an oblivious blob of chopped liver! This kills me! Out of the bajillion people on this earth...you pick her. Again, thanks for that. Asses.
Then there's the ex who was SO against marriage that he proclaimed in front of you and alllll of your friends,"Marriage is not for me..." thus making you feel like the biggest piece of dog poo on the planet! But you...you have to laugh it off, like "Ohhh you're so funny! He's kidding..he's uhh kidding.." And then not one little year after you break up he's engaged to some patchouli wearing, lesbaru driving art teacher who hardly knows or appreciates the effort you put into creating the guy he is to her. Puff. Puff. Puff.
Unfortunately in my vast aray of friends from state to state...this is a common misfortune. So I say to myself, and to you, you fantastic girlfriends of mine. Screw being a rough draft. De-puff.

Puffer gets a "God" Wink

David Lichtenfeld strikes again. This is neither my nor David's idea, but it sure did play a MAJOR role in my life, right when I needed it. As I said before, pay attention. Pay attention to the signs in your life. Calm down, I'm not a damn gypsy and I'm not a preacher either. I'm just a girl, who had some amazing people come into her life right when I needed them...almost like they were placed in that very spot just for me. Like David. The instant I sat down on that plane, he looked at me and said "My darling, I can see in your eyes that you're heartbroken." How in the!? What the!? I had never met, or seen this man in my life and he knew. Of course, I then told him my life story and he told me about "God" winks... and a book with that very title..."When God Winks." Living in the Bible belt the second I hear God I'm ready to run for the hills because I'm afraid somebody around me is going to throw their hands up and praise all that is holy...or whatever.Welcome to the south. Though I'm not a religious person, I am incredibly spiritual and when my buddy David tells me there are no coincidences and to pay attention I listened. I bought the book and gave it to the people who came into my life as a "godwink." The book also godwinked a little quote into my heart that I will never forget. "You cannot sit on your baggage, beside the road, waiting for your destiny to come to you. You must get up, get going, and leave your baggage behind. Go for what you believe to be your destiny, and look for all the signposts along the way -- the godwinks -- that are the messages of reassurance that you're on the right path." At that very moment, this puffer who had puffed for the past year about what to do about her crappo marriage...de-puffed...and moved on. Thank you GodWinks ;)

A Puff on "Potential"

How can you possibly convince someone to stop loving? My entire life I have not only worn my heart on my sleeve, but I am also notorious for being incredibly protective of anyone who I care about. Unfortunately, as women, we are balls of mush. Not only are we balls of mush, but we overanalyze everything and everyone...I do this to a fault. "He's such an ass...but I love him." This eensy weensy phrase makes ZERO sense, but I have said it and so have the majority of my friends. PUFF. "I know he's a good person...he has the potential to be so great." Vomit.When I was married I remember thinking to myself many times, "This is it? This is what love and marriage is supposed to feel like?" Not so much. I nestled myself into the comfort that was my life and settled for a mediocre existance. There's always that one thing that gets us...the way they kiss, the jokes they tell, typically they get you when it's time to go to sleep and they are the sweetest, gentlest, most romantic creature you've ever seen...and we forget that just four hours before this same gentle lovemuffin was telling his buddies, "I am NEVER getting married," "Damn, if I didn't have a girl, I'd be all over that." Scuuuhrrrreeeew that! PUFF. Why do we continue to settle for less than we deserve and put ourselves in situations where we know there is great potential for hurt, yet keep going back? Why do we settle for the potential someone has instead of the greatness someone has already achieved?

The Puffer Fish...and the Skinny Bitch

"Eat a cheeseburger." My favorite line to the quintessential skinny bitch. Catty? You betcha! I mean, in essence they can't help it...they were born skinny...but they were not born skinny bitches. What is a skinny bitch? Chances are you encounter one everyday....they are hardly an endangered species. These are the girls who can wear boy shorts and not have to worry about one dimple, one imperfection...and then, these skinny bitches go out to McDonalds and get a #1...supersized and laugh at the fat chick behind the counter. They are girls who wear side pony tails and makeup to the gym...and occassionally even fake eyelashes. PUFF. They can still shop at Limited Too, and bikini shopping is fun for them. These are the girls that while you're shopping for a size ten, she is asking the clerk " Umm, I don't see any
0's!?" Puff. Now granted, not all skinny girls are skinny bitches. My best friend is skinny..but not a skinny bitch.
The worst is when a skinny bitch looks at you in your size tens that are practically clinging onto your "love handles" for dear life and with her skinny bitch eyes says, "Are you really gonna eat that?" or "I wouldn't leave the house if I weighed what you weigh." It's all in the eyes.
I purposely sit with my back against the wall in spin class so that the skinny bitches who are just going to "get tone" don't have the chance to snicker at my voluptuousness. PUFF.
But the best is when you see a skinny bitch at a bar or a club...after one malibu and coke, that skinny bitch is on the floor, probably puking, because she doesn't have a damn thing to sponge up the alcohol. So, skinny bitch...while you're singing "Pocket full of Sunshine" one minute and then barfing the next, I'll be on the dance floor, shaking my badonkadonk and drinking a cornona. De-Puff.

I'm no Carrie Bradshaw...

But I do have a lot to say about things I have learned about life, love and the importance of friends...and a good glass of wine. Something I have yet to write about...being a divorcee. What a crappy, crappy word. Damaged goods. Failure. This is what I thought. No one ever tells you that your life won't be what you want it to be. Parents and teachers say "Believe in what you want and go get it!" Ok, well...I had a house, a husband, two dogs, a cat and a flat range stove top...which is what I always wanted. I never got a chance to cook on that flat stove top. I chose me. I chose to not pretend like life was perfect and to actually see what would actually happen if I followed my crazy intuition...and more importantly, my heart. This puffer started puffing when I realized that I was losing who I was. I would sing in the shower, only when he wasn't home, and I completely stopped writing. I was forced to listen to punk rock music, rather than the greatness that is hip hop and r&b. Let the puffing begin. It took six years, lots of tears, one wedding, one lawyer, one unlived in house to finally believe in me....and in love. We think about soul mates...we think that there is one person who is put on this planet just for us. But what if we change? What if your soul mate doesn't change with you? Does this mean they aren't your soul mate? And really,if you're in IA and your soul mate is in CA....how in the world are you supposed to meet? Divine Intervention? I believe in tunnells. What is a tunnell? I met a very wise man the day I flew home to be with my parents and get my head clear the day I decided to leave my husband. He possessed 76 years of wisdom and grace and in one hour made me believe in love, and fate. He explained that "a tunnell" is someone who helps you see that there is hope at the end of your journey. The tunnell is not your soul mate...they are simply put in your life to hold your hand and guide you. I had a tunnell. I know many people who have tunnells. My 76 year old guide also taught me to pay attention...pay attention to the way you feel, the people who cross your path and the signs that you're doing the right thing. He took my journal from me, which I had yet to write in, since it had been so long....and he wrote this:

"I expect to pass through this world but once. Any good thing, therefore, that I can do or any kindness I can show to any fellow human being let me do it now. Let me not defer nor neglect it, for I shall not pass this way again."


....Annnnd de-puff

The Puffer....at Work

One. There's always one. One person, or in my case,one politically confused, ocassionally anorexic but would die for an m&m, judgemental, alcoholic woman by the name of....Are you kidding!? I can't name her, I would be fired and banished to cattiness hell for the things I say and think about this woman (aka- spawn of all things elitist and snobby), whose eyes are severely bloodshot at least two times a week from the amount of wine she consumes. Whew...this already feels better. My puffer syndrome begins as soon as I walk in at 8am and she is the only one in the office...we don't even say hello. Once she commented on my "fashion sense" by saying to a fellow co-worker,

Spawn: "Oh,you went shopping and got a new dress, what's it like?"
Co-worker- "It actually reminded me of a Jenny dress..."
Spawn: "Oh, you mean it's really low cut?"

Classic...My co-worker was referring to the sleeve style of the dress, but elitist, alcoholic spawn wanted to get her dig in. I'm sorry Spawn, that you have a chest that is no more developed than a pre-pubescent boy...Sorry for your luck. Anyhow, I digress and I am becoming entirely too catty. As you can imagine, this comment sent my puffer fish syndrome over the edge. Is it jealousy because I'm younger? Does she not like me because I'm too bubbly? I don't get it and it drives me CRAZY when I can't figure out WHY someone doesn't like me. I'm a fixer...I like to figure out what's wrong and FIX it!

Aren't we all a little puffer sometimes?

I will start this blog by saying that never in my life have I ever though and/or admitted that I, yes I, am a jealous girlfriend...but, to all of you reading..and not reading...I am. In hindsight, I figured this out in seventh grade when my boyfriend Mikey went to a birthday party for a girl in our class. I dumped him for it. For going.to.a.birthday.party....in seventh grade. And ever since then...it has been a series of a few boyfriends, one husband, and the occassional hook up that has left me wondering what makes me the way I am. I have a self proclaimed syndrome...that is, Puffer Fish syndrome. How does this syndrome work you ask...It goes a little something like this:

Girl: So boyfriend what are you doing tonight

Boy: I'm going to dinner with my friend Sara

Girl: Oh, that' nice------and THIS....THIS is when the puffer fish syndrome begins...because I say, "oh, that's nice," but what I mean is "Who the hell is Sara and are you going to sleep with her!"

And each time he mentions her, or any other person's name who has a vagina (excluding his family of course, because that would make me super crazy, not just semi) I start to puff...and puff...and puff...until I explode in a crazed jealous bitch frenzy of naming every girl in his life and how he is secretly in love with her. Hello, Satan, yes, I'd like my normal mind back...the one, where I swear, I'm NOT JEALOUS!

And then, through talking with the best group of girfriends a girl can have...I discovered that we all have a little puffer fish syndrome in us. Whether we puff about boys, money, work, or the horrrrrible horrible way our roommate chews food, we all come to a point where we...puff.

My blog will explore women...the women who contribute laughter, tears, oreos, pizza, hilarious e-mails, tissues and many tales of the puffer fish to my crazy little life. Enjoy.