NSA?

NSA. Never Sing Alone? No Silly Answers? Nice Sweet Ass? No, even better…NSA…No.Strings.Attached. In a world where sex is rampant and love is a rarity, are we being led to believe that a love life of No Strings Attached is the new norm? I’m pretty sure it’s a known fact that when a woman has sex with a guy who she even has a smidge of a crush on, that once the deal is done, she likes him more (even if it wasn’t life altering layage). Guys on the other hand seem to have no problem with the chew and screw or wam bam thank you ma’am concepts. Puff.
Granted I’ve known a gal or two who has freely admitted to taking advantage of the male skill of not becoming attached simply because it’s been a while for her…or she just needed to feel wanted, even if just for a night. And typically, she checks her phone for the next week hoping he’ll call…and he doesn’t. Puff. And in the other corner, we’ve got…the guy…the guy who has zero problem having relations with said girl and never talking to her again. Puff. A male acquaintance of mine told me he was contemplating having a NSA encounter with a lady friend of his, but was afraid she would become attached. And then he said this (brace yourselves), “The aftermath isn’t worth my deposit.” (Yes…he said…deposit.) Is it possible for us to rewire ourselves to not become attached once we’ve sealed the deal?Puff.
I become attached to a pair of shoes the instant I buy them, so how are we not supposed to become attached to a cute boy who pays attention to us and gives us an O!? Puff. Do we channel the most arrogant, pretentious guy we know and just convince ourselves that we’ve simply used the guy for their goods and then meet our girlfriends for lunch without gushing? If only we could channel Samantha from Sex and the City and pretend like the double standard of NSA for women isn’t completely different from men. Puff. Guy has NSA lovin with a handful (or more!) of girls and he’s a rockstar. Girl does the same thing…whorebag. What the!? How does that make sense? Is it because society instinctively knows that it takes the exception to the rule girl to change the NSA guy? Puff.
NSA. What a concept. There are those of us who can and will try to embrace it. Some will succeed, while others will cry into their latte the next day because he hasn’t called. Either way, we as women are wired to love, to become attached and to expect an effing call..a text..a smoke signal…something! In an age where love is becoming harder to come by because NSA lovin has become the norm, perhaps we hold on to our strings with all we’ve got. Depuff.

A Conquering Puff.

They say love conquers all. What I want to know is who “they” is and if they were ever in a real relationship. Puff. Romeo and Juliet were in love…and they died…death conquered all, not love. What conquers all is being able to deal with all the real life crapola that is thrown at you in a relationship. This proverbial crapola comes in the forms of ex girlfriends, friends and your significant others less than stellar family members. Puff.
The older we get the more we have to consider that the people who surround the person that we love could potentially become our in laws…and that can be a frightening, frightening thought. How is the guy that you’re totally smitten with possibly the spawn of such a wretched woman? Or how is his brother or sister such a defunct member of society? We’ve all been there. It’s time to meet the parents and while you’re putting together your best outfit for said meeting, you’re also thinking to yourself, “What if they don’t like me?,” or “What if their house is filthy” and of course, “Will these people get along with my family!?” No pressure. Puff.
If these kids were all raised in the same house…by the same parents…how in the effing world did your fella’s sibling end up being such a DISASTER!? No license, no job, no life and sometimes no shower. Holding my nose puff. And while it would be fantastic if the smelly loser sibling were living in California…far, far away…they are, in fact, living 5 miles away and lounging on YOUR couch EVERY Sunday watching football games with your beau. They not only muck off your dream of a perfect little in law family, but then they ask you to hook them up “with any of your hot friends!?” Ick. Puff. Buddy, I wouldn’t hook you up with a prostitute with syphilis for fear that she would be ashamed of you. Puff.
Oh, hello ex girlfriend…ex wife…ex hookup. We hate you. We can pretend to like you because if your relationship hadn’t flopped, we wouldn’t have our current manpiece, or because you mothered the our potential step (or as I like to call them “bonus”) child…but the truth is, we don’t like you…and you reallllly don’t like us. You’re like that ingrown old lady hair that we sometimes grow on our chin (admit it, we all have one!) that no matter how many times we wax, cut, thread or yank out, you keep.coming.back.Puff. Sure we love love love our fella, but we didn’t sign up for this! Puff.
“I don’t care if your friends like me.” Funny, I do. The end.Puff.
Perhaps I am a cynic and I haven’t experienced a love so great that it truly can conquer all, and perhaps it does exist. If love can conquer all, maybe we just take in stride all the things that could potentially conquer love and we conquer acceptance. De-puff.

The Boy Who Cried Puff

We’ve all seen that guy on the dance floor. He makes drunken eye contact with a girl, thrusts his hands back with his imaginary fishing pole…and casts. Then we see said girl flopping like the sorry little fish she is on her imaginary lure and into the “fishermans” grasp….alll while Bel Biv Devoe plays over the club speakers. In real life, not only do we get suckered into the boys ridiculous lure, but there is no Bel Biv Devoe and we can’t even blame our suckerdom on being drunk…and we are typically not wearing sequins (or at least shouldn’t be!). Puff.
A sucker by definition is someone who is easily swayed to believe pretty much anything. I…am a self proclaimed sucker. Puppies, children, Mexican food and guys who tell me they love me have alllll made me their victim. Getting lost in someone’s eyes is a sure fire way to know you’ve been dooped…it’s like you’re lost in a twilight zone of mushiness and there’s no escape. How can we protect ourselves from the person who tells us they are falling in love with us and then two days later break it off “because they’re scared.” Bullshit Puff.
Spiders. Scary. Southie.Scary. Jail.Scary.Skydiving…obviously scary. Love…feeling ooshy gooshy marshmallowey goodness love…NOT EFFING SCARY! Puff. Love is not the scary part. Commitment is the scary part. As overanalyzers, we ladyfollk meet a guy and within 30 minutes have imagined what our kids would look like and have written our new married name in our imaginary notebook in our head at least twice..once in cursive, once in print!Puff. Guys…in the first thirty minutes they picture us naked and they pray to God that they don’t get us preggers. Puff.
Once in a while though, we have a moment of pure bliss where we find ourselves staring into his eyes and he says it… “I think…I’m falling in love with you.” You, of course are elated and before you can even text the majority of your girlfriends, the dude….cries…wolf. Puff. “I love you, but I’m not ready for a relationship.” “You’re the kind of girl I want to marry, but right now…just isn’t a good time for me.” “My career will always come first and that’s just not fair to you.” So many more BS excuses have been spewed from the mouths of said boys that it all sounds like Charlie Brown’s teacher by the end of it all.Puff. However, that’s not the worst part! After you’ve cried, drank 2 bottles of wine and scratched his name out of your imaginary notebook and wrote “DICK” over the top….he’s back…he’s “MADE A MISTAKE!” He’s sorry and wants you back. He’s “JUST SCARED.” In the movie version of your life you tell him to eff off while wearing some amazingly put together outfit and walk away with the real prince charming, but in real life, you cry….again…and say, “Ok, but don’t do it again!” Annnnnd repeat! Puff.
The boy who cried wolf…or love…or scaredy pants…whatever it is, we’ve all encountered him. It’s up to us to decide how many times we let him cry wolf and sometimes that requires closing our eyes to the marshmallowey goodness of a hot staring contest. Sometimes it requires remembering just how awesome we really are and that love, while not easy, is no wolf. De-Puff.

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.