for the record

let me be clear.

this blog is not just about poops & farts.

it's about dating.

& The City

& boozing

& barfing

& pooping

& farting

& how i hide all those things from my boyfriend so he will love me.

summing it up

Sister - married.
Other Brother - married.
Brother - engaged to be married.
Me - in a relationship. 

aka not married. 

aka not engaged to be married. 


Brother: Fiance asked me if a read your blog. i said 'hell no'. she says its mostly just about poops and farts. i said, yah sounds about right.


i didn't know whether to be mad at my brother for not reading my blog. or embarrassed for myself that my written life can be summed up in stories pertaining to poops and farts.

and that reminds me of something.

here are the facts:

i am an adult.
i've crapped my pants.
in public and in private.
sober and drun-- ok no. i was sober both times.
embarrassingly enough.


one time was on a cruise.
one time was laying in bed doing homework.
for college.

both times were disgusting.
both times were humilitating.
both times were within 11 months of each other.

lesson learned?

maybe.

in summary:

i am single
according to the IRS
& i have more stories about gross things than a classy lady like myself really should have.

hey. i am who i am.

wild weekend

...i bet you thought this post would be about a truly wild weekend.

i bet you thought it would be yet another story about how i went out with my girls and flirted with strange men for free drinks.
and i bet you thought i ate hot dogs covered in onions from the street vendors at closing time.

well friends.
i tricked you.

welcome to false advertising.
the most wild part of this weekend was the fact that i did none of those things.
none.
not even one of them.

those things that you could have easily predicted i did, because i have spent so many nights doing them before, i did in fact not do.

i ran saturday errands with Mr. REA
skipped the nightly bar scene
and i was fast asleep before 10pm.

then i woke up early to workout.

let me repeat that last part slowly.

i-woke-up-early.

to-work-out.

to get off my ass.
to sweat.
to exercise.

then Mr. REA & i went shopping.
for kitchenware.
so i can bake
and cook.

that's right people.
i bake and cook now.
i feed Mr. REA.
and neither one of us has gotten food poisoning yet.
knock on wood.

have i turned into an adult?
what the hell am i even saying??

quick, someone get me a martini while i sort this crap out.

i'm only 25, people!

- when did i make the switch from hot mess to homemaker?
- am i one day closer to the end of binge drinking and bar dancing?
- does this mean i may never pee on the floor of another hotel room?

or that i will never pull a boot & rally again?

oh absolutely not.
it's only a matter of time before the old me shows her face again.

only a matter of time.

compliments.

me:

you're Buster from Arrested Development

Other Brother:

you're Manny from Modern Family

me: 

what?! why? i'm more of a Meg Ryan look-a-like


Other Brother: 

far from it, sis. you're a chubby teenage boy with moobs*


*moobs:

n: Man Boobs; a combination of the words Man & Boobs. floppy, Jell-O like protrusions in the male chest area. usually sported by fat, overweight men. fat gathered in the male chest, giving the appearance of breasts. also known as breasticles.

(source: the ever-trusty Urbandictionary.com)

...meaning chubby teenager boys have larger breasts than i do.

and sadly, the kid has a point.

on a nicer, yet unrelated note:
my friend's new boyfriend referred to me as,
'the creepiest person he's met in a while'

so that's got to count for something, right?

baby talk

last weekend Mr. REA and i visited with some friends.

and these friends have babies.

and babies are the most adorable things on planet earth.

besides puppies.
and kittens.
and itty bitty mechanical pencils.

as i watched the babies playing together
i thought to myself:

i want one.

one of the babies was lying on the floor
drinking from a bottle.
legs spread eagle
his belly showing
his eyes rolling back.
in complete comfort.

f-ing adorable.

and as i visualized the 9 month pregnancy
the swollen ankles
the stretch marks
the discomfort
the weight gain

i began to understand the true meaning of my thoughts:

i want to be one.
a baby.
i want to be a baby.

i want to lay on the floor with a bottle
with my belly showing.
and then i want someone to clean up my barf
and bathe me
and tuck me in
and remove harmful things from my grasp
before i hurt myself or choke on small parts.

my advice to babies everywhere:
ride that gravy train til it kicks you off.

you don't know how good you've got it.

once you hit college, its not going to be so cute when you make a poopy in your pants or have so many bottles that you barf all over your onesie. no one is going to clean that up for you. no one is going to put soft corners on the coffee table to protect you. and when you lose your favorite wallet in a cab in The City, and you vow not to stop crying until it's found - no one is going to return it.

being a grown up is prettyyyyy overrated.

a gift: part II

yesterday i finished my 5th bikram yoga class.

you may recall, Mr. REA generously signed me up for 30 days of yoga.

a gift.


bikram yoga looks something like this:

you're on a mat.
there is a towel on top of the mat.
there are 10-15 other people in the room.
all on mats.
with towels on their mats.

these other people are wearing anything from full sweat suits to biking shorts & sports bras.
some women are not wearing bras.
& some men are wearing speedos.

some men are shaven.
some men are hairy.
some women are hairy.

the room temperature is between 90-100 degrees.

everyone is sweating.
not regular sweating.
the kind where it is dripping off your skin
rolling down your face
into your eye balls
onto your towel.
soaking the towel.

you bend over
you inhale
you sniff your sweaty butt hole
you exhale.

you release.
you repeat.

for 90 minutes.

single

the weather in The City is changing, which means its everyone's favorite time of the year.

tax season.

so although i did get myself a boyfriend this year, i am still considered by the government to be single.

and i think that when the IRS examines my bank statements, they will concluded based on my excessive bar tabs and early-morning gatorade purchases, that i do in fact live a bachelorette-for-life lifestyle.

do the IRS even examine bank statements? this goes to show how much i actually know about living in the adult world.

i think i'm actually more afraid of the IRS examining my web browser history than my bank statements, now that we're on the subject of things-i-want-to-keep-hidden.

my bank statements will undoubtedly reflect that i am what appears to be a raging alcoholic who sadly has to pay for her own saturday night tabs.

and i am okay with that.

however, my web browser history will portray me as a total f-ing weirdo. mostly for my excessive google searches containing the words CAT and MEMES.

and just in case you don't know what those are, here are a few of my favorites.

 

 


so in conclusion, this is why i am not married.

enjoy your tax refund and don't blow it all on booze like i did.

a gift

there's a yoga studio down the street from my apartment.

Mr. REA and i were out on a walk the other night when we passed by it.

new members only : 30 days for $50

Mr. REA:

do you want to sign up? 
i'll pay for it. 
it'll be a gift.


oh Mr. REA, a gift like the workout clothes you gave me for my birthday? that kind of a 'gift'?

Me:

yah! thank you! this will be so fun. you're the best boyfriend ever. 


yay.

i sign up.
i pay the non-refundable $50 of Mr. REA's money.
and then i read the fine print,
or rather large bold print,
stating that this studio is Bikram yoga.

Bikram yoga, in case you don't know, is the kind where the room is heated and can reach temperatures up to 110 degrees.

you will sweat from every pore in your body.

you may pass out.

your feet will slip all over the mat. unless you have any sort of muscle tone to keep you in place, which i do not.

someone may fart.
and you may soffocate.

in order to make the most of this generous gift, i have challenged myself to go 30 times in 30 days. some of the days i have already skipped, which means that on some days, i will have to go twice.

what the heck have i agreed to?

nice pics

blah blah blah blah 

insert backstory here

blah blah blah

so i was at the store ordering some photos off my iPhone last weekend.

i used the little kiosk thing - whatever it's called.

i was hoping for minimal human interaction.

not my lucky day.

The Man kept checking on me. 

asking if i was doing ok.

asking if i knew how to work the machine.

asking if i needed any help.

asking if i needed anything else today.

and on and on and on.

he looked a lot like Napoleon Dynamite.

but without the fro. 

aka a tall, lanky, freckled white guy.

with big glasses and short orange hair.

nerd heaven. 

he said my photos would be ready by 7.

i returned at 9.

he saw me walk in

he went directly to the bin

and dug my order out

without asking me what my name was.

freaky?

yes.

i paid in silence.

then he said,

lovely photos by the way

if things with Mr. REA don't work out, i know where to find Mr. Rebound.

not.