Wherein I say every form of the word "douche" ever invented, and then some

Against my better judgment, I have been watching American Idol this season. I don't know why. I don't particularly like any of the contestants. Except Katherine. She's awesome. I have problems with a lot of them, actually. I can't stand Bucky, mostly because I think he sucks and I can't understand why he's made it so far. Ace takes douchebagary to new levels. I say this even though I thought he was kind of hot, you know, before he opened his mouth and started talking/singing. Elliot needs some braces, STAT, but otherwise I like him. I would like Taylor more if he didn't stand like he'd either shit himself or was trying not to shit himself while he is singing. I liked Chris until last night, because he sang Creed and now he is DEAD to me. DEAD. Do you hear me? I hate Creed. Ok, that's not fair. I hate Scott Stapp. I mean, who doesn't, right? But I've hated Scott Stapp before it was popular to hate that Jesus-loving douchebag. Actually, I don't think it was ever unpopular to hate Scott Stapp, so never mind. He is the biggest douche to have ever douched in the history of douchery.

I've also been enjoying The Amazing Race, especially after the trainwreck that was Family Edition. I think if I was going to try out for a reality show, it would either be this one or Big Brother. I know those two seem completely different. Because they are. But hear me out. In TAR (that is what "people in the know" call The Amazing Race, by the way), you get to travel all over the world and they GIVE YOU MONEY to do so. Big Brother, however, is probably the easiest reality show to reward the winner with money EVER, because you basically sit around all day and the biggest punishment you can get is that you have to eat PB&J for a week. Big deal! I love PB&J and I willingly eat it probably more than I should ALL THE TIME.

Um. Anyway. I don't know what it is about me that makes me hate people that a lot of others seem to love (Barbra Streisand, John Grisham, Oprah, Nicholas Sparks, GWB (hee!)), but I cannot stand those freaking hippies. Oh. My. God. If they stopped TRYING so hard, I think they would be OK. But they are all about "look how funny and laid back we are! oh we are so goofy! we have long hair and do funny accents and frolic and cavort about so playfully! oh Phil, laugh at us, love us!" It drives me nuts. Also? I cannot stand the frat guys. But I don't think I am alone in this. Almost everything that comes out of their mouth makes me want to permanently remove their balls, but really is there any way to do that that wouldn't be permanent? I don't think so. That sounds like a question for Google.

I mean, I try be fair and to remind myself that if I was videotaped for 24 hours a day, I would probably (heh, probably?) end up saying some stuff I wouldn't want on TV. But the Douche Brothers (I could be talking about the hippies or the frat guys here, so tricky) willingly say things IN THEIR INTERVIEWS, the part they KNOW will be shown on TV, that I just cannot believe they don't know would make people want to castrate them. Or pull out their tongues. Or stab them in the stomach with a barbecue fork.

As you can tell, I have given a lot of thought to this.

Peach yogurt and I are running away together

I am so sorry that I badmouthed yogurt for so many years. Called it disgusting. Phlegmy. Flavored snot. Blueberry bacteria. I think it all stems from that time in Biology class when we made our own yogurt and then the teacher MADE US EAT IT. I'm sorry, yogurt, but that WAS disgusting.

I was wrong about it, though. It is delicious. And healthy. Those often do not go together. This morning I almost proposed to the container that held my precious, Peach flavored yogurt. I would be more than happy to spend the rest of my life with Mixed Berry (which is Pam's favorite, by the way . . . anyone?).

I have obviously run out of things to talk about because I just wrote an entry about YOGURT. As much as I am loving it recently (even though it kind of makes me want to gag when I first start eating it, what is that?), as delicious as I find it, as much as I cannot live without it and if you tried to make me I would claw out your eyes with my plastic spoon, entries about yogurt are just plain sad.

Thanks, Dad

Scene: Eating pizza in my parent's basement.

Mom: Jennie, you NEED to do your taxes.

Jennie: I know?

Mom: Well, they have to be done by April 15th.

Jennie: Oh my god, REALLY? Seriously, Mom, I don't know what you're thinking but I'm not completely retarded*.

Dad: Yeah, she's not a tard.

*You know, this is one of those words that I absolutely hate, like "panties" or "See You Next Tuesday," but for some reason I cannot stop saying it.

for my eleventy billionth post of the weekend

Sometimes I wish this blog was anonymous. That I hadn't used my real name or told all of my friends and family about it five minutes after creating it. Or, you know, posted my picture on it. Heh.

I was in the shower earlier thinking about something, something I wish I could post on here, but I can't. It's too personal. I really WANT to share it, to write about it, but without knowing just who reads this . . . it makes me uncomfortable. I'm not good at sharing the personal stuff, I never have been, unless I'm drunk and I have friends around ready to pull at those threads I only let show after some tequila.

Sure, I'll talk about my uterus, my boobs, my bathroom habits, but my feelings? Those are off limits. I don't know why, but I'd feel more comfortable sharing these things if no one I knew in real life read this blog. I don't know. I'm just not ready to invite everyone I know into the scary corners of my brain. To make myself that uncomfortable.

Can someone pass the tequila?

I also watched Lazy Sunday about fifty times

I always thought I was the kind of person who would be perfectly content to sit around all weekend, watching movies and reading and messing around on the computer.

I was wrong. Maybe I used to be that kind of person. But now I want to do things. I find it impossible to sit around doing nothing. What the hell happened to me?! I used to be able to do that. Watch an entire season of Arrested Development without worrying about what I could be accomplishing. Now I sit there thinking about how I should be doing my taxes (no, I HAVEN'T done them yet, ok? does this really surprise anyone?), getting stuff together to take to Goodwill, or packing. Yes, I said packing. I am moving again, to a new apartment, but I don't want to talk about it until it is for sure. I mean, it's pretty for sure, I have my new address and everything, but I don't want to jinx it because we don't have the keys yet. Yes, I also said we. This is a post for another day.

Anyway. My plan for the weekend was basically to sit around and do nothing. The last few weekends have been full of plans so I was happy to finally be getting a weekend to myself. Also, my parents were going out of town and I figured if my plan was to sit around and be unproductive, I might as well do it at my their house where they have DVR and high speed internet. I might be lazy, but I'm not stupid.

So, my plan pretty much came to fruition. I wasn't very productive. I watched a lot of TV, I spent way too much time on the Internets, I read half of a book. I think the only productive thing I did was fill out apartment paperwork and balance my checkbook. Mission accomplished, right? So why was I so bored?

I would like to introduce . . .

The perfect man. I met someone very special last weekend in Chicago. For the short few hours we were in Ikea (yes, I said hours), we formed a very special connection and he will always hold a very special place in my heart. I call him . . . Ikea Pillow Boyfriend, because that's what he is. My Ikea Pillow Boyfriend. If you're in the area of an Ikea, I'd recommend stopping by. There are lots of him. (You can kind of see them in the bin behind me, see?)

another reason I will have to get married some day

The other day, while driving, a new light came on in my car. It said Low Coolant Level. "Hmm," I thought. "I've never seen that before." I was confident that I could figure out what it meant, though. So I called my friend Heidi and left her a voicemail asking what it could possibly mean. I suppose I could have pulled over and gotten my car manual out but I didn't so shut up please.

She, in turn, left me an answering voicemail and told me I should probably put some anti-freeze in my car or the engine might crack. Now, I don't know much about cars, but the engine cracking? That sounds bad. So I drove my car around for another two days (hey, it was almost Friday) and then called my parents to see what I should do. They told me the same thing Heidi did. The best part was, I was already going to their house on Friday AND they had anti-freeze so I could just use theirs. Easy! Right?

Wrong. I got to their house on Friday after they'd already left for the weekend. No problem. I could put anti-freeze in my car. Though I am lacking quite a bit in common sense, I am not completely incompetent. I have put all sorts of other fluids into my car . . . oil, windshield wiper fluid, transmission fluid, vodka (don't worry, I put that in the trunk), so I have to admit, I was a little insulted when my dad made a special point to tell me NOT to put the anti-freeze in the same hole the windshield wiper fluid goes in. C'mon, Dad, give me a little credit.

I ran into a small problem once the hood was popped. My dad insisted that there would be a pop-off top to put the fluid in. All I saw was the twist-off radiator cap. Apparently, even though I was STARING INTO THE INSIDES OF MY CAR LIKE DR. MCDREAMY* STARING INTO THE INSIDES OF A HUMAN HEAD, I was wrong. There HAD to be a pop-off top. Well, there wasn't. And I was too weak (also it hurt my hands and got them all dirty) to twist off the radiator cap, which turned out to be a blessing in disguise because according to the manual (which I got out after about ten minutes of being unable to figure out where to put the damn anti-freeze) I could have been badly burned or scalded ON MY FACE AND HANDS. I use my face and hands all the time, so that would have been bad.

Sometimes I think it'd be easier to get rid of my car and ride my bike and the bus everywhere. Or get married. Those are my only two options, people. If I marry someone really rich, I can make them get me a chauffeur. If I marry someone not rich (you know, regular monied), I can make them be in charge of car maintenance. And, you know, the cooking. And cleaning the bathroom. And the kitchen. And paying the bills on time. And taking the trash out. And most outdoor chores.

Seriously, no one is ever going to marry me.

*Did you like how I threw that in? I'm going to try to work a Grey's Anatomy reference into all my posts now.**

**It's two for one day on Grey's Anatomy references! I am now totally obsessed with The Ditty Bops and it is all thanks to Grey's Anatomy. Seriously. So fun. Try it, you'll like it.

this entry is total Meredith Grey voiceover material, and for that I apologize*

I have a really hard time accepting that things cannot be good all of the time. That something in my life will no doubt suck beyond belief. I might be having a good hair day, but I'm coughing so much that I am about to rocket phlegm across the room. Ok, that was a really superficial (and disgusting) example, but it was the best I could think of, ok? I just ended a sentence with the same word. Is OK a word? Oh my god, Jennie, stop talking.

I'm getting better about it. I don't obsess so much if my friends aren't getting along. If work is annoying me. Or about boy drama, although to be fair, most of my boy drama is of my own making. I know it's the end of March (and seriously, when did that happen?), but I'm making another New Years Resolution. Because I've been doing so well with all the other ones. Seriously, I don't even know what they were at this point.

Anyway. I'm trying to make a point here, I think. I forget. I'm going to try to start focusing less on what sucks and more on the stuff in my life that is good. I'll take a deep breath. Think about the people visiting for my birthday next month (subtle reminder to start buying presents now, or just send money), or the e-mail I received at work that I had to try so, so hard not to laugh at. Feeling like your stomach is going to explode from holding in laughter? Always a good thing. Barry White? Also good. Watching Walk the Line for the 87th time and then spending the rest of the night walking around my apartment saying, "I'm Johnny Cash" over and over? Excellent. Last night Phoebe tried to attack my suitcase and in the process, got stuck inside. Sure, I could focus on her tendency to pee on things I sleep on or walk on with bare feet, but life is too short and HELLO she got stuck in a suitcase.

Besides, if you'd seen how fast she exited that suitcase or how big her tail was for the next ten minutes, you'd never be in a bad mood again.

*I watched the entire first DVD of Grey's Anatomy yesterday.

the five

Remember that Friends episode where Chandler introduces the "freebie" list? You know, the list of five celebrities you're allowed to sleep with without your significant other getting angry? On a sidenote, you would be surprised how many of my conversations begin with "Remember that Friends episode?" Or maybe you wouldn't. I watch a lot of TV, you know.

Ok, so it was a long drive back to Ohio from Chicago on Sunday. Seriously, it is supposed to take six hours and I'm fairly certain that we drove for at least 47 and a half. ALSO, I missed the first half of Grey's Anatomy and that is NOT COOL. Anyway, during the drive, my friend Heidi and I probably covered every topic of conversation known to man (and woman and dog and cat and fish and also duck), while her boyfriend spent the majority of the trip passed out in the back seat with his mouth hanging open, but my favorite conversation was our discussion of the freebie list.

At first, I couldn't think of anyone to add after Michael Vartan. But seriously, let's face it, Michael Vartan is so beautiful that merely the thought of him can blind you to all other men. Heidi's first choice was Kenny Chesney. Which I do not get. At all. I find it kind of fascinating that our lists were so different, although there were some overlaps. She brought up Matthew McConaughey, but the fact that he does not wear deodorant kind of skeeves me out. I threw in Dr. Luka from ER, but he was deemed "hot but not listworthy." She added Matthew Perry, which was appropriate. I thought a little Jason Bateman would be nice, but as she does not watch Arrested Development, she did not agree. Or know who I was talking about, I think. When I said Will Arnett, aka GOB, she looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language, but if he's good enough for Amy Poehler, he's good enough for me.

Throughout the trip, the car would be totally silent except for whatever song was on the radio, until one of us would shout, "Mark Ruffalo!" and the other one would go, "Oh, yeeeeeeeah, that's a good one," or "Jake Gyllenhaal!" which would lead us to Heath Ledger (mine) and Jamie Foxx (hers).

I think my final five ended up being Michael Vartan, Jake Gyllenhaal, George Clooney, John Krasinski, and Dr. McDreamy. Not Patrick Dempsey. Dr. McDreamy. However, I decided that I got more than five because I don't have a significant other. That is the rule. That I just made up. All celebrities are on the table. So to speak.

Watch out, Joaquin Phoenix.

Who would be on your list?*

*Yes, I am begging for comments . . . seriously, where are you people?**

**I miss you!

Dear body,

Look. I know I didn't treat you very well this weekend. I barely slept, I ate the unhealthiest food I could find, and I made you drink profusely both Friday and Saturday nights. I know you don't care for tequila but you have to get over it. I'm sorry. Ok? I'm sorry I made you stay up til five AM Friday night and then made you walk around Ikea for three hours the next day. I'm sorry I made you jump up and down with excitement because we were riding the L JUST LIKE THE PEOPLE DO ON ER. I'm sorry I made you walk around downtown Chicago in the cold and the wind. I'm sorry I made you dance. I'm sorry I made you drive so far. I'm sorry I made you sleep on a tiny sofa. But mostly, body, I'm sorry that you are such a cranky bitch. Why must you punish me? Why?

Hating you,
Jennie

PS: If you keep it up, I will be purchasing a bottle of tequila on the way home from work. How do you like that?

my kind of town

I'm off work today. Are you jealous? I know you are. Don't lie. You'll be even more jealous when you learn that I didn't get up til 11, after sleeping for twelve hours (thank you, Nyquil) and I've been sitting here ever since drinking coffee, eating peanut butter toast, and e-mailing all of my friends and bragging about not being at work.

I don't know what it is about me that makes me immediately want to rub my good fortune in your face. I apologize, I really do.

Anyway. I am off work because tomorrow I'm going to Chicago for the weekend. I haven't been since last January AND there have been promises made about going to Ikea so I'm pretty flipping excited.

Best of all, I will be there for St. Patrick's Day. Actually, aside from wanting to visit my friend, that was pretty much the reason I decided to go this weekend. I have spent the majority of the week talking about the trip and telling everyone I run across that they dye the river green. It was only this morning that I stopped to think about whether or not that was actually true. I mean, is this something everyone already knows? Or is it something I made up in my head and somehow came to believe was fact? This happens more often than you'd think. Luckily, my dad informed me that they do, in fact, dye the river green on St. Patty's Day and that I have not been lying to everyone all week. I'm pretty sure I got the idea from seeing The Fugitive because I vaguely remember Harrison Ford putting on a leprechaun hat and pretending to be drunk in the parade by the green river to get away from Tommy Lee Jones. And that sentence is the pretty much all the evidence you need that I get most of my knowledge from movies or TV shows.

Today, my main goal is to take pictures of some stuff I want to sell, either on eBay or Craigslist, take my camera to my parents house, and use their superfast connection to upload my photos to the Internets. Does anyone want to buy a really heavy, full size couch with a fold out bed inside? The only stipulation is, you would have to come to my apartment and pick it up yourself because it is heavier than your mom. I don't know. Really, though. It's heavy. Because it is so special. It's one of the only things in my apartment that Phoebe has never peed on. My dad said he would help me move it into my first apartment but after that it was my responsibility to get it moved. I cannot move it by myself. I don't particularly want to move it at all. This is where you come in, Internets. You buy my couch, you move my couch, you live happily ever after with my couch. Until, of course, you have to move it again. And in that case, you'll probably sell it. The circle of life continues. Thank you, Elton.

Dear Target Lady Cashier,

Thank you for wishing me a good night last night after I paid. Even though, judging by my red nose, the bloodshot eyes, and the fact that I was swaying back and forth and holding white-knuckled onto the conveyor belt, you must have deduced that would be practically impossible.

But it was not! Me, my Nyquil, my box of tissues, and my Vicks Vapor Rub DID have a good night. We had PB&J for dinner, some thin mint girl scout cookies, and we enjoyed an episode of The Amazing Race, which was excellent even though no one got Philiminated.

Love,
The Snotty, Sniffling, Sneezing, Coughing Girl You Rang Up Who Probably Infected You With Something Horrible, Like Bubonic Plague or Cholera

PS: Sorry

PPS: I am feeling much better now, though

down with the sickness

I don't know what kind of disease I have come down with, but there is one side effect that has totally and completely freaked me the hell out.

All day long, I couldn't wait to come home. This is not unusual, because I was at work and also did not feel good. However, the reason I wanted to come home? I WANTED TO CLEAN. That's right. Instead of daydreaming about the usual (boys, books, becoming a best-selling author, Lost island, Dr. McDreamy, what objects in the office I could use as weapons should zombies attack, etc.), I daydreamed about cleaning. I made lists in my head. First I'd load the dishwasher. Well, first I would have to UNLOAD the clean dishes from the dishwasher and then I could load the pile of crusty dishes that had taken up residence in my kitchen sink. And also on the counter. And on top of the microwave. I know. I'm disgusting.

After the kitchen, I planned on tackling the laundry, the trash, the bathroom, then I'd Swiffer all non-carpeted surfaces and THEN, best of all, I would spray Febreze all over the apartment, including myself and Phoebe. If drinking Febreze would cause me to ooze it through my pores, meaning I'd smell fresh and clean all the time even without showering, I would have a glass of Febreze sitting in front of me right now. Mmm. You can't see me (I hope), but I am sniffing the bottle right now.

I'll have you know that I accomplished all of the things on my imaginary list, except for the Swiffering because I am out of those little Swiffer pads. So this means all of my daydreaming about cleaning came true. Which, in theory, means that some day Dr. McDreamy will walk into the bookstore that I own to buy my best-selling book and then we'll move to Hawaii.

Where we will promptly be attacked by zombies.

Hey, you take the good, you take the bad.

I think I'm getting the black lung, Pop

I am disgusting right now. I caught something like the flu or a cold or typhoid fever from one of the six thousand sick people I was in contact with over the past week. Thank you so much. I woke up yesterday with a fever and a headache, but to be fair the headache could have been a result of beer WHO KNOWS. I haven't been sick in a while so this is fun. Unfortunately, it's not even the kind of sick that justifies taking the day off work and lying on the couch watching Pride and Prejudice all day, which is my preferred way to heal myself. If I was throwing up or was all achey with fever or had explosive diarrhea THEN I could stay home. But no. I am just full of snot and coughing and sore throaty and I sound like a man.

I'm really starting to think it was not a good idea to drink half a pot of coffee on top of my cold medicine. Dayquil makes me kind of loopy anyway, so if you throw caffeine in the mix . . . watch out. My head feels like it's floating about five feet above my body and I feel like I'm walking around all, "Ooooooh, look at all the pretty colors . . . oh, something shiny, isn't it beautiful? What do you mean I just picked up a paper clip? It's so luminous and magical and OOH look how bendy!" It's not an entirely unpleasant situation, but I don't think it's going to make me employee of the month. But let's face it, the odds of that happening were slim anyway. Also, we don't do employee of the month where I work, so ACTUALLY it would have been impossible.

I hope I start hallucinating soon.

don't think any less of me BUT

Maybe it's my girl crush on Sydney Bristow, or the nerdy, awkward 13-year-old girl with weird bangs in me, but there is a special place in my heart for the movie 13 Going on 30.

PS: If that means I get to look like Jennifer Garner when I'm 30, then that is FINE with me.

PPS: If that also means I get to date Michael Vartan, then ALL THE BETTER.

PPPS: I have to go to work now, and I didn't sleep much last night because it was Friday so that explains everything, right? Right. Thanks, friends.

to say this post is about nothing would be an insult to nothingness

Friday totally snuck up on me this week. Usually by Friday I have already had several mini-breakdowns as a result of either extreme boredom or being crazy-busy. The office has been closed the last couple of days, though, because of FLU (caps lock ON) so all near-breakdowns were a result of the former. I am happy to report that, as of right this very moment, this week has been breakdown free. Do you ever go to post something in your blog, and you get to a certain point where you realize you have no idea what you're talking about? You're just typing to type? I mean, sure, a stream of consciousness exercise has its uses, but I'm not sure they make for the best blogging. OH WELL, too late now.

The other night, I went to my mom and dad's for dinner. My plan, after leaving their house, was to go to the grocery because I was out of cheese slices. That's it. Just cheese slices. And since I hate going to the grocery and prefer to wait to go until I am forced to eat PB&J without the J or, wait, also the PB for dinner, I decided to put it off. Again. I am not to the point of eating a bowl Phoebe's cat food with flat Diet Coke poured on it yet, so instead of going to the grocery I went to Target.

Target strikes again! I was in that store for, I kid you not, at least two hours. I went because hello! You can buy cheese slices there (which I never ended up buying WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?), but more importantly I needed new jeans. That's right, DAD, I NEEDED them. I also wanted them, but mostly I NEEDED them because all of the jeans I have now are too large. Which is better than too small, but still annoying. I'm tired of walking around pulling up my jeans like some drunk hitchhiker. I can also fit two fists into the waistband of my favorite pair of jeans. Not that I routinely walk around with my hands down my pants, but sometimes I get bored, you know? And want to see how many hands I can fit in the waistband of my jeans. That sounds wrong on so many levels, SO moving on.

Last weekend, I went to a family thing because my cousin (second cousin? first cousin once removed? hell if I know) was visiting from California. I hadn't seen her since we were about 10, I think, so it was nice to catch up. I got there kind of late (me?) because I was apartment hunting with a friend and then, yes, I got a teeny bit lost. But not really lost because I just forgot the name of the street I was supposed to turn on. Apparently, since I got there late, I unfortunately missed the point where Brokeback Mountain was discussed, but for the rest of the evening all I heard were comments along the lines of, "Stop it or I'll quit you!" or "Carbs, I am going to quit you tomorrow." I mean, wow. I haven't even seen the movie, but I'm kind of afraid that I'll end up laughing during Jake Gyllenhaal's "I wish I could quit you" speech, because I'm picturing my uncle holding up a cookie and shouting, "COOKIE! I WISH I COULD QUIT YOU!" I mean, wouldn't you laugh? If no, why not? Are you dead inside? If yes, I am sorry. You probably smell bad.

Later that night, I went with some friends to a comedy club. I was quickly taken aback when our waitress dropped the f-bomb several times. Not because I am morally opposed to the word "fuck" (ha!) but because it's not something you expect your waitress to say to you. All three comedians were young men. The second looked like Fez from That 70's Show and the third, even though he said he looked like Keith Urban, resembled a (much) less hot version of Sawyer from Lost. The first one didn't resemble anyone, except I think he looked the way I imagine one of my college professors looked when he was younger, but he's not famous, although he has written a book. ANYWAY. I have never heard so many masturbation jokes in my life, not even during South Park. After the show, we went to a bar and I saw someone I went to high school with. I think his name was Justin. He was balding. Yeah. So I felt good about myself because I'm not balding. I hope. You know what's not a good idea, though? Buying beer so you can play Asshole til 4 AM. I would think most people know this without trying it, but suffice it to say, none of us could move until about 3 in the afternoon the next day. And even then we only managed to drag ourselves to Penn Station oh, and also Target. Oh, Target. You tempt me even when I have no money. That is not cool.

I don't know why I'm doing a last weekend recap on the precipice of the coming weekend. It just happened. Like unplanned pregnancy. No, that did not happen to me. Yet. Haha, just kidding.

I have a feeling that one day all of this joking about unplanned pregnancy is going to sneak up on me. Like, I'll get pregnant and go to the doctor and the doctor will tell me I'm pregnant with like five babies at one time and the camera will pan out of the doctor's office until all you can see is the planet earth and you hear me going, "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!" except, oh wait, I'm not on TV. I keep forgetting.

I can't believe I namedropped Ally McBeal. I am so ashamed.

I spend a great majority of my time daydreaming. I've always been this way. I may look like I'm working but I am not paying attention to what's on the computer in front of me. I'm thinking about something that happened this past weekend, last month, two years ago. I can't leave it alone, though. I modify my memories with what I wish had happened, or what could have happened. This usually leads me to think about something that hasn't happened yet. But could happen. Might happen. If I think about it long enough, hard enough. It's like I'm practicing for the real thing, but once the real thing rolls around I won't know what to do if everyone else doesn't cooperate with the images I already have in my mind.

Daydreaming can be bad for you. It used to get me in trouble at school, where I'd stare out the window instead of listening to directions, so when it came time to complete a project I'd make up my own. It gets me in trouble now, when my boss or a coworker has to say my name several times before I snap out of whatever fantasy I'm in the middle of. I hate to be all Ally McBeal at work, but at least I haven't seen any dancing babies. Yet. Maybe I'm not old enough.

Daydreaming can be dangerous. Have you tried it in the car? You are probably safer driving with a drunk person with glaucoma who hasn't slept for three days than you are driving with me while I'm daydreaming. Luckily for you, I only tend to daydream in the car when I'm alone. You totally dodged the bullet.

So, yes, daydreaming is bad, right? I've tried to make myself stop. Concentrate on what I'm doing, who I'm with, pay attention to directions. But I can't. Because as long as I can live in my head, modify old memories, imagine new ones, at least I'm living somewhere. Even if I really am just sitting in a cold office on a dreary Wednesday morning, staring out the window at the rain, wishing I was somewhere else.

help me, Midol, you're my only hope!

My uterus has started a revolution. I fear the ovaries are about to join. I do not know what this means for the fallopian tubes, but I am about to stab myself in the stomach. If I have to sacrifice myself to win this war, so be it.

The uterus must learn.

Seriously. Ow. I would curl up in the fetal position under my desk until the battle is over but I'm pretty sure that's frowned upon.

oh, universe, you wily bitch

For the most part, I am ignored by the opposite sex at the grocery, in bars, the movies, the mall, on vacation, in construction zones, at the mechanic, restaurants, Target, the library, the mailroom, the park, the post office, etc.

So why, on a quiet Friday morning at work, do I get asked for my phone number by a nomadic art salesman, traveling all this way from the far land of CINCINNATI?

And maybe it was the smell of good, cheap art, the fact that I was flattered or just plain bored, but I totally gave it to him.

things I worry about, in no particular order

• That I'll never find someone I like enough to marry
• That I won't find that someone, so I'll marry the wrong someone and spend the rest of my life a miserable wreck of a human being
• That I worry about getting married, how 1950's is that?
• That Phoebe will somehow set herself on fire when I'm not home, thus setting my apartment and the rest of my worldly possessions on fire
• That I'm more worried about my apartment burning down because my cat set it on fire than I am about gas leak/runaway candle flame/etc.
• That the stories I submitted to the contest are so awful that they'll send them back to me with the words, "HAHAHA" scribbled on them in thick, black marker.
• Moving again, for the third time in less than two years
• Money
• Friend/Family member dying
• That I will unintentionally do something with my computer that will cause the downfall of civilization
• Three letters . . . G W B
• That the world will end while I'm in the shower
• And, for some freak reason, I do not die but all of my clothes have disintegrated and I have to walk around with all the other mutants all naked and vulnerable
• And all the other mutants are boring and don't get my jokes
• Or Republicans
• That the fact that I worry about the world ending and what kind of mutants I might end up with means I have some sort of brain disorder
• But if I do have a brain disorder, maybe Dr. McDreamy can fix me
• Or George
• I'm not picky
• Should I be worried that I am pretending McDreamy and George are real doctors? Or that my obsession with Grey's Anatomy is reaching scary levels?
• I'm gonna go with no, because this list is long enough as it is

Long live McDreamy.

And George, my favorite little Hobbit doctor.