365 Photos- 7/365

I'm going to brag for a bit here: I lost five pounds over the holidays. I know what you're saying right now, but save it because it was no easy task giving up desserts, fattening foods and even drinking less alcohol than I would have liked. So in my plan to continue last year's healthy eating into the new decade, I've taken up bananas.

I never really liked bananas, it's a textural thing, to where any more than over half a banana hits the gag reflex. (Insert joke about gagging on a banana here.) But they are really good for me to eat during the first part of the day, and I've noticed the potassium helps out with keeping my post-workout muscle aches to a bearable level.

Now let's talk banana color, shall we? I only like yellow bananas that are ever so slightly green on the tips. If the bananas are too brown and spotty, I am immediately turned off as my spidey sense tells me the insides have turned to squish. I feel the slight green tip color lends itself to a firmer banana, a texture that is less likely a culprit in triggering the gag. (Fine, insert another joke here.)

Tonight, I saw an entire grocery store display of probably the most disgusting bananas I've ever seen. There were rows and rows of completely green, icky, unripe bananas; a shade of green so disgusting I've never seen it in reality. (Of course, I've never in my entire life changed a diaper of a baby who has consumed curry, so perhaps it does exist somewhere in reality. Or in India.)

And then I noticed the sign over the hideous zombie banana display read, "Golden Ripe Bananas."

7/365

I hate grocery shopping.

365 Photos- 6/365

Red Sox garden gnome is already gearing up for spring training...

6/365

365 Photos- 5/365

Shameless self-promotion. I'll write more this week. Later.

5/365

365 Photos- 4/365

My neighbors were very ambitious after this last snowstorm. While I did get a feeling of "stranger danger" when I stepped onto my porch and saw this out of the corner of my eye, it was alleviated when I noticed that Mr. Snowman was wearing a fedora.

And the bottom of him was sprayed pink. That was weird, so I just concentrated on his fedora-clad happy face.

4/365

365 Photos- 3/365

I'm a fairly healthy eater, but in the past couple of weeks have fallen off the food wagon by trading in real meals for easier, stress-free food like Triscuits and Laughing Cow cheese. A bag of Red Vines and microwave popcorn is apparently not a good dinner. A whole bag of pistachios is apparently not lunch. Fine. I understand that, and went to the grocery store this afternoon armed with a plan for cooking this entire week, in search of items to help me win the battle against eating like total crap.

In everything I've read, you should always start with fresh ingredients to make the end dish taste even better. Today at the store I found something even better than fresh ingredients, I found fersh ingredients!

3/365

Imagine my surprise to find a fersh bunch of green onions! And two fersh bunches for just one dollar! Just what I needed to add to a fersh soup I'm planning on making. I am excited to start cooking with these fersh ingredients, and I'm hoping that by using those fersh items I will make something really fersh and pleasing to my tastebuds.

365 Photos- 2/365

I had the pleasure of trying a new beer on New Year's Eve, Delerium Noel, and very much enjoyed it! For more of my thoughts on the actual beer, you can check out my beer blog over at The Brew Darling but if you don't feel like reading it then just bask in the glow of this happy bottle. Yep, that's a pink elephant wearing a Santa hat on the label. Holiday flavors! Pink elephant on the label! Beer containing 10.6% alcohol! What's not to like?

2/365

365 Photos- The Beginning 1/365

I've always wanted start a photo a day project which I plan to add to this blog in addition to more regular written posts. It seemed daunting at first, but then I realized I want to take better pictures to force me into learning new things about my own creativity through photography. I don't expect all the pictures to be winners, but they'll at least get my brain thinking with shutter clicking.

So, here goes number one of 365. I'm soon beginning rehearsals for Eurydice at The Grand, opening in March 2010, so here's the woman I've already been curling up with as I start to learn more about the amazing script and playwright, Sarah Ruhl.

1/365

Ho ho ho?

I don't want to rain on anybody's Christmas parade, but on the way to work this morning I had some fairly disturbing thoughts about Santa Claus. These thoughts were prompted by that good ol' holiday favorite, I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus.

First off, has anybody ever really thought about the concept of Santa? Santa's an intruder. Uninvited, he just enters people's homes and starts eating their food and drinking their nog. (Or milk. Or my latest favorite, Soy Nog.)

Secondly, Santa is a peeping Tom. He sees you when you're sleeping? He knows when you're awake? Does Santa see me in the shower too? How about bent over after a night of too much wine? Then he passes judgment on the actions he sees when he is actually the violating perv? If I dated, and then dumped Santa, I'd slap his ass with a restraining order faster than you can say, "On Blitzen."

Finally the song in question itself, I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus, Santa's magical charm perpetuates infidelity. Consider these lyrics:

Then, I saw Mommy tickle Santa Claus
Underneath his beard so snowy white;
Oh, what a laugh it would have been
If Daddy had only seen
Mommy kissing Santa Claus last night.

Really? Mommy tickled Santa under his beard when Daddy wasn't looking? Something tells me Daddy might not be too thrilled at Santa's actions and perhaps punch his nog-drunk ass underneath his beard so snowy white. Unless Daddy was banging the babysitter. Or Daddy was a derelict.

I don't want to cast a damper on the season, but I just had to share with you these thoughts at one of the most festive times of the year. Enjoy the days leading up to Christmas, there are only a couple of days left.

Won't you be my neighbor?

I've lived in my current apartment for nearly four years. I first decided I liked this place when I saw that a major focal point of the inside was a 70s-tastic love nook with fireplace and built in vinyl seating. The bedroom is a loft. The walls are wood paneling. All this disco fabulous living, and it wasn't in such a bad part of town, so I moved in. But since moving in, strange things have been happening in the neighborhood, and now I'm wondering just where I'm living.

I affectionately refer to my neighbors across the parking lot as "Domestic Dispute." During one of their brilliant fights last summer, the guy living there nearly drove his Jeep Cherokee through their sliding glass door. He got out of the vehicle yelling four-letter words at his... girlfriend? Wife? Baby mama? And I had half a mind to jump in his running vehicle and drive it to the 7-11 just to be funny. I decided against making that incident interactive and instead settled back onto my porch to watch the show.

Why just last week "Domestic Dispute" put on another stellar display, culminating in her throwing a bar-b-que grill lid across the parking lot at his head. While I can't give her points for substance (typical four-letter words and basic defamation of his sexuality) I can give her style points. I keep waiting to wake up one morning to even more police officers casing their joint because one of them has killed the other.

Speaking of deaths around my neighborhood, I don't know if I ever mentioned the guy who died last fall in the back half of my duplex. They partied a little too much, and when I got home from the gym the next day the whole area was blocked off with yellow police tape. I thought I killed someone when I left the house with New Kids on the Block blasting on the stereo just to passive-aggressively "get back at them" for keeping me up the previous night. But it wasn't KNOTB that offed him, he apparently overdosed. In the other half of my duplex. Dead. There's something a bit unnerving about seeing a fully-zipped body bag being wheeled past your back door.

Almost as unnerving as that day is the sight of my new neighbor's decor I just noticed when I came home for lunch today. Maybe I'm a bit cranky because new back half of the duplex neighbor was having a good time with his bass knob last night, but I couldn't help but take this little photo of his fantastic new curtains that I'm fortunate enough to see each time I walk up to my own front door:

Asian bordello? No sir, that's the back half of where I live!

I shouldn't complain, at least I have somewhere to live. And it's warm. And it's covered in wood paneling. But who are these people that live around me?

Culinary Snafu

I damn near chopped off my finger last night. I was cutting up a lemon for vodka lemon chicken and it all just sort of slipped and I took out a chunk of my left index finger. With a really big, really sharp knife (thanks, Henckels Knives!) To make matters worse, I started passing out from the shock and awe of it all, and as I went to sit down on the kitchen floor, smacked my head on the counter. Yep, I passed out because I'm a wuss and can't stand the sight of my own blood or the thought of my own pain. I can watch an evening of Freddy Kreugar's antics, but when it the bleeding is on my own person, I'm a five-year-old.

I'll live, it's no big deal, but today I was thinking something much more profound about the whole experience. About five seconds before I stabbed myself, I knew it was going to happen. I pictured the scenario and I even thought to myself, "I'm totally going to cut my finger open." Lo' and behold, what happened? I became a fainting kabob.

We are so quick to dismiss our instincts with a "duh, that's lame," rather than trusting that maybe there's some truth in how we feel. So many times I have believed that I was just being stupid, given into pragmatism and ended up hosed. This pragmatism applies to so much more in my life than just this one instance; I find that I'm dismissing my instincts when it comes to situations or even the people with whom I share my life and time. For example, I have found myself putting up with inordinate amounts of crap from the men I date and dismissing red flags for a "that's just me being stupid/impatient/harsh." In these instances, my heightened instincts get cast aside for my inability to give up or move on or let go, and then I ultimately end up bleeding.

What have I learned from last night's kitchen cutting? Next time, drink the vodka and leave the chicken to the grill. Oh, and trust in my hunches just a little bit more inside the kitchen and out.

My best vampires ever

On Mental Floss today there was a blog post where Miss Cellania listed her favorite vampires and I was disappointed with her selections. While I agree with some of the choices (Count Chocula), I felt the majority were too obvious (Vlad Tepes III a.k.a. Vlad the Impaler, Nosferatu, Elvira). Though the author did acknowledge Blacula, I feel there are many vampires who are often overlooked and who deserve a list of their own.

I am here to provide the better list.

Because I'm a goth trapped in sheep's clothing.

Here they are in no particular order:

"David" in The Lost Boys: Keifer Sutherland's portrayal of the motorcycle/vampire gang leader is beautifully, wonderfully creepy. Forget modern-day vampires who glitter in the sun, David's meticulously coiffed platinum mullet glistens in the moonlight. Plus the death scene where he gets impaled with a pair of deer antlers is gross while awesome. I would gladly let Keifer bite my neck while 80s-tastic song Cry Little Sister played in the background.


"Mick St. John" in Moonlight: Not to be confused with the lame-ass 80s sitcom Moonlighting, This short-lived television series was one of the best things that happened to CBS last year. While it was canceled after one season, I quickly fell into lust with vampire private investigator Mick played by the gorgeous Alex O'Loughlin. He had that perfect combination of hypnotic sexy mystery that I crave in a vampire, and he looked fantastic in the episode where he did push-ups without his shirt. Now my Friday night CBS viewing is limited to Ghost Whisperer where, thankfully, Jennifer Love Hewitt does not do push-ups without her shirt.

Dracula in Animanicas Season 1, episode 29 Draculee, Dracula: When Yakko, Wakko and Dot travel to Transylvania instead of Pennsylvania, they meet Dracula whom they assume is Amish. Hilarity ensues. This is also one of a few episodes where they refer to Dracula as "Dadoo," which I called my own dad who was not a vampire. Nor Amish. Here's a sample of the dialogue that makes this episode brilliant:
Wakko: [talking about Dracula] That guy sure dresses funny.
Dot: This is Pennsylvania, Wakko. He's probably Amish.
Yakko: I'll handle him. I saw Witness twice.
In this episode, Dot also refers to herself as Princess Angelina Contessa Louisa Francescia Banana Fanna Fo Fesca the Third. Which I can rattle off the tip of my tongue from memory. If this is an indicator as to the types of shows I watched as a kid, is there any wonder why I'm a randomly quirky adult? Nope, didn't think so.

Bunnicula: This vampire bunny stars in many childrens' books as a family pet who sucks the juice out of vegetables. The other family pets don't know how to deal with Bunnicula and are afraid that he is evil. My favorite book in the series is The Celery Stalks at Midnight where the paranoid family pets believe that all the de-juiced veggies are actually Bunnicula's army of undead and find a giant white carrot who they think is the army's leader. Turns out the giant white carrot is just a carrot cake covered with cream cheese frosting. Now that's comedy gold. Childrens' books just aren't the same nowadays.
(For those keeping track, I love carrot cake with cream cheese frosting and my birthday is a month away.)

Mina Harker in The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen: This movie was a total cinematic suck-fest, but Peta Wilson's portrayal of Mina was casting genius. Okay, so maybe I just have girl-crush on Peta Wilson because she played Nikita in USA Network's La Femme Nikita series. Maybe I want to be Nikita. Maybe I think I would be an excellent super spy who kicks ass and looks fabulous while doing it. I also think that La Femme Nikita had probably one of the best uses of music throughout each episode, and the entire cast was stunning. A little part of me died when USA Network canceled Nikita; yes, in a twist of irony Nikita was canceled. (And that was probably the best obscure reference you'll read all day, kids. See, when bad operatives in the show were executed, they were referred to as "canceled." See? Irony? Nikita was canceled? Oh shut up.) Wait, did I digress? Oh yeah. The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen was a suck-fest, but Peta Wilson is an absolute goddess.

So I hope this gets you in the mood for your spooky Halloween celebrations coming up this week. I'm going to watch La Femme Nikita now.

Halloween art show photos...

I've gotten a few requests to post my photos that are going to be in the Halloween art show sponsored by the Utah Artist Alliance this month from October 6th through the 31st. I didn't get a chance to photograph them after they were matted and framed, but they ended up looking really nice. Here they are in digital form prior to framing; the prints are 8 x 10 and framed to about 11 x 14 (if you think you might want to purchase any). Now, remember this is a Halloween-themed art show! Here they are:

 

These were taken March 2009 in the Pine Grove Cemetery in Massachusetts. Pine Grove was founded in 1776 as one of the first Revolutionary War cemeteries, and added to the National Register of Historic Places on March 12, 2008.

Salt Lake Halloween Art Exhibition!

If you're out and about in Salt Lake for the month of October, head down to the Utah Arts Alliance Gallery on Main Street to check out this spooky art show! I have four photos that will be displayed for the first time I've ever had any shown. And if you're really lucky, you can purchase one of these photos to help me recoup the cost of framing them! Hey, at least the frames will be really nice, even if you don't like my photography... although it's not that bad.

Come support local art! Come support your good friend Holly!

Internationally Nifty

I pretty much figured that the majority of my blog readers were in the United States (for the record, I'm fairly popular in California and New York... notsomuch in West Virginia and Wyoming) but I had no idea I had pretty regular followers in other countries.

Thank you to my international readers! Here are my thoughts to you, the United Colors of Benetton (okay, I just threw that in for flavor. "Flavour" if you're reading this in the United Kingdom) my readers after the United States at number one.

Germany- I like Kraftwerk. Ooh! I also watch The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, an outstanding German film, several times a year, not just at Halloween; though everyday is Halloween. Wait, that was Ministry, not Kraftwerk.

Canada- Thank you for giving us Ryan Reynolds, You Can't do that on Television and Glass Tiger. Tonight, however, I'm upset Toronto beat the Red Sox.

United Kingdom- You have flavour, as I mentioned above, and Monty Python. Ooh! And Eddie Izzard, even though he was born in Yemen.

India- I don't know if you're aware, but I'm obsessed with Bollywood films. In fact, I try to have Bollywood Sunday where I get noodles (because curry is texturally challenging for my palate) and watch something from the genre. If anybody in India can explain to me the "dancing in a towel" routine from Saawariya, I would really appreciate it.

Australia- Umm, kangaroos are neat! Oh, I also occasionally drink Fosters. Ooh! And I used to have a basketball crush on Luc Longley. And I will always love Strictly Ballroom. Boy, I know more about Australia than I thought.

Poland- Gosh, where to begin with Poland? There's just so much to talk about... I'm very glad the Black Death that affected much of Europe in the 1300s didn't really reach you guys. Also thanks to the Ottoman Empire for giving us furniture for the many places to rest our feet.

Brazil- Thank you for being located in South America fairly near Argentina where famed (and smoking hot) polo player Nacho Figueras was born. Some call him "stud on a steed" some call him the "David Beckham of Polo," I simply call him "yummy."

Netherlands- You guys are progressive, are down with women's rights and windmills are cool. I also like marzipan, though generally only at holiday time.

Finally, France- Nouvelle Vague cinema (not to be confused with a band by the same name) is a guilty pleasure. I also thank you for providing us with Chanel and Maurice Chevalier. I suffered through three years of your language in high school, and only retained enough to know that Maurice Chevalier's last name means "horse." Used in a sentence en Français: Je voudrais monter le Nacho Figueras comme si il étaient mon cheval.

Is something lost in translation?

To everything: churn, churn, churn

Exhibit A: Butter Cow 2009, by Holly

This might come as a surprise to many readers both inside and outside the Land of Zion, but I'm here to break the news that there is nowhere in the state where you can professionally churn butter. Or even amateurly churn butter. There will be no butter churning in Utah.

My Pioneer Spirit was a bit scarred to learn this news.

For the past couple of years I have attempted coercing my co-workers into joining me in churning butter because I have had a strange craving for freshly-churned cream. I'm not kidding. Maybe it was the fond fourth grade memory I had of the entire class, during a Utah Mountain Man Rendezvous learning unit, shaking up a butter jug and spreading the final result on a piece of homemade bread. This craving was further impacted by viewing the butter cow at the Utah State Fair last week.  (Incidentally, this year's butter cow featured not one, but three culturally-inclined bovine, one of which was wearing a tutu skirt. See Exhibit A above.) On a side note, I learned that the butter was re-used each year which grossed me out a little, but then a bit happy that the butter cow lives on each year in a sort of dairy resurrection.

After returning from the fair I leaned out of my cubicle to a co-worker and whispered with a very drug dealer-like tone, "Hey... wanna go churn butter today?" Thinking that there must certainly be somewhere nearby that could provide me with my fix. "What?" she said quizzically. "Butter churning, finally, today," I repeated, because what's sadder than a burning desire for churning butter? (I mean, besides falling asleep on somebody's porch in a pathetic attempt to get them to talk to you.) Churning butter alone. So I set out to make a few phone calls to find exactly where we could churn.

But churning wasn't meant to be. Much to my chagrin the usual Utah places one might think to churn butter didn't offer the activity. Not the FARM, not any historical PLACEs, not even anywhere around Temple Square. Along the Wasatch Front, there was nary a churn in sight. In fact, the only similar activity I could locate was a taffy pull at the Lion House, and even then I would have to register for a birthday party. Which would be creepy and sad, as there would be no wine at that birthday party.

It was interesting that each place offered a suggestion as to who might just churn, and were surprised to hear that I'd already called around and learned there would be no afternoon churning. I'd created a churndemic of udder disbelief (yep, I did just throw down a bad cow pun) throughout Salt Lake County.

But it's not Pioneer Spirit to give up that easily! I figured that certainly there must be some other way to churn butter! When I learned that it likely wouldn't work for me to shake up a Ziploc baggie of heavy cream, I had to take matters into my own hand(cart). I would churn! If the Donner Party could create food in this valley, I certainly could too! I went to the store and got a little half-pint of heavy cream and set out on a journey to my kitchen to fulfill my now-frenzied obsession.

Into the food processor with the heavy cream and a bit of salt, and after about 10 minutes and blowing out the motor on the circa 1980s Oskar inherited from my mom, I had brought my creation to life! It was a little runny, but I had done it! And after I strained the spooge through a coffee filter, I was finally ready to taste the fruits of my long-awaited labor! I lovingly swirled the tip of my finger around the rim of Oskar's bowl and readied myself to savor the creamy goodness. It tasted exactly like...

...butter. After throwing away the rest of the butter-filled coffee filter, I thought, "um, okay."

So that's that. I guess to redeem this whole experience, I did take some other photos at the State Fair. Here, enjoy something more satisfying than food processor butter:

Swish! by Holly

Gene Simmons, by Holly

Objects in mirror are smaller than they appear, by Holly

Get in my pants...

After realizing that I might never pay off my credit card, despite the fact the balance isn't really that high, I decided I would take the stack of designer jeans I no longer wear to various consignment stores. Maybe I watched Confessions of a Shopaholic one too many times but, yes, now you can get in my pants.

What did you think the title of this post meant? Dirty!

In case you decide to do this yourself, I would like to pass along a few helpful jeans reselling tips. First off, Plato's Closet is the last stop for the Miley Cyrus undead. The twelve-year-olds who act like "clothing buyers" wouldn't know a designer jean if it hit them in their little, flat asses. For an establishment that passes off a Shopko brand jacket as "designer" it was a slap in the face when they tried telling me that a pair of True Religion jeans wasn't "acceptable." They offered me $8 for a pair of Seven Jeans, and because I didn't want the trip to be a total waste, I actually took it. I figure the $8 pays for the gas wasted driving too far south in the valley.

Secondly, you have to sort of forgo any love and/or claim you might have toward your clothing. I took my jeans to a second consignment store where the girl DID blow a bit of sunshine up my ass by saying, "Wow, you lost weight! These jeans are way too big for you..." and I felt a twinge of sadness when she said she would accept them all and give me half of the selling price. I felt like I was giving her a little part of me, or maybe it was more like giving a pet to the pound, either way I momentarily wondered if I should just keep the jeans in the closet and hold onto the past.

Then I realized that part of the sadness was because I think my dad might've died on a pair of the jeans I was trying to sell. I didn't mention that for fear she might not agree to give me half. For the record, I know which U2 t-shirt I was wearing when that event occurred, but I can't remember which pair of jeans I had on.

Finally, know that you will never get back what you spend on clothing, or computers, or cars. You have to resign to the harsh reality that depreciation happens. If I had back all the dough I originally spent on the jeans I just gave up, I might just have a new computer, or car, or beachfront condo.

And if you really still want to get in my pants, you can pick up a pair at Fashion Addiction on 700 East. There are also some bags of mine there too. Sadly.

Psycho Barbie

It might not come as a surprise that since I act like a pretty princess, I have been obsessed with Barbie for the better part of my life. Even as an adult I collected Barbie, and it wasn't until Mattel completely changed Barbie's face and body within the last few years that I dropped my membership in the Barbie Collector's Guild.

In the mid-80s, one of my favorite Barbie dolls was Western Stampin' Barbie. Not only did she come with a Barbie name stamp to autograph her fake glossy headshots, but she also had a button on her back that made her eyes blink when pushed. I don't know exactly what happened, but my brother was somehow involved in an incident that ended in breaking Western Stampin' Barbie's eyelids, rendering them unblinkable. He tried pulling out Western Stampin' Barbie's eyelids so that she would at least be able to see, but it gave her this freaky wide-eyed, "gonna' kill you in yer' sleep" kind of expression.

I freaked out and had nightmares about Western Stampin' Barbie getting in a horrifying accident and losing her eyes. Consequently, my mom thought she would try to make this expression less scary for me by whipping out a Sharpie and drawing several thick black eyelashes onto Barbie's face where the movable upper eyelids once sat. The effect was quite the opposite, leaving Western Stampin' Barbie with this homicidal face somewhere between Linda Blair and the creepy eyelash guy in A Clockwork Orange.

From that point on, we referred to Western Stampin' Barbie as Psycho Barbie and every night I made sure she was always buried in the bottom of the Barbie pile so she wouldn't come and hurt me while I slept.

Psycho Barbie was eventually mummified in surgical gauze and entombed in a homemade sarcophagus for a sixth grade project on Egypt. To this day, she lays rest in thirty pounds of gold plaster with Egyptians painted on the top. Nobody dares unwrap Psycho Barbie for fear of some kind of curse and/or zombie attack.

Flash forward to last night when I was getting ready to go out, slipped with the eyelash curler and ripped out over half of the outer eyelashes on my left eye. To make matters worse, I panicked and grabbed for a fake eyelash but the glue got in the open rip wound and left me feeling like I had a black eye. Not only does it still hurt today, but I look like a sideshow act and I'm hoping I won't have to wear fake eyelashes for the next two months.

I thought maybe the whole incident was karma coming back to taunt me for continually making fun of fake eyelashes worn during the daytime by a women with whom I sometimes come in contact. Then my brother left me a Facebook post that summed it all up better than anything else:

"Revenge of Psycho Barbie."

Tweet!

I've been doing quite a bit of social media stuff for work lately, so to use Twitter I'm really trying to get my point across in 140 characters or less. After a particularly heinous Zumba class at Gold's Gym tonight, I thought of some thoughtfully crafted letters I'd like to tweet to various organizations. And if you tweeple are out there, you may follow me at @hbgolightly

Dear @Golds_Gym_Utah, why must your Zumba teachers suck? Cha cha is on the 3 and 4 count.

Dear @GeneralMillsAnn, I want to rub some tropical Chex Mix on my chest b/c I love it, but you need to start making it again.

Dear @supermodelquin, I don't believe Old Navy's $75 off $100 purchase exists. The secret coupon makes my eye twitch.

Dear @JTek33, There is no catcher as fabulous as you. Caress me like a Louisville Slugger.

Why do tweets ultimately end up sounding like haikus?

Early morning musings

I was up all night because I have to work early this morning. Just one more special thing that makes my life mine. I know I haven't written in quite some time, so here are my thoughts for today. Read between the lines, lovelies, and you may discover why my blog has been lacking.

I don't know how I feel on the whole "let's be friends" thing when a relationship is looking like it needs hospice care. On one hand, I hate to lose someone for whom I cared. On the other hand, I think it's a lovely excuse for the chicken. I think the whole “let’s remain in a close friendship” thing in the final stages of a relationship may be pure idiocy.

Of course “being friends” sounds like a good idea to somebody who ends up acting like they cared very little about me in the first place! They continue to put in minimal effort, and yet they still get the pleasure of having me in their life, caring about them. It’s like a video game cheat code for dating: key in up-up-down-down-left-left-right-right-B-A-B-A-select-start and you’ve got 100 extra guys! (That was an obscure reference for you Contra fans out there)

Put it on your toast for a low-calorie spread: “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Dating” will leave you fulfilled without any work on your part! “Close friendship” is like liposuction for relationships. I guess I'm at the point where I really want a boyfriend/relationship on whom I can depend, not another pal, but why do I feel like that is wrong?

Wait for it...

It's been a long few months and I have much to share, lambs. Trust me that every time my heart gets pounded into cheesecake crust I have new stories to tell.

And this time, it's no different.