Our First Date – A Test

So I’m probably the only person under the age of 30 who listens to the radio at home, but I like to listen to a local radio show (Eric and Kathy) every morning when I get ready for work. They talk a lot about relationships and the differences between men and women, and, because I live with a boy, he’s  forced to listen to it as well. More often than not, we usually end up talking about topics they discuss. Just like a couple in the 1930s.

The topic the other day was first dates, and one of the hosts, Eric, was saying most men don’t remember what the woman was wearing. They are more likely to remember her cleavage, but not the dress she wore to make her boobs look good. And, of course, all the ladies on the show insisted they remembered every detail of their date down to the shoes.

So, of course, I had to ask the live in if he remembered what I was wearing on our first date more than 27 months ago. He said he thought it was “a blue dress with a crissy-crossy pattern or something.”

I didn’t wear a dress, but I DID wear a blue shirt with a pattern that could be described as crissy-crossy. And that’s good enough for me. Well done, live in boyfriend. Well done.

Now if only I could remember what he was wearing…

Tell me – do you also have the memory of a man?

The Best Day of My Life

Just call me Shermatron

Earlier this week, I had the best day of my life. Not because I got a promotion, got married, had a baby or anything of any significance to most normal people.

No, instead, in my cute, quirky (read: crazy) world of mine, I had the best day ever because I caught my first ever pass in flag football.

In normal person world, we were up by 20 points with about 30 seconds remaining in the game so the pass didn’t make much of a difference. In my world, catching that pass meant world peace, an end to childhood hunger and no more cancer.

And because I ALWAYS play it cool, you would never have noticed it was my first ever catch because when I realized I caught the ball, I immediately started screaming…and kept on screaming as I ran for about five more yards until my flag got pulled. 

I like to make the live in boyfriend (who is also on the team, but was on the sidelines at the time) tell me what my awesomeness looked like from his point of view at least a couple times a day.

Did I mention I got a first down? I know. I’m already waiting to be recruited by the NFL so I can put myself on my fantasy team.

I Thrill When I Drill a Bicuspid

Childhood Dentist

I’m afraid of the dentist.

I know what you are thinking. Oh, I hate the dentist too!

But, I’m serious. I’m afraid of the dentist. Like irrationally afraid. As in, whenever I go to the dentist, I cry. As in, I cry when I make the appointment. I cry when I check in with the receptionist. I cry when I sit in the chair before they do any work. And then I cry when they do any work. And whenever I cry; I sweat. Did I go too far with that last one? Well, whatever. It’s true. And I needed to paint that picture for you so you know, unlike you, I’m for realz afraid of the dentist.

You won’t be surprised to learn, it’s been about two years since I’ve been to the dentist. My last dentist who put up with the sweaty tears, left his practice, taking all the medical history with him, never to be heard from again. And I wasn’t ready to get to know an entirely new dentist.

Until I realized there were eight weeks left in the year, and my health spending account would expire…which means I would lose money. I HATE to lose money so the search for a new dentist began.

Ultimately, I made an appointment with a dentist recommended by my coworker. After crying with whoever answered the phone and explaining my situation, she had the dentist call me directly. We spent 10 minutes talking about why I’m so irrationally afraid. I explained how my childhood dentist (my family coined the Butcher) would yell at me whenever I would start crying. I remember when I had teeth pulled, he looked at me with crazed eyes, while waving a needle around, telling me it would hurt more if I cried.

I cried during the entire 10 minute conversation, and the new dentist didn’t make me feel crazy at all. And he prescribed me Xanax to take before the appointment “to take the edge off.”

So, now, instead of being afraid of the dentist, I’m afraid of taking the Xanax. I’ve never taken it before, and, in general, I don’t like prescription drugs because I once saw someone who had taken prescription drugs, drink two bottles of wine and fall off a chair during dinner.

I’m so quirky.

Tell me – what are you “quirky” about?

Have you Lost Weight, Fattie?

A friend of mine recently asked me if I lost weight.

Uh…yeah, no. Not even a little bit.

In fact, I’ve been in a relationship for 26 months so am currently at my “happy weight.” It’s not so much that I’m “happy” with my current poundage; it’s more so that I’m so “happy” in my relationship that I can’t stop eating or start exercising. Happy, happy, happy. Hand clap. Arm fat jiggle.

But my friend insisted. No seriously. You look like you’ve lost weight, she says.

Yeah, still no. In fact, I went to the doctor recently, and she looked at my weight and asked if I needed advice to start slimming down. She said my weight “isn’t a problem…yet,” she just wants to make sure I’m taking care of myself.

My friend is unconvinced. Your doctor’s crazy, you look SO good, she exclaims.

Thanks, I guess I just wear these extra 10 (12, 15, whatever, you don’t KNOW me) LBs well. Subject dropped.

When I told the live in boyfriend about it later, he decided my friend had fat memory. As in, she remembers me fatter than I really am, so when she sees me in person, and I’m not as fat as her memory of me is, she thinks I’ve lost weight.



Or you could have just said “but you DO look like you’ve lost weight.”

Pass me the nachos.

What I Learned Watching Postseason Baseball with my Live in Boyfriend

I’m not a big baseball fan. I’m a Chicago White Sox fan because my parents grew up on the South side of Chicago not because I pay attention to the team. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy going to any ball game because I like the beer and the food, but when it comes to watching baseball on TV; well, I’d rather be napping.

The live in boyfriend is a pretty big St. Louis Cardinals fan. When he lived in St. Louis, he watched almost every game and lived so close to the ballpark, he could hear the home run fireworks from his apartment before you could hear them on TV.

Now that he lives in Chicago, he subscribes to some MLB online thingie that goes through his PS3 thingie so he watches most of the games during the season. He’s not obnoxious about it – we still go out and do things during baseball season, but he probably checks the score of the game on his phone once or twice while we are out.

But I’ve watched more baseball in the past seven months than I have in my entire life. So much so I actually recognize players and know something about the last at bat or a recent play or something that someone who cared about baseball would know as well.

In case you missed it, the St. Louis Cardinals are in the World Series. And, in watching postseason baseball with the live in,  I’ve developed the following list of tips for making watching baseball on television a pleasurable experience:

  • In order to make watching baseball more tolerable, I’d recommend creating fun nicknames for players you recognize. I call Lance Berkman Fat Face. Because his face is fat. I say this out of love.

    Fat Face

  • It also helps to decide you know a player personally. Take Yadier Molina. I’ve decided he looks like he is in constant need of a hug. I like to give the live in a hug whenever Yadi does something. This is cute to me always. This is cute to the boyfriend hardly ever.

Give this man a hug!

  • Whenever possible, make cultural references. For instance, the Milwaukee Brewers pitcher Zack Grienke looks like Tyler from Teen Mom. Whenever he did something, I would make a comment about how he gave his baby up for adoption. At least until the fifth inning.

    Greinke or Teen Mom Tyler? I don't know either.


  • Which brings me to the next point, you can talk until the fifth inning, but if the Cards are losing, you must shut up unless what you have to say is directly related to what is happening in the game. Keeping pre-established nicknames is encouraged. Hugs and cultural references are generally discouraged. Unless it’s an Anchorman reference when the Cardinals do something good. Whammy!


  • If a commercial for the Three Musketeers comes on, do not start singing a Byran Adams song. Do not under any circumstances keep singing when the game comes back on. Especially after the fifth inning. Or really ever.

    I'd die for you.

  • Honor the live in boyfriend’s rule of only purchasing St. Louis beer products during the playoffs. It just makes things easier.


  • In the off-chance the live in boyfriend gets so mad he throws something, do not react. Especially with fear. Like the demons in the Paranormal Activity movies, fear only fuels his power.

    Behave, Toby.

Do you have any tips for watching postseason baseball with a loved one?

The Time I Humiliated and Slightly Tortured my Dad on his Birthday

I received a few requests after a recent post from some of you who wanted to know exactly how I humiliated my dad on his birthday. First, you all are sick, sick people. Second, ask and you shall receive is my motto so keep reading to hear why I am the worst daughter ever.

Like most men, my dad is the hardest person to shop for – he’s pretty traditional, drinks Miller Lite, buys most of his clothes from JCPenny, barbeques year round and will go to three grocery stores before 10 am on a Saturday to get a good deal. 

This year, my mom had the perfect gift idea – let’s take him to see a play about baseball! She heard on the radio that this play, which was about two brothers, one White Sox fan and one Cubs fan, was perfect for Chicago baseball fans. My dad likes baseball! My dad is a White Sox fan! My dad needs to see this play! 

AND, according to the guy on the radio, people wear their team colors to the play! That means my sister can get him a new White Sox jersey to wear to the play! AND we can go out to dinner before the play! Hurray for perfect gift ideas!

It was midway through the appetizer when I remembered, my dad doesn’t really like to go out to eat…he kinda hates it. He always says he can make it better at home for cheaper.

It was on the way to the theater when I remembered, my dad doesn’t really like plays. He gets sleepy and bored, and doesn’t really enjoy anything about the entire experience.

And, then, as we were pulling up to the theater, I looked around at the other theater guests and realized NO ONE ELSE WAS WEARING BASEBALL GEAR. They were dressed up, like most people do when they go to the theater. And my poor dad was dressed like this.

Good sport

So, of course, my mom and I burst out laughing, and couldn’t stop. Thankfully, my dad joined in, and we all ended up having a good time…even though the theater had no air conditioning…and the play was kinda long…and the characters used a lot of bad langauge which my dad finds just a little offensive.

Next year, I’ll just get him tickets a White Sox game, like my brother did, but it won’t be nearly as much fun for me.

Happy birthday, dad!

When Your Unemployed Boyfriend Becomes Un-Unemployed

For those of you just tuning in, back in April, my live in boyfriend quit his job, packed up his St. Louis apartment and moved to Chicago to live with yours truly. After six months of taking some time off to soul search, work two part time gigs and focus on writing & exploring the Chicago comedy scene, my unemployed boyfriend is officially employed.

What does this mean for our relationship? Well, it means we talk about eating all the time, and every day, a new Blu-ray arrives to our one bedroom apartment full of more Blu-rays.

The talking about eating part I can handle:

  • Are we out of cereal?
  • Is the milk bad? I’m not smelling it. If you have to smell it, it’s bad.
  • How old is that lunch meat? Well, when did you open it?
  • Do you have something to bring for lunch? Want me to make you a sandwich? The lunch meat is fine! I just opened it!
  • What’s for dinner? I don’t know. What do you feel like? I don’t know. Are we out of cereal?

It’s the Blu-rays that may kill me.

Dubs has a minor obsession with Amazon. He’s all about the Gold Box Deals.  While he was on hiatus from full-time employment, his Amazon obsession became less severe. But now that he has a steady income, he has purchased no less than 1,000 Blu-rays in the eight days he’s been employed.

I may be exaggerating, but there’s a good chance there is a terrible movie, like Ernest Scared Stupid, available for $3.99 that he is purchasing as you read this.

And I will probably fall asleep watching it because I went to bed hungry because the milk is bad, the lunch  meat is old and I didn’t feel like making anything for dinner…not to mention it is a terrible movie.

I’m so Ashamed.

Let’s just call my two months of no posts my summer sabbatical, and leave it at that. Here’s a highlight of blog posts you may have read if I had actually had time to write:

-My first fly-by bird pooping; a detailed account of what it’s like to be pooped on

-How I spent my summer – told by a SpaghettiO eating contest winner (unsanctioned)

-How Weekend Boyfriend turned into Weekday Boyfriend

-You know it’s love when you spend your 24-month anniversary with your girlfriends

-Humiliating my dad on his birthday

-Learning how to play flag football; subtitle: Five yard drag does not mean you walk five yards while dragging your foot behind you

-Ladies who football; my first and second live fantasy football drafts

-31 hours – an epic tale of a PR girl who needs no sleep

And that’s my summer in a nutshell. Here’s to a less busy Q4.

I’m a guest blogger!

My friend Ilana has a blog called The Ice Cream Project – “a convoluted excuse to eat ice cream (and other assorted frozen treats) every day for 94 days. An entire summer dedicated to eating ice cream,”  and she asked me to guest post.

Check it out here:

And yes, the part about the mango song is true.

Somebody is Going to Get Hurt.

I know, I know, I know, I know, I know, I know, I know. Let’s pretend it hasn’t been more than three weeks since I last posted. And let’s pretend, during my blog sabbatical, I didn’t do anything embarrassing like get injured from a sprinkler.

You aren’t very good at pretending. Neither am I.

So back to this sprinkler injury (see what I did there? I made you forget about the fact that I haven’t posted in almost a month. Shoot! I brought it up again…back to the sprinkler injury).

I like to think the injury was actually the delayed result of my stellar performance at an epic kickball game on the third of July. When the idea of a kickball game came up at the party I was attending, I did my best to try to play it cool. I haven’t exercised since May, and I was wearing a strapless dress and flip-flops. Thoughts of injuring myself and flashing my goodie bits ran through my head as I found myself and my competitive, prove-em-wrong spirit waiting to be picked for a team. I don’t recall all the details, all I recall is how awesome I played and how no one saw my goodie bits.

After the game, I was sore for a week. My muscles had just about recovered when Dubs and I encountered a sprinkler that was  sprinkling over the sidewalk (sidenote, I find it extremely annoying when people put sprinklers in the path of pedestrians. Be considerate of other people who also exist in your world and adjust the settings so it doesn’t affect me). I waited for the sprinkler to go to the other side and then ran across in an attempt to avoid getting wet. That’s when my groin muscle decided my movements were just too explosive for its liking. Yes, you read that correctly. I strained my groin trying to avoid a sprinkler. Contrary to popular belief, it did not feel so good, and I did not pull it again.

The worst part is I still had about 2 blocks and three flights of stairs left to walk. It took us about 20 minutes to get back home. It took another 20 minutes for Warren to stop laughing at me. And then another week for me to recover from the groin.

So really you shouldn’t blame me for not blogging. You should blame America for having a birthday, my friends for forcing me to play kickball, the inventor of the game of kickball, the a-holes who left their sprinkler in an inconsiderate location and my groin muscle for not enjoying being pulled.

I’ll be better; I promise.