Boss.

Your shoulderpads are really boss.
Your perm is totally boss.
Your shoulderpads and perm are really boss.

Readers:
You are so very boss.

Hot Button.

My computer is dead-dead-deadsville and I've been leeching off of the kindness of those who are well-endowed with MACs the last few months. I know it's necessary to get a new computer, but this is an agonizing and utterly confusing situation for someone who can barely even turn the damned thing ON, let alone make choices involving gigs, killahbites, REM, RAM or external hard-drives (isn't that why we have INternal ones?)

In any case, considering how painful a shopping experience for something like shoes or price comparison shopping my blueberries (Costco vs Farmer's Market vs Trader Joes? WHO KNOWS?!?) and minor details like running shorts (if I have one pair I got 10 years ago for $8 and they still work- even if there's paint stains and holes in them- do I really NEED a new set?), choosing a computer is like asking me to perform brain surgery when I'm already hyperventilating into a paper bag due to the smells and sounds of the O.R.
PAINFUL.

And controversial.
Who knew?
People are IN TENSE about their computers. Maybe that is why they are referred to as "PCs." (Personal Computers, for those of you like me. Wait- that is what it means, right?) Anyway. You can imagine my brain is about as shredded as my computer's failed hard-drive. Although, apparently, it's not the hard-drive but some other component that has been chock full of viruses- not from downloading mind you (I only just learned how to shop on iTunes last year), but just from being on the internet. I'm not looking at things beyond my bank and google and gmail, so where are these little bastards coming from and why are they infiltrating my sweet, harmless, aging computer system? WHY?!?!

And who ARE these losers making up new viruses anyway? Seriously? THIS is what you're doing with your time? Not stealing from me, or spying on the blog I'm already publishing anyway, but just ruining a computer that you will not make any gains for when I purchase a replacement part? Get out of your mom's basement and get an f*ing TAN, you loser. I'm rather fond of nerds, but YOU, sir, are crapsville. YOU are mean, spiteful, and don't even have a purpose for doing the work that you do. Good grief! WHY?!?! You could probably disassemble all the nuclear bombs in the world and create world peace through increased communications throughout the world. And what are you doing with your brilliance? Freakin' creating wormholes in MY computer that maybe can upload pictures when I hit the right combinations of buttons by accident.
Jerk.

In any case. I need a new computer now. I've made my peace over the dearly departed. Whom, I should mention, was mostly useless anyway, seeing as I used to have to turn it on, walk away and brush my teeth, load a page and then do my hair, return to send an email, get dressed while it's sent...and so on. Maybe it was Miss Dell that was the problem to begin with. Maybe I SHOULD hook up with hipster-in-cords-MAC. All of my friends think so. But what kind of girl would I be, just hooking up with MAC because everyone ELSE likes him? He can do way more than I'll ever be able to figure out. I know Dell. I know the way it works. Load up and walk away. He just needs some space in our relationship. I get that. I'm independent. I get it. I mean, isn't it enough that I'm willing to upgrade to a laptop so I can take my computer out once and a while? I'll be just like Sandra Bullock on The Net. Laying out and getting a laptop-tanline. It'll be dreamy.

You're Killin' Me, Ho.

In keeping with National Poetry Month, I've taken down to writing poetry. It's awful, so you worry, you won't be getting any here, but I will say this:

Why is the music at the gym so f*ing bad?!!? All the music played in all of the classes pretty much makes me want to have a brain hemmorage. I swear. All I can think is what the f*ing hell are these instructors thinking? I mean, is it not enough for you that you have our undivided attention and a roomful of people who are doing all they can do to follow your lead, but then you have to force us to listen to awful and unnecessarily re-mixed and up-tempo'd club music? How can anyone feel okay about forcing that many people to listen to re-mixed Britney Spears, songs about ho's, hittin' it, and being Fergalicious? Every. Single. Week.

So while I may be an awful poet, maybe the inspiration for all this expression is coming from the torrid world of bad pop music. Maybe this just means I'll become a pop star. Instead of just a really trite excuse for a poet.

My instructors have been asking for suggestions. I believe this is in reference to what areas of the body we should work on. I'm at the point where my primary request is to work on my ears. Any suggestions on what you like to sweat to?

Out to Get Me.

The other night I was at a friend's house rather late at night. When I returned to my car, I saw pawprints on my windshield. Let me preface my next statement by saying that I love cats. LOVE them. If it weren't such a cliche I'd have 3 of them. Easily. But getting into a mist-covered car with cat-prints smeared down the front of the windshield was hella creepy. All of a sudden I realized why some people hate cats so much.
CREEPY.
But there's one more thing that's worse.
The next morning I got into my car and there was toilet paper on my windshield. WTF, man?!? I mean, maybe it was just a shred of someone's kleenex or something, but, dude. How much weirdness IS that?!?!
So what's creepier? Kitty paws smeared down the front of your windshield, or someone's toilet paper?
Either way, looks like Dionne is gonna get sterilized.

Call me for random sex.

So there's this guy who comes into work on occasion; fairly attractive, nicely mannered, funny and has an interesting job. He skyrockets up on my chart because
a) he's from Boston (hot)
b) he's a regular-type guy (humble and low-maintenance- see "a")
c) he works for Mtv (my dream job!)
and
d) while I meet a lot of men who might try to be charming and end up being really gross and weird, he's genuinely sweet and charming.

A few weeks later:
Boston stops by and tries getting my attention, but I'm already running all over like a madman, helping 3 other clients. He waves from a distance a few times and hangs around, but later I notice him talking to a friend who works nearby. I run over to her when I have a moment and gush, "Boston is SOOOO cute! Did he ask you out? Please- o- Please! You have GOT to go out with him and let me live vicariously because he is sooo cute! Don't you think he's cute?" She didn't, but she indulges me and says that she'll entertain the idea, even though she thinks he's a player. I respond incredulously, "how could a guy like THAT be a player? He's so sweet. And so down-to-earth. He's such a GUY. He's GROUNDED. It's because he's sooo BOSTON."
She rolls her eyes.

Two weeks later:
me: So? Did you go out with Boston yet?!?!
she: No.
me: Did he call? Have you talked?
she: uhhh...I'm not interested.
me: But how do you know that?!? He's so NICE. He is soooo nice!
she: eh. He's a player. He's not interested in a relationship. He's just in it for sex.
me: ! Wait...What? But why? He is? How do you know this?
she: He said so.
me: HE SAID SO!?!? (Is this how the gentile world communicates?!? Is it really all so clear-cut and simple to determine? And if so, isn't that an awkward first conversation?)
she: He said, "what are you looking for?" and I said, "A serious commitment," and he wasn't, so that's that.
me: Well...I mean, I would balk, too, if someone led with "a serious committed relationship, too!" Right? I mean...that's kind of intense of you. You're kind of intense. I mean- what did he say, EXACTLY?
she: He said, "I want to go out and have fun."
me: FUN!?!? FUN!?!? What's wrong with fun? I want to go out and have fun with someone!
she: "Fun," means, "sex."
me: (my world begins to crumble.) Wait. What? I'm confused. How does having fun mean "casual sex"? Do people still have casual sex? Isn't that sooo 80s? I mean, he's a nice guy. A NORMAL nice guy. Maybe he really does just want to go out and have fun. ew!- O my gosh!- Did he actually SAY to you that he just only wanted to have sex with you?
she: No. I mean. It was a text.
me: WHAT?!? He TEXTED that he wanted you for casual sex?!? (my little world is melting right about now.)
she: That's what it means, Farrah. You ask someone, "what are you looking for," and they either say they just want to have fun or a good time OR you're interested in a serious relationship. I'm too old to be playing games. I'm 37. He's 31. I'm just not interested in playing around. But maybe I should give him your number. I mean, YOU're fun! You think he's cute. You should totally go out with him.
me: (shocked.)...I don't even know how to respond to that.
she: Well, he thought you were cute and he said he wanted to get your number.
me: (descending from shock into utter speechlessly baffled.) Wait. WHAT?!? You two TALKED about me? About ME?!?! Having casual sex. With him?!?! I'm MORMON. I don't DO THAT.
she: O! Yeah. I knew that. I didn't realize you were so strict.
me: Uh-ha- YEAH. I AM. I mean- yes! I mean...O my gosh- you thought I would have casual sex with a STRANGER?!!?
she: You thought he was cute!
me: O dear...This is so not what I thought we were going to be talking about...O my gosh. You think I would have sex with him...O my gosh...You told him I would have casual sex with him?!?! I need to know what you said, EXACTLY what was said- RIGHT NOW.
she: We were texting about doing something all weekend- just back and forth- and then he asked what I was looking for, and I said, "A serious relationship," and he said he just wanted to have fun, and I said, "You should ask Farrah." And he knew who you were and said you were really cute and I asked him if he wanted your number and he said, no, that he could get it himself.
me: Wait- so he says he's only interested in casual sex, and the first thing you say is, "You should call Farrah!"?!? I have just sunk below the depths of humiliation. And now he totally thinks I am the kind of person who would just sleep with him. Boy, is he in for a disappointment.

I am calling the next segment an anthropological experiment. If I ever see him again I will agree to go out and ask him exactly what does he think he means by asking out random women to only have sex with him and what does he think those women think? My mind is still a bit boggly by the thought that one could actually- WOULD actually- pick up a phone and say, "I'd like to go out with you, but not because I'm interested in getting to know you and not because I want to actually spend any real time with you. I just want to only have sex with you (random stranger)."
I can't believe people are actually buying into this kind of crap. And while I'm utterly humiliated that I was the first person named when the question, "If you're not open for it, who else could I call for random sex be?" I am also absolutely fascinated this kind of conversation even happens. And I'm genuinely curious at what is going through this dude's head. I mean, how does a proposition like this go? Over the salad portion of dinner? "I'm not interested in talking to you, but how about you take your pants off when we finish the salmon?" Or, "I don't really care that you're educated and accomplished, but how about you make sure you pick up all your things off my floor before I send you home in a cab?" and, "What was your last name again?- how about we just take our clothes off and have at it?"

Fascinating. I'm horrified.

Of course, now I'll be totally humiliated if he never gets my number.

You Did This.

For quite some time now I've had a social question on my brain that has been seriously bugging me. What do you do when you see your ex? So far, I only have two answers:
1) Smile and be warm, because maybe he'll be different this time.
2) Punch him in the face, like I should have the first time.

I've been without a computer for several months and was seriously lacking in internet access anyway. Tonight I put off doing some very important things because I got caught up in catching up on my friend's lovely blogs and facepicturebooks. And I do not regret it. Not one bit. Because I saw in their lives what I have only wondered about for myself. I saw amazing husbands who go out of their way to do things -little things that show how much they care and how well they know her- like making a mix of songs she would have liked or sending emails of pictures that would make her happy or youtube videos that would make her laugh. I would love to have a man who would randomly make me mix tapes of new music he knows I would like. Or someone who thinks I'm funny even when I'm not. Or who loves you and admires you even though you maybe thought "Twilight" wasn't entirely stupid (even though it is). Or who loves and adores your children and will do whatever it takes to spend whatever moments of time he might have to be with them so they know he cares- even if that means watching cartoons they dvr'd so everyone could sit down and watch them together. Who admires you for going back to school and goes hiking through mud with you in the rain. Or who thinks you're beautiful even though you're throwing up because you're pregnant or who thinks you're beautiful with that 15lbs of baby weight that just isn't going away. Or who would draw you a picture or let you take pictures of him and who likes you in all your silly, giddy girlness even when you are usually an uptight, gun-toting right-wing Republican (I love you anyway, too).

So this is all I have left to say:
I'm so sorry for you, Buster. I am sorry because I still think you're talented and brilliant and I still wish I could be there to love you and support you for everything that you are and for everything you want to be. And I wanted so much for you to know that I would have done anything in my power to help you get there, because I wanted it all for you and that would have made me so happy just to see you happy. But you know what, Buster? You were too self-focused and insecure and selfish to have even noticed all that. And you had the chance to be just as caring and as loving to me as I was for you and you chose not to. You chose to let fear and insecurity and sin lead your actions and you chickened out and you left and you- YOU- will always, always and forever have to live with knowing that you could have had everything you ever dreamed of and a happiness that would never ever give up on you and you didn't do anything to make it happen.
That is just so sad. You are pathetic. I really wish knowing it would make me stop crying for you.

But it is because of the rest of you that I can see there are people out there who do things for each other- all of the time- just because they love someone enough long enough to forget themselves. Or maybe, they are so focused on someone they love that they are doing everything they can to become the best part of themselves in order to be the best person for that someone they love.

Like on TV.

I think I just threw up in my mouth a little bit.

Doing It.

Looks like I'm going Vegan.
Moby-PLAY, I'm SERIOUS.
A dear friend of mine has been struggling with her ovaries in a multitude of ways, and now her mother-in-law has offered to cure her endometriosis through vegan-ism.
me: Are you serious?
she: Yup. And I've committed to it.
me: "Committed to it." How do you mean?
she: I met with a healer.
me: Of course you did.
she: And the Healer asked if I wanted to have surgery again. And I said, "no." And the healer asked if I would commit to getting better. Whatever it takes. So. Whatever it takes. But nothing I make can have more than 5 ingredients, because I just won't do it. And I told her that if I was going to do this, I needed to have an end point. So 3 months is it. I'm doing it for 3 months.
Keep in mind, she is not in the habit of doing more than ordering from a menu or pouring instant pancakes, so this is a daunting task. Aren't you glad you have such a thing as mother-in-laws and healers? It warms me just to think they really do exist. And as any good friend would do, I offered to pony up with her and vegan it myself for the next 3 months. In response to this, another friend asked, "So she's doing this why?" Because she can't conceive. "Are you trying to conceive?" I'm doing my damnedest!
So yeah. Fellas. I'm taking my prenatals AND now I'm vegan. This body is PREPPED. Plus, there's that sign I left up of my number in the boy's bathroom. So. Any minute now...

update:
It's only been two days since I committed to becoming vegan. So far, I've thrown out the melon that's been sitting in my fridge for 3 weeks and the cucumber that's gone soft over the last week along with the spinach that's now sort of yellowing around the edges. But the frozen atomic blueberry muffins from Costco that keep making me sick are on their way out. I had one yesterday and another for breakfast. And once I plow through the rest of my frozen chicken, pork dumplings and spinach ravioli, it's all veggies and Cheerios with soy milk from here!
Are you with me?

Second Chances.

Recently my dear friend and incredible writer, K8, invited me to participate in a group project she's creating where we write a letter to our 16-year old selves. Whether that's advice on the boy who just broke your heart or an assurance that getting a "c" in math will not destroy your chances for college, so please for the love, child, stop beating yourself up already; write it down to yourself.

In under-related news, I just saw the movie "17 Again," which, shocking as it is, I did NOT see because of the Zac Efron poster. The title reminded me of the show which began my Matthew Perry obsession in the early 80s called something like, Sixteen Again. And when I realized Matthew Perry would be IN 17 Again- YES, I knew had to see it.

Let's just say, I laughed so hard, my stomach still hurt the next morning.

TummyAche.

A great part of my joy in traveling to strange, exotic, underdeveloped countries is likely due to the fact that I can pretty much eat anything and not have it affect me. I have intestines of steel.
Lately- not so much.
Let's just say that, as much as I abhor the concept of a "diet" or food restrictions of any kind (mostly as my upheld fist against the idealist-establishment of modern beauty), I think I am going to have to stop forcing myself to eat all the goodies and treats at all these events and parties and girl's nights out because IT IS MAKING ME SICK.
I'm not kidding.
And I'm absolutely horrified at the reality, but, lately, whenever I have a bit of cake or a few cookies or maybe a night of Charlie's Angels accompanied by chips, salsa, queso and a pazookie (par example) has me doubled over the next 24 hours- at some point I need to admit that the joke of little me eating an entire pizza for show just isn't funny anymore.
sigh.
Goodbye old me.
I guess I really AM just cut out to be a lot healthier than I'd like to be.
My condolences to those of you who looked to me to break the first cookie, eat more than you so you wouldn't feel bad, or tell you it's okay to break your diet and have a little cheese on your quesadilla already. You were what drove me, much of the time, to eat in order to liberate you from your own guilt. Unfortunately, my stomach can no longer carry your food-esteem. But let me leave you with this note:

• You are still beautiful. And interesting. And intelligent. And accomplished. Regardless of if you have that piece of cake or not.
• You are lucky to be part of the 10% of the world that is not starving, let alone have the luxury (for it IS a luxury) to have dessert with your dinner. Or have it count AS dinner.
• Your body is strong. Regardless of that 5 or 10lbs you're stressing over. The numbers on the scale are not your identity. You can run. You can walk uphill. You can carry your own bags and not fall over from exhaustion. See an anorexic do THAT.
• You can respect yourself without feeling guilty. Whether that means having a cookie because, hey! Cookie!, or not- because you just don't feel like it today and you know you can always have one tomorrow if you like. Your choices are your own. Your actions are your own. And this body of yours loves you just as much as you love it.
• You are one of the elite. You have a computer. You are literate. You can get a job and earn money if you want it. You have food on the table if you want it. You are incredibly lucky, by the world's standards. What you choose to do with that gratitude is up to you, but please, don't waste it by starving yourself or making yourself feel guilty because you're not. You are so much more than what you're putting into your mouth.
• Finally, please. Please. Stop whining at the table in front of others. (If you're that one.) When you talk about how fat you are or about how you're breaking your diet or how guilty you feel, you unconciously imply that those who DO choose to eat are somehow doing something wrong. Which is odd, considering you both chose to sit down at the same dinner table together. Please. If you can't be considerate to yourself, at least be concious enough to be considerate to others.
  

You are young. You are strong. And you are living a great adventure.
Live it up.

Broken.

It has been determined (through a very scientific and analytical process using lots of fancy chemistry lab tools and electric currents) that I have a superpower.
My superpower?
I obliterate machinery operating off of electricity.
It's true.
If I'm near a computer, it shuts down. Anything electric is pretty much at risk. They are considering flying me over enemy airspace just so my "highly vibrating aura" (as described by several psychics) can wipe out weapons of destruction and violence.
I WILL BRING PEACE TO THIS LAND.

Which is such a relief of career opportunities, considering these economic times serving the military as The Ultimate Peacemaker makes me feel much more useful than simply being, "The Person Who Ruins Electronic Equipment."

Thanks for letting me borrow your equipment this weekend, Whits. I can't believe it's still operating. The force runs strong with you, MAC. I think I might love you.