Among the Things I Regret...

I wish I hadn't given two of my neighbors an eyeful of underpants on Sunday morning. And, how I wish I hadn't said, "Hi!" to them in my best Sunday voice, and given them a friendly wave and a big-ass smile as I fumbled about in my t-shirt, struggling to cover up my hindquarters.

And I truly, to the bottom of my squishy marshmallow heart, wish these neighbors hadn't both been under the age of five.

But really, people...like any of YOU put on pants to go get the newspaper.

In the comments, tell me about the time you flashed a preschooler. Or am I the only person who does this?

Among the Many Things That Baffle Me

Someone, somewhere, who is somewhat smarter than me, once said that wisdom is the compensation for growing older. Unfortunately, as I'm a bit contrary, the older I get, the less I understand.

I don't get the purpose of the "campon" feature is on my work phone, except for perhaps to rhyme with "tampon." I don't get injustice, racism, leggings, decaf, or the weird rolling sound I hear from my upstairs neighbors.

But, with all the hullabaloo over David Carradine, I find myself even more confused than usual. Not that a celebrity died, because, really, they die just a little more than most of us (to the point I wonder if we'll ever run out).

No, I simply do not get auroerotic asphyxiation. Like, I could spend hours in an empty room with lots of rafters, with a noose and no pants, and it would just never occur to me.

I will admit to not being the most adventurous person ever. Last night was a rousing session of skimming vacuous fashion magazines (neon? really?) and scrubbing the bathroom. I live 25 miles from where I grew up. Lastly, my safety word is "ouch!" followed by, "...the hell?"

So, I'd never, in a million years, in that imaginary empty room with the many rafters, pantsless and bored, think any of this up.

In the comments, imagine you're in a room with a noose and no pants. Is this what you'd think up? If not...what WOULD you do?

Crowdsourcing My Hair

I suffer from a highly conflicted form of vanity: I don't really care too much about how I look, but I want a lot of attention for the fact that I'm not vain.

I've spent the last two days demanding that my friends choose my next hair color. Stick with the reddish, or go back to dark brown? Granted, these changes are so imperceptible that I'm more or less asking them to choose between ecru and bone. (What? Exactly.)

The scariest option so far has been that I return to my natural color (thanks, Tyler!). Sure...if I had the faintest clue what that was. In fact, one of the meanest things anyone can do to me in a round of Trivial Pursuit is ask, "For the pie...WHAT IS YOUR NATURAL HAIRCOLOR?" My heart stops for a minute, then I realize the joke. And I start to throw things. (I'm a little slow on the uptake...I had to be TOLD Spinal Tap wasn't a real band.)

Then there are suggestions that I get highlights, or go to a salon. No way...that's like saying I should upgrade from my Wal-Mart brand cocaine. Whatever a salon can do, I can do better with a $9 bottle of Feria, two glasses of wine, and some olive oil for the inevitable drips.

Now that I've written an entire post about my hair, it's time for you to vote. Red or brown? And, since I don't post photos of myself, many of you are doing this blind. That's what makes it awesome.

I Might Be an Amnesiac Stripper

When I visit people's homes, I tend to leave little pieces of myself behind. And not just pieces of my heart, or the final shards of my dignity.

No, I have possession leprosy. I have shed something I own at virtually every gathering I've ever attended. Umbrellas. Xanadu. Jewelry. Tupperware. Or, most often, articles of clothing, like shawls, sweaters, or socks. I spend my weekend afternoons revisiting the scenes of my various crimes, recovering my scattered belongings.

I'm starting to wonder what this really means. See, I'm obsessively organized, and I tend to freak out a little when I can't find something. I'm not at all forgetful by nature. And I don't think I'm attempting to move in with any of my friends so incrementally that they don't notice until I haul in the sofa.

Maybe there's something I'm not telling myself, and I think I know what it is:

I'm moonlighting as an amnesiac exotic dancer.

That must be why I get invited to so many parties! I take a shot or two of some kind of CIA memory-erasing medicine, shake my money maker, earn just enough for my cab fare home, and roll out of there. Or maybe one of my friends is secretly my stripper-pimp, and is skimming a little too much off the top. Because, at the very least, I ought to find the occasional stray dollar bill in my underpants. (That is, if I remembered to take my underpants home with me.)

In the comments, admit it. You're my stripper-pimp.

Sexy Secretaries Always Get the Best Stuff

I really only have time for a half-assed update today. Which is sad, because I tend to prefer to go after things with my whole ass.

Instead, I offer a vignette:

Yesterday morning, when I walked into the office, there was a big box of Godiva chocolates waiting for me, in honor of Administrative Professional's Day.

Observation: Being an executive assistant on Administrative Professionals' Day has netted me more chocolate than seventeen years of dating.

Conclusion: My job rocks. Also, more people should give me Godiva in honor of my awesome-osity.