The One With a Letter to Cosmo

Dear Cosmopolitan Magazine,

I got an e-mail from you today informing me that my subscription to your fine magazine (Also known as "you") only has "a few issues left." I'm guessing this means 5 to 6, since I haven't been a subscriber for THAT long.

I should note here that I did not pay for my Cosmo subscription. No, since I drink ungodly amounts of Diet Coke, I had amassed many Coke Rewards points, and I used 200 of them to subscribe. I'd been purchasing issues of your magazine for a while (the "on-again" part of my on-again, off-again relationship with Cosmo), and thought that the $5,093.94* I'd paid in Diet Coke might be about equal to a subscription.

I thought (even though I KNOW better) I'd be getting a magazine that has been around for decades, and which has helped countless** women through the trials and tribulations of life, sex, and everything else that comes with it. Being that it's been fewer than 3 years since I began on my journey of sexing, I thought that maybe, just maybe, Cosmo could help me catch up with my wiser, more sexually satisfied peers.***

The only thing that I've gathered from reading the "tips" Cosmo puts forth each month is that guys like girls who are into some weird stuff. You also say, every 3 issues or so, that jiggling a man's balls back and forth, as if shaking a pair of dice, is the quickest way to bring him to orgasmic bliss.

"Not so!" say several men I've inquired about this to and also a few articles and blog posts scattered about. It seems that treating your man's boys like you were employed by a Vegas casino is actually quite a BAD idea. Shame on you, Cosmo. Millions (?) of women are looking to you for advice, and you, in turn, are attempting to render their men infertile.

Your "Confessions" section? It's the same story, told over and over and over again! The men will always cheat on their significant other (rarely caught) and the women all either perform some kind of auditory bodily function, get their period, trip, or say the wrong thing in front of their "crush." Either that, or they're caught by their roommate/parents/boyfriend/girlfriend/etc. whilst in the throes. I feel like most of these "confessions" are made up. Yeah, sure you're "Lacy, 25, Columbia, SC." You're probably more like Edgar, 43, Columbia, SC.

The (next to) last thing I have to say involves the utter (apparent) laziness of your staff when it comes to cover stories. During 2009, there were two issues, approximately 5 months apart, that had the EXACT SAME "catchy" headline on them! I don't remember the specifics, but I know it had something to do with Foods That Will Make You Live Forever. Exact same wording. Even the cover art was similar! I can't remember the colors, but it was the same ones, just reversed! If the March issue was blue with orange letters, the August issue was orange with blue lettering. Do you not employ people to NOTICE things like this?****

But worse than all this, Cosmo, worse than the fake confessions and the terrible sex tips and the lazy editing, is one of your cover stories this month.

UNTAMED VA-JAY-JAYS

you proclaim.

Untamed va-jay-jays.

First of all, Cosmo, just because Oprah says something, that does not make it acceptable to USE, much less put on the cover of a national magazine.

Underneath the "catchy" title, it says "Guess Which Sexy Style Is Back."

I'm not. . .really sure. Because (and Cosmo, I hope I'm not stepping on your toes by assuming you took basic high school Biology), a "va-jay-jay" (or, you know, a VAGINA!) is INSIDE a woman's body. So I'm not entirely sure what you mean by an "untamed" vagina, unless you're referring to the campy horror movie, "Teeth," which portrays a girl whose vagina has teeth ("vagina dentata") and which bites off a man's ManBits whenever she has The Sex with them. Pretty good flick.

I'm guessing this isn't what you mean, though, and again, SHAME ON YOU for confusing people who, let's face it, are, by a high majority, not that intelligent anyway, by insinuating that a vagina is something that can somehow be. . .well, groomed (or not) much less tamed (or, you know, not.)

All of this, Cosmo, is why I will not be paying for your services anymore. I'd say you'd changed since the days I used to sneak into my mom's room and read her copy of Cosmo, even though she said it was far too old for me***** but actually, you have not. You're exactly the same. And that's where the problem is.

Love, kisses, and untamed va-jay-jays,

Sarah

*Estimated amount

**You COULD count them, but that would be a giant waste of time. Just estimate.

***They WERE more satisfied. I'm doing just fine, thankyouverymuch.

****Um, I'm a former editor looking for a job. CALL ME!

*****Sorry, Mom.

The One Where the Next Generation is Effed

I read this article on CNN.com today called "Parents, do you know what these texts mean?" and it had the following examples of 'text speak':

"N2 2CB. WBU?" which means "I'm into hallucinogenics. What about you?" (Obviously, someone ON hallucinogenics came up with this.)

"WTG 4 a \%/" which means "Want to go for a drink?" (I actually figured this one out on my own. It was literally the only one for which I was able to do that.)

"%*@:-(" which means "Hung-over and got a headache." (To me, this one says, "Marge Simpson is having an especially bad hair day.")

"ctn pos. tdtm l8r k? :** :"" apparently means "Can't talk now. Parent over shoulder. Talk dirty to me later, OK? Returning the kiss." (WHAT? I'd heard of POS before [which, to me, will ALWAYS stand for Piece of Shit], and l8r I understand. But. . .I don't even know. I think this actually means "Sorry, my cat is currently walking across my keyboard.")

"No 420? Wiyp?" means "No weed? What is your problem?" (I got the 420 reference. But I don't understand the Wiyp? part of it. We KNOW what the problem is. No weed. [Excuse me. No 420.])

"LM4a~~#ZZZZZZ>" means "Let's meet for a joint." (I honestly don't get this one AT ALL. Can someone explain it to me?)

OK, OK. I get that teenagers (and. . .pre-teens) all use this nonsense and call it communication. What killed me was this part of the article:

Once you get the hang of the language, you can try your hand at translating a real message found by Susan Shankle and Barbara Melton, co-authors of the book "What in the World Are Your Kids Doing Online?"

The message reads:

"1 w45 50 j4ck3d up |457 n16h7. 1 5c0r3d 50m3 cr4ck 47 7h3 p4r7y 50 1'd h4v3 17 f0r 70n16h7 4nd 70m0rr0w, 4nd 7h3n J1mmy 700k 0ff w17h 17, 7h3 455h0|3! 1 4m 4|| j1773ry 4nd n33d 70 m337 up w17h y0u 70n16h7 4f73r my p4r3n75 7h1nk 1 4m 45|33p. c4n y0u m337 m3 47 b0j4n6|3'5 47 m1dn16h7 ju57 f0r 4 f3w m1nu735? 1 ju57 n33d 4 |177|3 4nd 1 c4n p4y y0u b4ck 0n m0nd4y, 1 pr0m153."

Oh my God. OH MY GOD, my EFFING BRAIN just EFFING EXPLODED.

Admittedly, when I was first reading through this, I actually got the basic gist of the message. Once you read it for long enough, you get the basic way it goes. But still.

For those of you who don't speak idiot 'text speak,' the message says this:

"I was so jacked up last night. I scored some crack at the party so I'd have it for tonight and tomorrow, and then Jimmy took off with it, the asshole! I am all jittery and need to meet up with you tonight after my parents think I am asleep. Can you meet me at Bojangle's at midnight just for a few minutes? I just need a little and I can pay you back on Monday, I promise."

My first question, I guess, is this: is it all the stoners who are into this kind of thing? Because the article focused on an awful lot of drug references.

Secondly. . .WHAT is HAPPENING to writing? And reading? And speaking? As a former English major (That's another question. . .once you graduate, are you still whatever your major was? Would I be an English major, or would I be a former English major?), I love words. I love writing them (properly) and reading them (properly). And the fact that all the technology and really, really dumb teenagers we have now is rendering all that useless? Is so, so sad to me. It's also vaguely "A Clockwork Orange."

I'm worried for the day, 50 years from now, when my grandkids are writing me thank you texts notes (please, dear God, please let people continue to write thank you notes.) and they something like:

y0, 6r4ndm4, 7h4nk5 f0r 7h3 5w3473r. 17 r0ck5!!! -71mmy

(Also, if I DO end up giving my grandchildren sweaters, they will be BADASS SWEATERS! With skulls and hookers on them.)

I really am just sad about the state of things nowadays. Even when I was in high school and editing my (then) boyfriend's papers, I was like, "Why can't people WRITE?" And now we're using numbers instead of letters and pictures of Marge Simpson after a night out on the town.

I'm aware I'm probably coming across as a cranky old broad, destined to sit on the porch with her cats and shake my cane at those damn kids who WON'T GET THE EFF OFF MY LAWN!, but really? I think you should have to meet a certain standard of writing before graduating high school, or you just won't be allowed to graduate. Same with college. (And I don't mean to leave out the people who don't finish high school, or don't finish college. For y'all, I say before you get any kind of job, you have to pass a test of some kind, and if you're unable to do that, you can be given some kind of class or something.

Everything's going downhill in my brain right now, because it's kind of late, but trust me. It all makes sense. Stop writing like morons. Because every time you illustrate sexual acts with random keyboard symbols and every time you WrYtE LyKe Dis, and every time you use numbers instead of letters, God kills a kitten. And then he blames you.

The One Where The List Makes a Comeback

Hey, y'all. Remember The List? Due to my complete lack of anything interesting to say and/or discuss today, I'm bringing the list back. In no particular order.

Let's see. . .Apparently, Day 28 (What's in Your Handbag or Purse) was already done, inadvertently, so I'm going to go ahead and mark that one off. We'll go with:

Day 25: Your Day, In Great Detail

Since it's about 10:50 a.m., obviously, this is not THIS day in great detail. This is a generic day, since most of them go about the same. Also, you may or may not be sorry for asking for great detail.

6:40: Alarm goes off. I hit snooze, cursing the world.

6:49: Hit snooze.

6:58: Hit snooze.

7:07: Hit snooze.

7:16: Hit snooze. D comes in and politely tells me if I don't get my ass in gear, I'm going to be late.

7:25: Finally get up and get in shower.

7:32: Get out of shower and begin "What to wear" process.

7:33-7:41: Change clothes three times.

7:42-7:50: Panickedly (is that a word?) gather up everything I need for the day, grab bagel and juice D has so nicely gotten together for me, hunt for my badge, hurry out the door.

7:50-8:05-ish: Drive to and get to work.

8:05-ish-12:00: OK, so, the order of all of this varies from day to day, so I'll just give you a list of what could and probably, at some point, will happen during this 4-hour span:

*Mafia Man comes by my desk and scares the crap out of me.

*I say, "I'm good, thanks, how are you?" between five and 15 times. (Yes. I'm aware I should say I'm doing "well," but that doesn't flow as easily.)

*My boss calls between two and 100 times.

*I enter the forms that people have filled out.

*Three people ask me to do things for them, believing me to be their personal assistant.

*Two people call me, asking to be transferred to someone else in the building, because they don't want to look up the person's extension.

*My boss references how much she dislikes at least two people at the company, following it with "But they're a nice person!"

*I drink at least one Diet Coke.

*I answer three phone calls for people who don't work here; At least one of these callers will insist they are correct, and ask me (1) How long I've been here; (2) How long the person they've called for has been gone; (3) Am I sure I'm spelling the name correctly?

*I wave at the jauntily gay mailman when he drops everything off in the lobby.

*Three to five people call or come by, asking if we're accepting applications. I explain to them that they can drop off a resume, but that you don't actually fill out an application unless called for an interview. One will ask me for a fax number. Two will have resumes ready for me. One of these resumes will have so many errors, it makes me want to cry a little.

*Seven people come to the front door and try to open it. It is locked. Two of these people look at me, and I push the button under the desk to unlock the door for them. The rest of the people won't even glance over at me and, after trying to open the door again, harder this time, walk over to the phone on the wall and try to figure out who they need to call. Three of THESE people eventually notice me. The rest linger in the lobby until someone lets them in.

*I office-laugh at approximately eight things people say.

*I go on a massive hunt for at least two people that have appointments waiting in the lobby, only to find that, when I get back to the front, they've already come and retrieved the person.

*Four people call me ma'am.

*I chat with people on gChat, talking about the drags of work.

*Blogs are read/written.

12:00: Lunch! D comes by and picks me up and someone takes over my post for the next hour.

1:00: Back to work. Small talk with whomever has taken my place.

1:10: I'm ready to go home.

1:10-3:00: Finish whatever work still needs to be done, interspersed with the stuff from the 8:05-12:00 block.

3:00: Boss calls me to talk crap about someone.

3:05: Boss comes up to my desk and insists she needs to use my area to make phone calls (usually in Spanish) and/or use my computer. This renders me basically useless.

3:45: Boss finishes using my space.

3:45-4:15: Boss begins to talk about her personal life. This includes her kid, her friends, her gyno appointments, and how long it's been since she's gotten laid. (13 years, if you wonder.)

4:15-4:40: More of the same from the morning. Counting down the minutes.

4:40: Boss calls with something that "needs to be done ASAP."

4:50: Boss calls to tell me it can be done tomorrow.

4:55: This is almost gut-wrenching how slowly time is moving.

5:00: OUT OF HERE!

5:00-5:20: Travel to second job. (Monday and Wednesday) Eat something or other.

5:30: Start library job.

5:30 to 7:30: Work, dealing with people who I've mentioned in previous posts, and wash my hands at least five times.

7:30: Break time! Either talk to D or read or power nap with eyes open.

7:45: Back to work! Do the book drop!

9:00: OUT OF HERE!

9:00-9:20: Drive home from library.

9:20: Eat something.

9:45: Settle in for computer browsing/reading/conversating/TV-watching.

Sometime between 10:30 and 12:30: BED! Get to get up and do it all again in a few hours.

So there you go. My day in EXCRUCIATING detail.

The One With the Enfamil

I may or may not have mentioned (and I'm entirely too lazy to go back and look) the baby magazines I keep getting subscribed to. If not, here's the (abridged) story:

There are some very small, very immature people living back where D and I used to live, and in states beyond. These people hold things against you forever, because they have nothing better to do with their lives. So there are those people.

Then, last time D was there, the liquor store guy said something about how he (D) had run away from that town, leaving his wife, to whom he was still married, and moving in with his pregnant mistress.

False. All of it. D's divorced, thanks, and if I'd been pregnant as long as people have been SAYING I've been pregnant, my fetus would be approximately 18 months old at this point. Like. . .Wonder Fetus. Also, if I've been pregnant for 18+ months, I look AMAZING.

OK. There's the backstory.

A month or so back, I checked a mostly-defunct e-mail address, just because I was bored. Contained within the 845 messages I had, I had a note from "American Baby" magazine, thanking me for my recent subscription.

. . . . . .

Um, what?

Also, the subscription was in the name I will have once I get married. Like, if my name was Sarah Smith, and D's name was D Jones, the subscription was for Sarah Jones. This right here is how I know it's just someone effing with me, and not something I signed up for on my own. I do send away for a lot of free samples and things, but always in my own name.

I called American Baby, explained what happened (sort of) and had the subscription cancelled. Unfortunately, since the order was put in online, there was no way of knowing where the order came from. OK, whatever.

Then, last month, I also got my first issue of another baby magazine, the name of which escapes me at the moment. I've gotten two of those. That is also addressed to Sarah (Jones).

So last week, I have a voicemail from Mom. What it SOUNDS like she says is, "Hey, it's me. Got a package in the mail for you. Let me know what you want me to do with your Enfamil."

The product name sounded vaguely familiar, but I called her back.

"Hey."
"Hey."
"I got your message. . .WHAT did you say the package was?"
"Enfamil."
"I don't even know what that is."
"It's baby formula."

. . . . . . .

She laughed. I laughed. I told her my fetus was about 18 months old.

While I was on the phone, D suggested that I put the can on craigslist. It's a fairly good-sized can, and someone should be able to use it. I decide to do something good for the world, and I did, in fact, put it up. Here was the message:

Free Can of Enfamil
Since my husband's nightmare of an ex-wife thinks it's really funny to send samples of baby magazines and baby supplies to me even though I'm not, nor have I ever been, pregnant, I have a new, unopened can of Enfamil and a few coupons for Enfamil I'd like to give to someone who could use it. I'd keep it for myself but I literally have no use for baby formula.

Send me a message and we'll set up a time and place to make the drop.

Within 5 minutes, I'd gotten a response:

yeah i want it

Really? REALLY?! No greeting, no signature, no please, no thank you. Just "Yeah, I want it."

OK, I'm not asking that people asking for. . .charity, basically, need to jump through hoops for me to give them things. But this?

Like three minutes later, I get another response from the same e-mail address:

please give me milk

At least she said please this time. But. . .something about it just hit me entirely the wrong way.

Then I got a message from someone with the handle (and I'm changing the numbers here) LuciousLipz9216. This message said:

do you still have this?i could really use it.i can pick up.please let me know.

OK. Better.

Next message:

Hello,

I would absolutely love to get these if they are still available. I have a 4 month old and could really use it.

Thanks,

G

Yes. YES! This sounded like someone I would feel good about helping out. I decided to e-mail G back, and I got one more e-mail before I took the posting down:

Hi I just wonder if you still have the enfamil coupons. My sister in law could use them to save some money to feed my niece.
Thank you so much
I

OK. Not the best grammar, but a good second contender if G couldn't get them. I won't hold bad grammar against her. Maybe she's not from around here.

I exchanged a couple e-mails with G, and then. . .they abruptly stopped. I e-mailed her again to check to see if she still wanted it, and I got this reply:

Hi Sarah,
Thanks so much, but it probably would be difficult to meet up so you

can give it to someone else. Thanks again.
G

Huh. OK. I e-mailed the second contender to tell her that they were still available, and I got this response:

Hi Sarah I live far but my post office is very close and I can mail you a postage envelope.

Would you mind to hold coupons until you receive my self-address Envelope?

Thank you so much for your kindness, time and patience.

We really appreciate this
I

. . . . . Tell me that doesn't sound sketchy as hell. Sketchy. As. HELL.

Ultimately, I decided to just wait until the holiday season, and then give it to one of the many food drives that are held during that time. Better that than to potentially be hacked up into tiny pieces by some formula-drinking psycho and to be distributed in dumpsters around town.

And actually, now that I think about it, I don't know if I have any readers who have formula-drinking babies, but if you could use this stuff, I can send it to you. Just leave me a comment with your e-mail address, and I'll get it to you. It's a pretty good-sized can, and it comes with some coupons and stuff. Just let me know!

The One Where I'm Feeling My Feelings

Before I get into the whole thing about the concert last night, I'd like to make a comment. I read on another blog (Oh, OK. . .it was Aunt Becky's. . .I'm just feeling like I'm referencing/name-dropping her a LOT as of late. . .) about Being Yourself when you're blogging. She talks about all the people who present their perfect-sounding lives on their blogs. People who refer to their children and significant others as "DD" or "DH," which, as I found out, stands for something like Dear Daughter or Darling Husband. I would like to clarify right now that when I refer to D, I'm not calling him Dear or Darling or anything else that makes me want to throw up like that. It's the first initial of his name, so that's why I call him that. It's because I'm lazy, not because I'm super-sentimental.

I have trouble sometimes with having Too Many Feelings. My Feelings eff up a lot of things. Between My Feelings and my OCD and That Time of the Month, I'm an emotional wreck often. The thing is, though, I don't want to be. I hate that, and I try my damnedest not to let My Feelings spill over onto my blog. At least not too often.

I don't want to bitch and moan and cry about every little detail of my life that's bugging me at any given time. That's what my middle school/high school/college livejournal was for. Also, my old Blogger blog. I don't feel like that's what people read blogs to see. I don't think everything in the 'blogosphere' should be puppies and roses and mommy bloggers who think their Dear Offspring crap Skittles, but neither should it be daggers and skulls and. . .I was trying to think of an antithesis for Offspring Who Crap Skittles, but failed. You know what I mean.

I feel like people read my blog (or any blog) because they want to (a) Be Entertained; (b) Be Informed; (c) Be Stalkers; or (d) Some Combination Thereof. Therefore, when I write, I do it first and foremost because it's what I DO. I like telling stories, and I like people saying, hey, that was funny/sad/off the chain/etc. (I don't think anyone I've ever known has used the expression "off the chain." Maybe they should.)

I'm completely getting off whatever point I'd started out trying to make with this. The point is, I'm not happy with my current lot in life. But at the same time, I feel like I can't complain about ANYTHING, because I have a stack of 8 resumes I've received in 3 days, which tells me, "Hey, Sarah. Quit your bitching, because even if you don't 'feel satisfied' by it, at least you have a job."

Yeah, at least I have a job. A job that's contract, so I have no benefits and no vacation time, so if I want to, I don't know, get married and go on a week's honeymoon, guess what? That just means a week of no pay. No one gives a fuck if I'm getting married. They're not going to pay me so I can have time off to do it.

Or time off to do anything. I feel like I'm over here, drowning in my own self-loathing and self-pity, but I can't take any time off because guess what? I have bills to pay. Bills that aren't going to understand that I just need an em-effing BREAK.

But guess what? I can't complain about it. I can't complain about anything. Because you know what happens then? My friend, The Universe, decides to say, "Oh yeah? Let me REALLY give you something to complain about."

I just want to be doing something that means something right now. This job means nothing to me but a paycheck. I don't even get any benefits, so there's an extra $400 a month in health insurance. Just for me.

I'm going under, and there's not a thing I can do about it. But I can write about it, and risk turning my little Corner of the Interwebz into a Bitch Fest, alienating anyone who might have been otherwise interested and diminishing my chances that someone will happen across my blog and give me a book deal.*

So there it is, people. Take it or leave it.

*Yes, I know this is not a thing that really happens to most people.

The One Where I Win Again

So, y'all remember when I won candles, right? I won them from Say Anything and was all kinds of excited, because I usually don't win things?

I have a new story for you.

I was sitting at work yesterday when my cell phone rang with the local area code. Usually, I don't pick it up if I don't recognize the number, but I decided, for whatever reason, to answer it.

"Hello?" I say, wittily.

"Hi," says a guy. "Is this Sarah?"

(What I should have said, in retrospect, is, "No! THIS is!" and laughed maniacally. Sadly, I didn't think of that until later. Also, he may or may not have hung up if I did that.)

"It is," I say.

"This is Brody from G105. Do you have plans for tomorrow night?"

(This is. . .surreal, to say the least. I don't know what Brody looks like (I linked to the site, but can not see it from this computer because it's in Category: Music.), but I have listened to him for years, and he has the most awesome radio voice. I may or may not have a Voice Crush on the guy. But you know how radio goes. He probably looks like this.)

"Why?" I ask. "Are you asking me out?"

(Um, yes. I actually said this.)

Brody laughs. "No, no," he says, "But do you have plans for tomorrow night?"

It's at this point that a little thought in the back of my mind begins to form, but I'm thinking, surely not.

I DO actually have plans, as I'm supposed to go see my shrink, but I say, "No. No, I don't."

Brody says, "Well, then, you and three friends are going to see the Maroon 5 show, and meeting the band backstage!"

SON. OF. A. BITCH.

I'd entered a contest for these tickets a couple of weeks ago, and I'd said to D. . .Friday, I think? That "oh, yeah, we'll be going to that concert."

And we are.

What makes it. . .kind of awesome is that I was a last-minute entry. The contest ended a day or two after I'd entered.

Also, when I entered, I didn't realize it was also for backstage passes. I thought it was just for tickets. But now, since there ARE backstage passes involved, there will probably be freaking SWEET seats.

So once I picked my jaw up off the floor, I told Brody I loved him* and that he'd just made my life.**

As such, tonight, I will be taking D, Katie, and Katie's college roommate, Katherine, to see Maroon 5. And to meet the band. Who, by the way? I effing love. They are in my Top 3, and their first album, Songs About Jane, was the soundtrack to my college experience, expecially freshman year.

I am a little sad that the venue won't let us being "professional" cameras, as D IS a professional, but whatever. I'm MEETING THE BAND.

It's still a little surreal. Of course, there will be full updates later.

*Not true.

**True.

The One Where Katie's Ready For College

Just a really short entry for now, and later, I'll have my Super, Awesome Exciting News Update.

I had the following e-mail exchange with Mom this morning:

Mom: So.....Katie comes out of her room last night carrying her bag of Crazy Bones and a toiletries bag, wearing a bunch of Mardi Gras beads and a plastic fireman's hat and says, "I'm ready for college."

Me: Tell her she also needs a fire extinguisher and a pair of stillettos and she should be good to go.

Mom: And a blender.

Me: And matches. (Hence, aforementioned fire extinguisher.)

Ah, college.

The One With the Threesomes

Don't worry. I didn't, nor have I ever, had a threesome. That's cool if that's what you're into. I'm not.

I had a conversation with a friend today, and it involved threesomes. Or, more specifically, several threesomes with the same three people involved. Not a one-time deal kind of threesome, but a consistent threesome.

I am not any kind of expert anything on sex. I have my opinions, sure, but coming from someone who was (as I'm mentioned on more than one occasion) a virgin up until the age of 24 (And, um, Mom? If you come across this, I still am. For sure.) and who has had one partner ever (None, Mom.), I don't have a whole lot to say about multiple partners, what one would do with multiple partners, and what have you.

I guess I understand the concept of a threesome: If 2-4 breasts are cool, 4-6 are even better! If 1-2 man parts are cool, then 2 to three would be EVEN BETTER! If you're of two is better than one line of thinking, then a threesome might be for you.

However.

The farthest my understanding of threesomes goes would be if you were single, and everyone in your. . .party were single, too.

Example: Dan is a single guy. He scouts on craigslist one night, looking for some action. He finds Liz, a single girl. They talk, and look on craigslist again, coming up with Brunhilda, who is also a single girl.*

I get that. I wouldn't DO it, but it makes sense.

Or maybe Jeff is checking out Gay.com, and he comes across Ryan, and they look and find Rodney. They decided to get it on. OK.

All of this makes a bit of sense to me.

However.

If Dan and Liz are in a committed relationship, and they invite Brunhilda to bed with them, or Jeff and Ryan are committed, and Ryan brings Rodney home, THIS is where I begin to not understand.

I know there have been people who have written essays and articles and studies about how humans are not supposed to be monogamous creatures. While this might be the case, I feel like you don't always need instant gratification, and you can BE monogamous. Maybe not by instinct, but, you know, swimming isn't an instinct either. But we learn how to do it.

I feel like if you and your partner have agreed that, yeah, we're a couple, and we're monogamous and we're not looking for anything outside the relationship. . .why would you want to bring someone else into the picture? In my opinion, all that is asking for is for hurt feelings and jealousy, and the potential end of the aforementioned relationship.

I have this friend who had a conversation with her husband about threesomes. He was all, "Oh, yeah, I totes had a threesome once!" I was taking a photography class at the time, and was shooting the conversations people were having, and I have this awesome, awesome picture of him shrinking back, eyes closed, looking like he's hurriedly explaining himself, and my friend is making Crunchy Face at him, hands on hips, all pissed off. The point of this being. . .this threesome didn't even have anything to do with her, and it made her uncomfortable. So why in the WORLD would you want to be in a relationship with someone and make that choice?

(NOTE: I'm not judging or ANYTHING right now. I honestly and legitimately am asking this question, hoping someone can maybe explain it to me.)

So, the threesome in question was between a couple, and another person. And I'm saying. . .if your partner doesn't satisfy everything you need, if you want to explore elsewhere, if there's some hole not filled (Um. . .pun not intended until I wrote it, and then TOTALLY intended, because that's HILARIOUS.), then maybe the monogamous relationship life is not for you.

I'm not saying you partner up with someone and lose all sense of other people's attractiveness. I have giant Celebrity Obsessions Crushes on this guy:


and this gal:


(Yum.) but I don't think that takes anything away from my relationship with D. Just like I know he's got his "girlfriends" (you know, celebrities he finds attractive), and I'm cool with that.

But if Billie Joe Armstrong came up to me and was like, "Hey. You're hot. Your fiance is hot. Let's GET IT ON!" I would (seriously) have issue with that. If I wanted to be going out and hooking up with people other than D. . .I wouldn't be getting married.

So what do you guys think? Threesomes: yes or no? Threesomes with Two of Three being in a relationship with each other: yes or no?

I'm really curious as to what other people think.

*I do not condone trolling for sex on craigslist. This was just to prove that these people were all single and do not know each other. But if you DO troll for sex on craigslist, use a condom. Please.

The One With Online Dating

Edit: I remembered the guy's name!

The ubiquitous Aunt Becky, who also writes for Toy With Me, wrote a post today on online dating. I read it, and it made me laugh a little, but also reminded me of my own brief foray into the world of online dating. . .I know I've regaled this story before, on my old blog, but since that blog is Dead To Me, having died of depression, I'll retell it, since it's relevant. (Thanks, Aunt Becky!) And if you already know the story. . .well, I'll remind you of it!

When I was living in the little mountain town I lived in previously, my relationship status was. . .well, I had none. D and I had an on-again, off-again thing going (which, in and of itself, is a whole other post), and it had been off-again for a little while. I was bored. I was lonely. And I hadn't had a boyfriend proper since November of 2003. (This all took place in the summer of 2008.)

On a whim, I signed up with Match.com, posted a sassy profile, and went hunting for the Mens (and perhaps Ladies) of Haywood and Buncombe County.

Uhm, I imagine that a lot of you don't know North Carolina counties that well, unless you live here (and even then, you probably don't), but the mountains are. . .not the best place for picking people up. I ultimately lucked out with D, but he's not actually FROM there, so that's a different thing. I expanded my search from just the town I was in to towns outside of where I was, out to Asheville, which is the biggest city nearby.

I looked through many profiles, and there was no one who was quite what I was looking for. I looked for men. I looked for women.

Apparently, Match.com only allows you to specify you're looking for one sex, so if you say you're looking for men, no women will be sent your profile and vice versa.

(Get on fixing that, Match.com!)

(Not for me, because OBVIOUSLY, but for other people who don't want to be limited in their searching. Because it happens, y'all.)

So my profile just kind of. . .sat there. I winked at a couple of people, but got no response. I sent a message to one guy, but he told me he was too old for me. It seemed like a gigantic failure. I got a couple of winks and messages from people but they were. . .not my type, to say the least. I got a message from a 54-year-old black man. I have absolutely nothing in the world against black men, but that part of the state is NOT known for its diversity, so it just seemed so, incredibly random.

I got a lot of messages from much, much older men. I either didn't respond (if it was obvious the message was sent out to multiple people with no change in the content) or I sent a "thanks, but no thanks" message.) The oldest guy was 64. I'm just sayin'.

Then one day, I got a message from this guy. I THINK his name was Louis JAROD!. I don't remember the message, but he seemed nice enough, relatively intelligent, and was 34 to my 24. So, not bad. We exchanged some messages, chatted on the site, and ultimately, I said he could give me a call.

He did. Called me right in the middle of America's Next Top Model, which I was watching religiously that season. I had no TiVo or anything, so I missed the last half of the show for this conversation.

The thing that turned me off immediately was his sex fixation. He didn't say anything explicit or anything, but that was clearly what he thought he was going to get from this. We talked for a while, during which time I asked him, "OK, so, three words to describe yourself. Go."

He said, "Hot, Horny, and Happy."

. . . . . . . .

WHAT?

Sweet Mary, Mother of Jesus. WHAT? The first time you talk to someone? REALLY?

He also kept making innuendo about us hooking up.

WHAT?

Despite all that, he was like, "So, we should go out," and I was like, "OK."

(Desperation makes you do weird, crazy things, my friends. Weird, crazy things.)

I should note here that it was NEVER a thought in my mind that I was going to sleep with this guy. Never, ever. I was still a virgin there at 24, and wasn't ABOUT to give it up to Hot, Horny, Happy Louis JAROD. (Note: was Not Hot.)

We made plans to go out on Friday (this was on a Wednesday). I hung up with trepidation. Not only had I missed the last half of ANTM, but I had also made a tentative date with a guy who sounded like a Super Creep.

At this point, you're probably saying to yourself, "Sarah. . .why?" and shaking your head at me sadly.

This story, though, has a happy ending. But not for HHH Louis JAROD!.

He called me again the next night, presumably to finalize plans, since we hadn't actually agreed on anything, and he called me DURING GREY'S ANATOMY.

OK, you guys. ANTM, I can excuse. But bitches BETTER NOT CALL ME during Grey's Anatomy. I will not answer. And then I will cut you. And then I will make you apologize. And then I will cut you again.

He left a voicemail. I did not call him back.

Admittedly, this was a crappy, crappy way to do this. But I went to Match.com and sent him a message, saying I "wasn't going to be able to make it on Friday." He sent a message back and was like, "OK."

So instead, I went to the county's big high school football game that everyone turns out for. It was a blast.

I never talked to the guy again. He called me two more times, again during ANTM and Grey's, but I didn't answer.

So really, this is more a story of me not knowing how to deal with a creeper that isn't really aware he's a creeper. So I don't come out looking great.

But I did avoid an awkward conversation about why I was, in fact, not going to have sex with him.

And now I have D.

It all worked out.

(Maybe not for Louis JAROD)

The One With the Gay Book Club

It occurs to me that I never really said anything about my Gay Book Club. I have had a thing sitting in my "posts to edit" list for a while about it, but I never went back to it. So here's that.

I wrote all about my first Book Club experience. Well, my first one HERE. When I lived in the mountains, I went to a book club a couple times, but I was the wrong. . .demographic. I know I'm going to be all mad about being older when I get older, but for the time being, it sucks how very few people will take me seriously, due to age. This was definitely the case at the Mountain Book Club.

So I searched for a different book club and came up with something called Q Readers. Q Readers is an LGBT book club, and I realized that here, I had found My People. (I don't. . .think I need to clarify which of those letters I fit under. I mean. . .if you REALLY need clarification, by all means, I'll tell you.)*

I'd signed up for the inaugural meeting, but was out of town. . .I think it's when Carol got married. . .so I didn't make it. Apparently, that was a good thing, because there are two Borders' on the road where it was held, and most of the people went to the wrong one. So there were a bunch of pissed off queens, and not a lot got done.

Anyway, the same week as the Awful Book Club of Doom, (Heeeey. . .the ABCD!), which was on a Tuesday, there was a Q Readers meeting that Friday. On Thursday, I got an e-mail reminder saying, "Hey! Your group is meeting tomorrow, and you haven't RSVP'd!" D was out of town, so I thought, "Why the hell not?" I RSVP'd "Yes" while I was at work and went to the library after work to get the book.

It was "Sharp Objects" by Gillian Flynn. The book has 272 pages, so I knew reading it by the time book club rolled around the next night wouldn't be a problem. (Incidentally, I did finish it, and had time to start a second novel. I read quickly, as you might have guessed.) Why I did not like the book could take up an entire other entry, so I won't get into it. But I finished it, and that's what mattered.

I got to the (correct) Borders' and found the group's founder, Charles, a short, friendly black guy. We introduced ourselves and chit-chatted. Next to show up was Michael, a ridiculously tall, ridiculously LOUD white guy. The last person to show up was this guy named Craig, who I loved, by the way. He looked like that actor, Kevin James, but reminded me so much of my friend John from high school, I had to send John a text when I left telling him about it.

Me and three really gay guys. THIS was what I was used to. These were My People.

So we sat and talked about the book, and talked about other stuff, too. It was revealed that I am, in fact, not a lesbian (mark that letter off the list!), when Craig suggested another group I could join, made up of Professional Lesbians. This followed with a discussion of Chasing Amy, and a discussion about D.

After asking if I'd be willing to share D (I demurely declined), it was decided that he should become the club mascot, standing shirtless by the table where we meet and holding up a giant rainbow flag. These guys were all up ons the idea of D. (This sounds creepy. It wasn't.)

The other thing I should mention is that these guys all knew each other in one form or another from other groups, but they included me in all the conversations. Awesome.

Charles had what I believe was the comment of the evening, though, when he said, "I'm also a member of a gay law enforcement group. . .it's me and a bunch of lesbians." For some reason, I really laughed at that.

So I'll be going back this month, and possibly taking D with me. He said he'd like to go, because he's never been to a book club meeting before. This month's book is "Lamb: the Gospel According to Biff, Christ's Childhood Pal." It's OK so far. . .but it's kind of dense and hard to read. It's also very disconcerting that I got the "special edition" when I requested it from the library, and now it looks like I'm carrying around a Bible and randomly reading it. That makes me feel awkward.

No more awkward than carrying around the other book I'm reading, I guess, which is Kitty Kelley's biography on Oprah. For the record, I can't stand Oprah, but the book got so much controversy I, of course, had to read it.

*I was going to make some stupid joke like, "Obviously. . .I'm a MTF transsexual!" But then I was afraid that people would take me seriously and be looking at me funny. Also, it may or may not have been in poor taste. Of everything I've been called in my lifetime, a former man is not one of them. For the record, I have all my original ladybits. kthnx.

The One With My Purse

And now, for something completely different. It's dumb, and pointless, but why does everything in life have to have a point?

I've seen on a couple of the other blogs I read where women did this "Hey, check out what's in my purse!" post. I thought they were kind of weird, but the more I thought about it, the more I was like. . .that's cool. And I'm enough of a narcissistic exhibitionist that I feel like everyone should WANT to see what's in my purse.

So here's the purse (sorry for the crappy picture. . .lighting wasn't great and it's a camera phone.)

It's a Vera Wang Kohl's brand purse (Simply Vera? I think that's what it's called.) I have a billion purses, but this is one of two I use most frequently, since it matches everything.

Here's what's in it:

OK, here we have everything I tote around with me daily, sans my cell phone, since that's what I was taking the picture with. There's gum, a jump drive, a tampon, a stack of receipts that I made all nice and neat for the picture, a stack of Other Various Things I made all nice and neat for the picture, hand sanitizer (a godsend), my iPod, lip-plumping lip gloss from E.L.F., glucose tablets for low blood sugar, business cards, hand cream, tweezers, hair bands, a little pocket knife, a nail file, a stack of Diet Coke pop tabs (we collect them for. . .some reason.), a random dollar I was pleased to find in the back pocket of the purse, my wallet which is really badass. . .at some angles, it's black and white with a piano pattern and at other angles, it's colorful guitars. Also from Kohl's, 10,000 pens (because I can never find one. And yes, they're always bundled together like that. Not just for the picture.), my checkbook, a comb, a pad of paper, my jumble of keys, and the change sock D got me from Iowa.

Um, what this tells me is that I have a lot of crap in my purse. No wonder my back hurts sometimes.

And if you're wondering (and, I know you are, because OBVIOUSLY), in the stack of receipts, there's a receipt from all of the following: My bank (cashier's check made out for rent), Target, Wal-Mart, Chik-Fil-A, and Lowe's Foods. And in the stack of random crap? A card for a doctor's appointment next week, a coupon to save $1.50 on any 3 General Mills cereals, a check of D's, a letter from the company that manufactured my insulin pump, a recipe for Zucchini Cheese Casserole I found in a library book, and a coupon for $1 off yogurt purchases at some place called Local Yogurt that I got from work.

Um, I think I need to clean out my purse. There would also be a book in it that I am currently reading for my Gay Book Club, but I left that out in the car over lunch. There was also a greeting card in there, but I took it out to write in it. Also, way down deep in one of the pockets, there was a clear lip gloss. I didn't feel like taking everything out again to include it in the picture. Oh! And in the same pocket as the clear lip gloss, there are 3 coupons for CiCi's Pizza.

The One With the Irritating Things

Sometimes in life, there are things that Just Irritate the Eff Out Of You. I'm not in a bad mood today or anything, but I thought I'd take a moment and list some of these things. For funsies. And posterity.

1. People who comment on stories on CNN.com and the like by saying, "This is news?!" or "This isn't news!"

OK, y'all. Obviously you knew what the story was about when you clicked on it. And if you're in the "Entertainment" section of a news site, then yeah, Lily Allen being pregnant IS news. News is partially defined as "a report of a recent event." Yep, Lily Allen being pregnant is a recent event. At least within the last 9 months. Yep, you're reading a report. Yep, I think you should shut your whore mouth, because why did you click on it if you weren't interested in it? It's not like someone's standing over you all the time saying "CLICK ON THAT! EVEN IF YOU DON'T CARE!! YOU MUST CLICK!" This doesn't generally happen unless you have children.

2. People who can't be bothered to type with proper spelling, punctuation, or Caps Lock skills

Ironically (IRONY!!), I thought of this one whilst typing the last one. Because of the ridiculous use of Caps Lock. The thing here, though, is that I use it for emphasis, or to demonstrate someone being ungodly loud. I COULD use the "bold" function, but pressing ctrl+b takes a LOT more time than just holding down the shift key (or pressing the CL button.) My usage is out of laziness, not ignorance. But if you type a message or a text or whatever in all caps, I feel like you're yelling at me, and you're going to give me issues. Also, if you use "text speak," you sound like a 12-year-old, and I will treat you as such.

This one even gets a second paragraph, because it bugs me so much. If you send me any kind of message that reads something like, "OMG! im soooooo x-ited about de CONCERT DIS WKND!!! Txt meh l8er n we cin figgr out da PLANZ!", I'm going to slap you and possibly punch you in the face. I hate how the use of technology has made a lot of people just sound like ignorant asshats. Admittedly, I use things like "OMG" and "WTF" and stuff like that, but I use it, you know, ironically. I know that that's not what people are supposed to sound like.

3. People who refuse to let you change lanes in front of them even though it would LITERALLY be no skin off their teeth to let you in

This happened to me this morning. I drive on a really busy road to get to work. I was in the far right lane, which turns into a right turn-only lane. Even though I CAN get to work by taking the right turn, I prefer to go straight, because the right turn option takes me in the side door, and I prefer to go in the front, if the traffic's not backed up.

So I was about a minute from the lane ending. I flipped on my turn signal and this fugly gold Camery (Camry? Spell check HATES this word!) was to my left. I sped up a little to get over in front of the guy (a douchey-looking executive type in a business suit) and he sped up, too. I'm like, ". . . . ." and I slow down a little, thinking if I can't get in front of him, I'll fall in behind him.

Of course, he slows down.

Now I'm like, ". . . . . .???" I try speeding up again, and he speeds up, too. He's literally blocking me into this lane. He's looking at me, so I know it's intentional.

I did eventually give up and just take the right turn, but really? WHY was that a thing he felt like he needed to do? Letting me in front of him (and especially behind him!) would not have made him any later to wherever he was going to spread his douchebaggery amongst the masses.

The one caveat to this, the one time when I find it acceptable to not let someone change lanes in front of you, is if they're one of those people that are in a lane that's ending or closed or whatever, they've seen the signs for at least half a mile, and they stay in the closing or ending lane to try to get ahead of everyone else. I have no sympathy for these people. If you're either A) not paying attention to what you're doing, or B) Just trying to be a jerk, I will not let you in. I don't expect anyone to do it for me if I'm not paying attention to signs, so I will also not do it for you. Period.

4. People with no freaking common sense when it comes to doors

This one is entirely work-centric. The view I have from my desk is this:

On the opposite wall, beyond the doors, there is a sign. The sign used to say, essentially, "Call the person you're here to see when you get here," and then there was a list of numbers. The doors are locked, so this was in case no one was at the front desk to let you in.

I changed it because people would try to open the door (which is actually sometimes hilarious, since people pull on the door really hard sometimes and it doesn't move. People have almost fallen over. What I have wanted to do but have not and will not do is wait until they give a super hard tug and press the release button while they're doing that. I feel like that would be amusing, yet sue-worthy. Also, while I'm on it? People should understand that if they pull a door and it does not open, if they pull it a second time, it's probably STILL not going to open. I'm just sayin'.) but they would try to open the door, and then immediately look to the sign on the right, not bothering to look to the left to see me sitting right there, ready to let them in.

So I changed the sign to say something like, "If the receptionist is not there, THEN call these numbers."

You'd think this would make them think, "Oh, there's a receptionist. Maybe the receptionist will let me in."

Most people do not think this. They'll read the sign, call whomever they're there to see, and if no one answers, they'll just look irritated and lost, never once looking at me. It's annoying and frustrating, but there's no other way to get their attention other than to put up another sign saying, "Hey! Moron! Look to your LEFT! There's someone sitting RIGHT THERE, ready to let you in if you'll just LOOK AT HER!"

It does not help that when I unlatch the door, it makes no sound to indicate it has been unlocked. So people just stand there, looking at me.

Would you not look for someone sitting somewhere to let you in? It just makes sense to me.

Even though I very much dislike the number 4, I'll end it there. No need for THAT much negativity caused by basic stupidity.

The One With the Depressive State

I'm going to do the thing I hate doing and talk about unhappy, personal things. Not too personal, don't worry. . .I just read something that some people might find interesting. Take it for what you will. But the reason I was looking stuff like this up is because I was researching for my own knowledge.

I'm depressed. This is always a terrible statement to make, because people are like, "But you don't look sad!"

That's because I'm not sad. I'm depressed. There's a very important difference. Sad is generally caused by some underlying factor. Your boyfriend broke up with you. You had a fight with your best friend. You work for the government. Things like that. Depression is just this rampant, underlying THING that doesn't really have a source. It's just there, mocking you.

I'm depressed in a way that I don't actually really understand. It is not caused by, but is in fact amplified by, my rampant OCD. What happens is, I get sad or angry or frustrated or whatever by something. Let's say my dog dies. (I don't have a dog, so karma won't get mad at me for my use of an invisible dog and kill it in real life). My dog dies, and it makes me sad. Since I'm kind of depressed anyway, the dog's death amplifies it and it gets more to the point of an actual person dying. Then I start thinking about the dog, and how I could have done things differently while it was alive. (This is the "O" part of OCD.) I could have come home 10 minutes earlier from being out with my friends to play with it before I went to bed. I could have spent 3 more dollars on dog food and maybe it would have lived longer.

Things like this.

I think about, obsess about, things like this until I'm pretty well convinced that, oh my God, I killed my dog. And then that starts a whole new thing. It causes panic attacks, and I get to a point where I can't breathe. I start hyperventilating. And it can be nothing but downhill from there.

I also have really, really terrible self-destructive tendencies. The type that let someone get just close enough to you, but when Shit Starts To Get Real, you pull away, and then you just leave everything and everyone you love in a wake of destruction.

Y'all are all beginning to see what a peach I am, aren't you?

At least I know this stuff about myself. My therapist (yeah. . .I started therapy because I feel like my brain isn't functioning properly) said she's glad that I am so "self-aware." What that means, I guess, is that I still do really stupid, effed up stuff, but I know I'm doing it. I'm not sure. . .why that's good. But it is, apparently.

The point of this entire thing is that D and I had a fight this morning, and I did the stupid thing I do and said the Worst Possible Thing I could have said during said fight. I, a lot of times, say things before thinking about them, and they are, in fact, the Worst Possible Thing I could say. But what's even worse than that is when I START to say something awful, realize it when the sentence is halfway out of my mouth, and proceed to finish what I was saying anyway.

It's like, everything in me is screaming, "ABORT! ABORT!!!! YOU ARE AN EFFING IDIOT!!!" by my mouth is like, "La la la. . .what fights can I start today? This is fun!"

So that's what happened. My mouth took over and now D may or may not be speaking to me. My bad. (Update: He is speaking to me. Maybe he'll even like me again later today.)

Point of all THAT is, I know that the issues that I have have in the past and are currently taking a bit of a toll on my relationship with D. I'm a little crazy, sometimes he doesn't know how to deal with it. . .things like that. So I Googled "relationships and depression" and came up an article that was kind of awesome. The Web site doesn't say not to reproduce it, so I'll give you the link, the article name ("Depression and Relationships: Living With a Depressed Person") and the author (Bob Murray, Ph.D) so they don't sue me. I'm not going to copy the whole thing, but just things that I feel like maybe I should talk to D about. I think they might help, and they might help someone you know, too. It irritates me that the author refers to the depressed person as "he" through this entire thing, but whatever:

Understand the disorder. Take time to find out what depression is and is not. So many popular misunderstandings about the illness and so much denial about its origins exist.

Keep in mind that he can't “snap out of it.” Remember that the other person has a real illness. Like someone with cancer, they can't simply “get over it.” Try not to express your frustration or anger in ways you'll regret, but don't suppress your own feelings either. You can say for example, “I know that you can't help feeling down, but I feel frustrated.”

If the person is an unrelenting pessimist, as so many people with depression are, try to point out the positive things that are happening. His negative childhood programming--the “inner saboteur”--will probably prevent him from seeing these for himself. The depressive illness has a vested interest in the lie that nothing will go right.

Admit your own powerlessness against the disorder. Many people believe they can cure someone they love just by the sheer force of their love, as if that feeling alone should be enough to effect permanent change. It isn't.

The first stage to avoiding guilt over someone else's depression is to acknowledge that you are not responsible for it. It's not your fault, and you alone can't cure it. You can offer support, you can show friendship or love, whichever is appropriate, but you are probably too close to be able to solve the problem. Step back, admit that you alone are powerless against the disorder. Seek support for yourself from friends and perhaps a psychotherapist. The first stage toward helping the other person is to get help for yourself.

Do not try to rescue. A person suffering from a mood disorder will probably be a slave to his depressive program. The disorder will infantilize him, and he may well put pressure on you to fix whatever he perceives to be the problem. Sometimes the program can be temporarily assuaged in this way and the depression will lift. But it will come back and the inner saboteur will make even more demands. You may be forced into trying to play the role of omnipotent parent and feel guilty when you fail to provide what is demanded of you.

Encourage him to seek help. Many sufferers from depression deny that they have the disorder or try to self-medicate with alcohol (as my mother did) or overwork or shopping--all of which are depressives in the long run. Part of your self-preservation is getting the depressed person in your life to seek professional help. This is true whether you live or work with him.

Discover your own programming. It's important to realize that the other person's depression is playing a role in your inner saboteur's game. In clinical terms you may be getting a “secondary gain” from his disorder. His behavior may seem to give you an excuse to vent angry feelings, or an opportunity for you to play the knight in shining armor or perhaps a reason to excuse your own real or imagined shortcomings. If you find yourself having relationships with a number of people who are depressed, there's probably a reason in your own past. Seek help in dealing with those emotions and fears.

Tell him what you need. The depressed person in your life may be ill, but you still have needs of him. All relationships are based on the mutual meeting of needs.

If you aren't honest about what you're getting from the relationship, or what you want to get, you will make the other person feel even worse about himself. . .Be honest about what you can and cannot do, and about what you will and won't do. Never promise what you can't fulfill. You may often be asked to.

On the other hand, going through the process of exchanging real, functional needs with the depressed person can be a very powerful healing tool for both of you.

I think those are pretty good talking points. And they make sense.

So I'm going to go back to obsessing over whether I committed a relationship-ending faux pas this morning, and hoping not.

I don't really talk a lot about my actually "feelings" about my relationship, do I? I dislike feelings, which is unfortunate, because I feel so many of them so often.

But I love this guy. And I don't want my effed up brain to mess that up. So I'm working on it. I'm working on it and fighting my self-destructive tendencies. Because I'm supposed to be Mrs. D this year, and that is a thing that is going to happen. Period. Misfiring brain synapses by damned.

The One Where I'm Getting Old

You all know that my sister, Katie, graduated. She's heading to ECU at the end of the month. This has caused me a great deal of anxiety for two reasons. . .first of all, Katie isn't supposed to be in college. She's supposed to be, like, 12.

(She was actually 12 here)

Secondly, it's making me go, "Oh my GOD! I'm SO OLD!"

(Note: OK, people over 25. I'm AWARE that 25 is Not That Old. I'm really tired of people telling me that. I KNOW. But you know what? You've been 25 before. I have not. To ME, it feels old. Just because you're 30, 40, 55, whatever doesn't mean that you have a right to roll your eyes at me when I say I feel old. Because I do. So shut your whore mouth.)

D's kid, Kelly, is here visiting until the beginning of next week. Last night, we had to take two cars to this guy's house to give back the car D had borrowed while his was in the shop. Kelly rode with me, since my car has air conditioning, and the car D was driving did not.

We'd just shopped for school supplies, so we were discussing 1st grade. Kelly asked me what 1st grade was like, and I told her what I remembered: we did reading, and math, and spelling, and music, and art. . .stuff like that. Then I said, "Yeah, I was in first grade. . .20. . .years ago."

. . . . . . .

I was in 1st grade 20 years ago. Oh my GOD.

When Kelly is my age, I will be almost 45. OH MY GOD.

My 10-year high school reunion will be in 2 1/2 years. That's not AS horrifying, because it's not happening NOW, but man.

I feel like I literally just left high school. And I'm more than halfway to my 10-year reunion.

I was trying to think of some stuff to get Katie for her college move-in. I tried remembering things that I didn't have when I started college that I needed. I couldn't remember much about my freshman year. It wasn't THAT long ago, but I've already forgotten everything except how miserable I was the first semester and the 20 pounds I gained.

Time's slipping on by, and I kind of feel like I'm getting lose in the shuffle. Because I'm not DOING anything.

I need to DO something.