Awesome

I want to punch people in. The mouth when. They send emails that. Are supposed to contain helpful. Information and. Schedules to make my day easier. But have random punctuation so by the. End of it I'm more confused. Than. Before I received your helpful email. Did you or did you not. Go to. College? Did you. Or did you not go. To elementary school?

Meat Gum. Or: He Better Sleep With One Eye Open.

Name That Flavor

Knowing I'm a sucker for all marketing schemes, The B-Fri picked these up for a Mem Day bbq we attended yesterday. The idea is taste the chip and send in your vote for a Flavor Name. Just like a Crayola contest. Well, I tried it. And it's a Jr. Whopper with Cheese. Heated-up frozen beef, mayonnaise, American cheese, and a bun. I see a rapidly-approaching Burger King partnership in Doritos' future.

I Could Just Take Some Ambien

It's not that I don't miss him when he's gone - because I do! I do! - but when The Boy travels (the first half of most weeks) I can't help but get into my own little routine. This includes leaving a trail of dishes and glasses at various stations around the apartment, eating Nutella out of the jar, sitting in the middle of the couch, and watching Matlock on the living room television from my bed.

The first night The Boy's back is the most difficult one in my adjustment period. I don't remember how to share the couch, I get confused by someone else in my kitchen, and I feel especially territorial about the bed. I have to choose a side? I have to sleep vertically?

I'll fully admit that I am a terrible sleeper. It's a lifelong disorder I can't seem to kick. I'm not sure who's to blame here, but when in doubt I blame my parents. It takes me a long time to fall asleep and when I finally do I have nothing but nightmares on topics ranging from glow-in-the-dark robbers to Bill Cosby and his quest to murder me. Starting around 2, I wake up multiple (MULTIPLE) times during the night. I've recently cut down on my habit of eating small meals during my jaunts (hunks of cheese, beef jerky, Thin Mints), but that only means that the trips themselves are shorter, not the frequency that I take them.

Thursday I was having a particularly rough sleep night. I tossed, I turned, I kicked the sheets off my feet (nothing is more detrimental to a good night's sleep than sweaty feet), I got up, I got down, I sighed, I moaned. The Boy silently suffered through all of it, until my final move. Around 4 am I pulled a dramatic back-to-stomach flip, pulling the comforter off of him and onto me. Out of the blue, in a crystal clear, sleep-free voice he says: "STOP MOVING BEFORE I BLOW DART YOU."

I have no idea what he was dreaming about to stay something so... tribal, but you can bet I hightailed it out of there and onto the couch to flip and moan in a tranquilizer-free zone. Yow.

Drinking a chai latte made with soy milk...

...is like drinking a plant. A spicy plant. A spicy, liquified plant. Other than raising my estrogen levels, turning me into a Train lyric, and giving me a gut ache, what's in it for me?

Tae Bo

Billy Blanks. Love him, hate him, don't mess with him in a dark alley. All I know is, this (51-year-old!) man's beat down gets me in better shape than anything I've ever done - including those hellish months of JV soccer when I was an "athlete" and ran quickly after a ball I didn't know what to do with. I believe my source of inspiration lies in the things BB yells at me. I like to repeat them to myself throughout the day.

Some gems?

"Peace, love and joy!!! Peace, love and joy!!!"
An overall happy thought he likes to throw out at particularly tough moments. I've never been clear in how it applies to kicking and punching with forceful rage, but that's not mine to figure out.

"Hold on! Even when you can't hold on - HOLD ON!"
Pretty aggressive. It reminds me of my freshman acting professor who never gave specific feedback. She'd just say "Act better." We'd sit and stare. There's not much room for interpretation on this one. The Blanks has spoken.

Trouble is, I can't seem to get anyone hooked on him - "That's so 1997" they tell me - and I'm desperately looking for someone to speak my new language. Any takers?

Thank You Coke Gods

Anyone who knows me knows about my serious issue with anything made from fake sugar. I almost cried when I ordered chocolate pudding online and it arrived sugar-free. I've had people bring me back cranberry juice "lite" and almost punched them in the mouth. It all tastes like rat poison mixed with bubble gum and I'm pretty sure it puts holes in people's brains. Except. For. Coke. Zero. I'm not sure how it's done, and I don't really want to know, but this stuff tastes so much like real Coke it's scary. I think it's made in the same place unicorns live and Santa Claus takes vacations.

I've been worried about it disappearing off the shelves before people gave it a real chance, but my hope has been renewed. A new ad campaign just launched and they've recently added Cherry Coke Zero to the mix. Combine this with it being Friday, someone supposedly dying on my DVR'd Lost and, Sweet Jeebus, could life get any better?

An Open Letter to My Remaining Friends on Idol

Melinda,

For a long time, you were my hands-down favorite. You did that crazy back-of-the-throat guttural thing, sang songs that taught us how to spell woman, and bravely admitted to never having a boyfriend. But c'mon, lady. You're 29, not 79. Stop singing songs my ancestors would bop to, stop pretending you don't know how good you are, and - not to be mean - but sometimes I get worried about where your neck went?

Jordin,

At first I didn't really notice you or remember what you did each week. You just didn't stand out for me, which is hard to believe since you're roughly three times the size of Seacrest. But lately, it's hard to ignore how good you are (especially for 17) and I tend to enjoy your song choices. Still, don't rest easy. Sometimes you yell at me really loudly and you're kind of a kiss-up. Also - that little heart thing you do with your hands is pretty cute, but it's trademarked. Pay up.

Blake,

Blake. Blake, Blake, Blake. I hate you, I love you, I want to rip your hair off. Why did you dye it black? Who told you this was a good idea? If it was Bon Jovi, you shouldn't turn to him for style advice. That whole beat boxing thing works for you, but do you have to change every song into a dance party? It's either that or you give it the David Bowie/Coldplay/Bono treatment and I squirm uncontrollably. However, you seem to be a genuinely nice person, wear fun sneakers, and I appreciate your affinity for 311, a fact that proved to me you were most definitely a fellow Class of 2000 graduate.

And to all of you: Please make next week a more enjoyable entertainment experience for us all.
I'm feeling restless and looking towards Dancing with the Stars for happiness. Not good.

Love,

A

Good Talk

"Remember how Dad used to say 'thank you much'? Not adding the very?"

"Oh. I do that now. It's actually really useful. At least i don't say howdy??"

"Oh. I say howdy all the time."

What have we become.

Hairapy

I realized this weekend that my hair color is the hair color it wants to be when left alone. Meaning, all my highlights have grown out, my roots are the same color as the rest of my strands, and someone might actually describe me as having brown hair if pressed for an opinion. It immediately made me nervous and just a little bit naked.

Since eighth grade, when I started coloring my hair with a disturbing combination of lemon juice and markers, I don't think my locks have been their real self. It makes me want to break out a box of cheap henna or, alternately, dial up someplace expensive and get "caramel" highlights no one else will notice. I'm trying to hold still, though, and appreciate the potential serious downgrade in maintenance (and costs) this could mean. But man, are my fingers itching for a pink highlighter.