because I'm self-deprecating and impressionable

Having already failed miserably at one of my resolutions (I have not gone to bed on time once yet), and potentially failing at two others (I have yet to cook dinner at home, and have already purchased two meals at the hospital), I've decided to add another resolution to my list to hopefully increase my success rate.

I'm going to run a half marathon in May. Someone else said they were going to do it, so why the hell not? Forget the fact that I have monster bunions and can barely run between airport terminals without needing an inhaler, I'm going to run 13.1 miles, dammit. In a row. On the same day.

Training begins Monday with a breezy 4 mile run. YAY.

New Year's Tentative Commitments

I'm not making resolutions this year, just tentative commitments. As cult leader Sri Chinmoy says, blah blah blah, something, lower your expectations. So here they are:

1. Pay a full tithing. Always.

I slack at this sometimes. I look at it as a spiritual practice, putting trust in God that I'll be able to pay my bills. But I think it's also a practice in simplicity, since I won't be able to buy as much crap while giving away 10% of my income.

2. Go to yoga at least twice a week.

Just because I don't want to be a fat ass anymore.

3. Be in bed by 10:30 every week night.

Unless I have a gig. Or unless there's something good on TV. Or unless a friend is in town, and I need to go have drinks with him or her. Or unless I have band practice. Or unless I'm reading a really good book...

4. Cook dinner at home at least twice a week.

I know that doesn't sound like a lot, but seriously, I only cook for two people, and my husband eats like a tiny waify bird, so if I make one box of macaroni and cheese it lasts us like, four days. Still, somehow, I find this difficult enough that I had to add it to the list of commitments.

5. Only buy lunch in the cafeteria once a week.

I'm optimistic that leftovers from #4 will help me achieve this one.

6. Stop being such a bitch.

I feel feelings. Lots of them. I also have a hard time mediating the relationship between these feelings and my mouth. Soooooo...here's to shutting the hell up.

No thank you.

I'm pretty green. I have a rain barrel and plant an organic heirloom garden and buy used clothes and whatnot. I have also gotten into the habit of printing on scrap paper at work. Typically, this does not cause me problems. Occasionally my boss shoots me side-eye when she notices there's a discarded Groupon on the back of an abstract I've handed her, but overall she doesn't mind. Unfortunately, I recently made the mistake of asking a coworker for a stack of her scrap paper when I ran out.

It wasn't until the committee meeting, after I had passed around a section of a manual I had been writing, that I noticed on the back of the last page was product information for lube from Pure Romance. "Product Resources: Silicone Based Lubricant," it shouts. The first line of the information saying something about vaginal health and lasting longer during love-making. Apparently, my coworker's "home-based business" is not so home-based. At least I know where to go if I need a strap-on.

walk of shame

It's the Monday after the department Christmas party. Everyone's looking a little cautious. Some people drank too much, some people talked too loud, and more importantly, some people danced. In public. In front of their coworkers.

Socializing with your coworkers can give you a rare glimpse at their true selves, particularly when you give them some free booze and play some Ke$ha. Now I think we're all wondering what other people saw and mostly what they remember. Hopefully no one took pictures.

I love you, Verizon. I hate you.

Things had been going so well between us, that I decided to renew my contract with you. I felt so optimistic about our future together, but then something went wrong. First, you played with my emotions by sending me a free phone. Then you charged me $320 for the phone. Then you grovelled and gave me my money back, but I discovered that you had reduced our contract from two years down to one. I can't figure out if you want me or not. Did I say something? Was it that time I checked out the iPhone at the mall? I swear, it was nothing serious. WE WERE JUST TALKING!

Flirting Failure

I'll admit, sometimes it's nice to be hit on, even though I'm married. It's a little ego boost (as it should also be for Mitch). But typically, if someone does decide to throw some cheesy pickup lines my way, it's after I get off stage, so at least we have something to talk about (e. g. how awesome I am). Last week, though, I was caught off-guard, and realized I'm lucky to already be married.

I was standing at the bakery counter at Whole Foods, two bottles of wine in my basket and ordering pieces of cake. To paint a better picture, I hadn't showered in two days, and I had a crusty leftover herp sore on my lip (don't judge me). My situation should have screamed, "I'M GOING HOME TO SIT ON MY FAT ASS AND WATCH THE L WORD!" Nonetheless, this guy growled over my shoulder "so what are you buying me?" "Psssshhhh, NOTHing," I scoffed. He started making redemptive small talk. I pretended to dig through my purse, too embarrassed to look at him. I dropped a receipt but unfortunately I stomped my foot on top of it too late to stop him from being gentlemanly, and of course he picked it up for me. I mumbled a thanks, and then he kind of ran away Napoleon Dynamite style. The entire exchange was so awkward, even the bakery employee looked a little ashamed to be present for the whole thing.

But really, let's be honest here, it was all my fault. Sure, this guy was a goober. Who hits on scrubby looking girls at a grocery store on Friday night? But I'm so tactless that I couldn't even throw him a bone. Of course, I relayed the whole thing to Mitch, and he shoots out witty, gentle responses right away.

"So what are you buying me?"

*coy laughter* "Love handles."

*gesturing to the bottles of wine* "A hangover."

"A consolation prize."

Then it occurred to me that perhaps I was not the one casting the line when Mitch and I met.

I get it now.

I'm at Kalahari for the weekend with my mom, aunt, and two younger cousins. I absolutely love spending time with my family, but I loathe places like this; they're a caricature of everything that other nationalities ridicule us for.

This venture has also made me realize, yet again, that I am far from ready for children. I used every ounce of restraint I had to stop from strangling every tween in the hot tub. I shoved several children out of my way in the lazy river. And I required a very large amount of pinot grigio to help me tolerate the arcade after 9:00 pm on a Saturday. Therein lies my revelation. As I scanned the arcade tonight, buzzed after dinner and several rounds of DDR, I started to notice the great equalizer: comically-large margarita glasses filled with neon liquors.

Because this is an indoor waterpark, you can drink anywhere. ANYWHERE. Making this place seemingly tolerable for parents who feel stifled by open-container laws at public beaches. Parents exuded only complacence as they toted around shrieking six-year-olds with fistfuls of crumpled tickets waiting to be exchanged for shitty dollar-store, petro-chemical laden, lead-painted toys. And suddenly I get Brave New World.