UnBirthday Birthday.

Today I unofficially turn THIRTY.

Zee Big Three Oh.

The Curse is Broken!

I have broken the Curse of the Missoni Skirt!
I wore it to an interview at Johnathon Adler, which went quite well and they asked me - at the end of said first interview to come back Saturday morning for a second.

Yip. This could make me happy.

Whimsical home furnishings in a semi-corporate environment?
Um, YESPULEASE&THANKYOU!
New challenge based upon a strength I have spent the last 5 years building?!
Please! Capital P.
Merchandising & decorating are my first loves!
Well, them and Justin Thompson, but he still has me blocked on Facebook, so I guess it doesn't really count.

C'est la vie. Sweet sweet la vie. 
So come Saturday, with my sister in tow, I shall be interviewing and then birthday partying.
And not be quite so terrified of the (not Target version, but of the italiano variety) zig zag print temptress hanging in my closet.

S'riously guys, I just pee'd a little.
S'riously.

On an unrelated note - How is it that photos of closets can get me equally as aroused as anytime spent look at Ryan Gosling's mug? I seriously think I am more attracted to shoes and cocktail dresses than I am men.
Well, at least shoes'll never imply that I need to tone up my ass.
And for that matter, if the pair is high enough, they'll tone it for me without even asking.

I Saw The Sign & It Said, 'Sayonara Sucka.'

* You and me and my friends and yours is more up my alley, but you get the picture.

I want you to make me feel like I'm the only girl in the worldLike I'm the only one that you'll ever loveLike I'm the only one who knows your heartOnly girl in the world...

Why, thank youverymuch Rhianna. 

I couldn't have said it better myself.

And, for this very reason, after roughly 6 weeks of dating, I have decided that I will not be seeing the Carpenter again. You know, we all have had that conversation behind someone's back about their boyfriend that goes something like,

Oh God! He's so cocky, but he's also so insecure, and just treats her like crap because of it.

Or at least, I have some sort of muscle memory of saying it at some point in time about someone long ago. (Or thinking it, at least.) And it's true - the guy who talks about how 'hot' he is, and then tells his girlfriend she needs to lose a couple pounds.
Um, yeah, you'resoThatGuy, Mister Carpenter. You're kind of an asshole.
Apparently, you and Jesus are justateensybit different afterall.
Because, for the second date in a row - though I do not doubt that the Carpenter likes me - but, for the second date in a row - I have not felt like the only girl in the world.
I have felt like... Well, not good. Not beautiful. Entirely unappreciated.
You see, last night the Carpenter suggested I take up running, because 'it would tone up my ass'. He then preceded to, while we were at dinner, point out a hostess' own ample bottom & say,

'See? Wouldn't you like it to look more like that?'

Um, no thank you SirMixALot.
I like my ass.
A lot. The way it is.
In fact, after many many years of not being comfortable in my own body (and still working on it daily) I like my body. In fact, in the neon green push up bra & black lace underwear I was wearing last night, I looked like a fucking lingerie model*.
Or pretty damn close for a 'civilian'

*You know, the Ex of 5 Years was wise enough to once 

see a photo of a nude Kate Moss (not Kat Moss) 

and say, 'You have the exact same body as she does.'  

Sometimes the man was brilliant.

Okay, that might be a be a bit of hyperbole, but still. I looked good. Worth a 'Hot Damn' or two.

Thankyouverymuch, Skinny Mirror.

I also am a fan of my boobs.
Should I do some sort of pec
workout to make them more to his liking?
I thought not.

You know, I dare say, he's pretty lucky that I've spent as much time with him as I have - dressed or undressed.

You know what is not hyperbole? For a man who spends as much time taking about how 'f'in' hot he is while complaining how he is insecure about his love handles, it's interesting how much he is able to belittle me without saying very much at all.

And! On top of all this: I'm really nice to him!

Like really nice!

I have no problem agreeing with him when he says how handsome he is.
I don't mind disagreeing with him when he says he has love handles. It's a lie. He has them, but up until recently, I didn't mind.

And for as cute as he is - I've come to realize that he also very very very closely resembles Frank the Tank streaking down the street in Old School.

So, sometimes after a post-Hunger Games comment like,

'Too bad they killed the blonde Tribute off so quickly, she was hawwwwwt.' 

Every girl deserves to feel like Heidi Klum.

I want to bark,

'Get off your high horse, you asshole. You look like Will Ferrell.'

That can't be a good sign.
And at first, I could overlook that because he was funny and sweet and sort of endearingly insecure, but last night I found myself playing 'I Am Not Going to Show Affection To Him First'.
A silent game I play with myself where I decide not be the first one to show affection when we're out. Though, I'm awful at it, because I usually forget I'm playing and mindlessly grab for his hand or scratch his back. Also, not a good sign.
I knew when I met him, he had a wandering eye (or as I call him, Swivel-Head).
That's fine, whatever. I can deal with that, but with the Carpenter it has become so much more a symbol of his own insecurites and whatever, and I don't have to put up with it.
I don't.
And, I won't.
Cause I see the signs & refuse to play a game of Beauty & the Beast in hopes that he'll change.

He asked me the other day,

So when are you going to show me off in front of your friends?

(Which I can only assume is Insecure Speak for: Am I good enough to meet your friends?)

Um... Never?

I'm on the first carriage out of Carpenteria!

Because he doesn't make me feel like the only girl in the world.
And lucky for me, I know he's not the only guy in the world.
Baby, it's a big big world out there.

So with that I say,

Sayonara Carpenter.
Adios Muchacho.
Keep workin' on those love handles, Dude.

Oh! And say Ciao! to your brother for me. 
You were right, he is better looking than you.*

*A few weeks ago I met his younger brother - 

and immediately after the introductions took place, I mean literally,

the boy had not been out of the apartment longer than 3 minutes - the Carpenter barked, 'Yes I know, my brother's better looking than I am, but he doesn't make nearly as much money as I do. Sometimes he needs help with the rent.'

The H Word.

When I was little, I remember writing a book for my kindergarten class entitled, 'Happiness Is...' 

Well, today, I kind of feel like writing the same book. 

(Though, in this one I will not lie and say that Happiness is... Milking cows on my Grandma's farm. Because, for one, my grandma didn't have a farm nor did I ever milk any cows on it. My parents must have thought I was the weirdest little child liar.)

Anyhow, Happiness is definitely receiving a wedding invitation in the mail today. 

Happiness is definitely laying all day in bed - white linens and all - at a very nice hotel on a rainy day after being told that on that day, I could have whatever I wanted. (Which was apparently room service, CPK & endless movies on TBS.)
(This is not a lie. This is called Sunday.) 

Happiness is having friends for the first time in my life who know me well enough to call me out on the hard stuff. And the easy stuff too.

Happiness is MY BIRTHDAY PARTY IS THIS WEEKEND!

And my sister & friends from close and far are all coming!

Happiness is never, ever, having to milk a cow.

Happiness is being reminded of my own strengths and skills.

Happiness is a leather dress or silk bike shorts.

Happiness is scoring a pair of floral jeans for $19 (they are so in for Spring dontchaknow?) and wearing them on a day when I run into everyone I know, and I'm the first one to have worn them on the the third day of Spring.

Happiness is the big things, the small things, the wise things and learning from the stupid things.

Happiness is that I was smart enough to plan on celebrating turning thirty when I am still twenty nine.

Happiness is Draw Something.

Happiness is a perfect day with  my best friend, after a couple weeks of distance and weirdness. 

Happiness is actually having good news in a phone call to my mom.

Happiness is having shit the put on this list.

Happiness is all in the answer to the question, 'Do you feel like you learned a lot today?' when my answer is,

'Yes. But what I really feel like I learned is that I know more than I thought I did.'

The Idiot's Guide.

Sometimes... I just feel like when they were handing out the Handbook for Life, they skipped me going down the line.

To which my Best Friend in San Francisco burst out laughing, and assured me that,

Everyone feels that way. Everyone.

30: A Blank Page of Paint by Numbers.

...Just enjoy the house to yourself! We should be home by 9.

I haven't been in a space this large, by myself, in as long as I can remember. I am sitting at the dining room table tap-tap-typing away in an empty house in the desert, eating hummus and drinking a glass of Barefoot from of one of those tiny 'American Doll' sized bottles sold by the checkout at the drugstore. I am alone. But, it's different than being alone at my 'house' (cough! studio!). There's a bike in the kitchen, a Buddha decorated with fortunes on the counter* and a plastic bowling pin set on the floor to my right.
I can hear the family dog in another room, dogtag jangling.
It smells like dinner and kids and A Home.

*I originally called it the bar, but in a family home, I realized, its not a bar .

It's a countertop. Duh. I'm new.

I haven't had this, especially to myself, in as long as I can remember.

You know, being technically 'unemployed' is an odd thing. One one hand, I have days where I haven't anywhere in particular that I need to be, but many days where I find myself choosing to be places I haven't been in many many years. Such as, but not limited to LA, Santa Monica and Newport (but Newport for fun, which I never used to do.) I mean, I see my Malibu Bad Ass more now that she resides near the Miracle Mile than I did when she lived down the street. On the other hand, though I find I have nothing technically on the docket, I feel like I've been busy, busy, busy. A lot of it has to do with the aforementioned travelling, but also that the two or three days I do spend working, I spend the night out of town.
Right now, I'm in the middle of a three day stretch in the desert of Southern California, where it's a balmy 75 degrees & a storm'sabrewing. (Literally.) The house I'm writing from is the home of the sister of the owner of my shop. I mean, not only have I not spent time in a real Home in years but its also been a long time since I have spent so much time with a Family in general, Capital F. I mean, I have spent the last two years bouncing between the couches of my girlfriends and the beds of my, errrr... Let's go with 'lovers' on that one, so being around a Family has been... Comforting. It's a dog, kids - the whole familial shebang.
Something I haven't been wholly surrounded by since I was a kid myself and I'd forgotten how comforting it is; how much I love it.
And, when I wake up in the morning, there are two little boys excited that I am 'finally!' awake.
Sometimes it feels like going to 'work' is more like a vacation from Life.

See: Cacti.

(See: jobless, boyfriendless, aimless.)
In the Desert, I have a purpose, I have a Family, I have a sense of value; I feel a sense of unconditional love from the Family that I have grown to be a part of; my boss, her parents - especially her father - her sister, her sister's two sons.
I just generally feel less Lost.
Now! Don't get me wrong - I have a family of friends in my Tiny Little Beach Town too, but these people have known me since I was 24; since I was six months into a relationship with the Ex of 5 years. They saw me grow up, move out, move on, and now they're here for me when I've lost my job and am in a state of total flux.
Because, being jobless, boyfriendless & with a milestone birthday on the horizon - I am feeling at a loss.
All the things that used to define me do not anymore - Everything (everything!) is in Flux right now.
It's all blank.
Nothing is defined; I am not coloring within the lines because there are no lines to color within.
I am approaching 30 with a blank page in hand.
Not a blank slate. Just an empty page.
I feel like I pressed the 'Pause' button on my own life's remote. You know, so that I could really take in what just happened, and I've just kept rewinding the last scenes, dissecting them ad nauseam, totally unsure of what to expect next.
I feel like my life has been paused. And I'm waiting for someone else to come along and press 'Play' because I am afraid of what's to follow & haven't even totally digested what's already happened.
This folks, is why I don't like watching movies alone.
The hardest part of the Blank and the Pause is that with all the time in the world to think - with the uncertainty of it all - comes my uncanny knack for over-thought. 
I am over-thinking a paused frame, I am over-thinking a blank page.

Vogue!

How so?
Well, the first thing not written on the blank paper?
Not shown in the freeze frame?
'What Do I Want To Be When I Grow Up?'
I have no idea. My mother always said she just 'knew' she wanted to be a Mom. I never felt that way. (Though, spending time with this family, I am finding it harder and harder to imagine a fulfilled life without a family. Without the bike and the bowling pins and the little tiny hands.) I also know I can't work two days a week two hours away for the rest of my life, so I have to find something. But what? I don't know. Do I want to continue to be a shopgirl forever? No. I think I have more to offer to the world than what jeans will go best with that blouse. Or, conversely, if that is my calling, do I want to do it from someone else's shop forever? No. (I actually did turn down a job for just that reason last week.) So, I go to my thirtieth birthday less sure of what I want to be when I grow up as I did when I arrived at my 20th. (At Chevy's. See also: Twenty year olds are idiots.)
Second thing not written on the blank page?
'Why Am I Still Single?' Shut your fucking trap if you're thinking it's just 'cuz I haven't found The One yet; obviously, I haven't found the One.
But you know what I have found?
Well, for one - Cheetos. Family houses! P'shaw!
I found Apartment F, who though we are not Together, I still Love more than anything. The Spark & attraction may be lacking, but I still see him often, eat dinner and watch a movie with him, sleep next to him (though not with him) several nights a week. I still find myself awake at 11 pm, creeping upstairs to crawl into bed next him. I went away for work last week & when I got home he had bought Kat Moss food, fed her the 3 days I was gone, done all my dishes, taken out the trash, and...

I Have a PhD in Unavailable.

And. Cleaned the toilet and left me a cookie.
Even my PhD candidate of a sister coo'd, 'Aww. Can't you just be with him??' (In my defense, she may be smarter than me now, but she talked to herself until she was 9. I used to look out the window and see her balancing back and forth on the 6 foot fence, all Anne of Green Gables-style, chatting to herself. If I watched long enough - sure enough, 'Whoops!' She'd fall off one side or the other. In her defense, she's in the best Women's Studies PhD program in the country & was one of three (out of like 10,000) to be accepted with a scholarship. But I digress. And brag.)
I am still single because I am stupid.
I am probably still single because I am too picky. And too afraid of the responsibility that comes along with being a pillar to a house like the very one I typing from. I am still single because I am arrogant enough to think that someone will come along and sweep my off my feet.
I'm stupid, because when I am in my Tiny Room, watching New Girl with Apartment F, and Kat Moss is curled up on both of us and he starts to fall asleep; that is the only other time I can recall that even feels close to Family. F even texted me today, after a thread regarding him sneaking Kat Moss into the hockey game he attended this evening in his pocket, with,

I love that little kitty.

Also, it should be noted, Apt F is psychic, though he doesn't know it.
He calls it 'intuition' & I call it, 'Has he been reading my text messages?'
He hasn't, because if he had, he probably wouldn't be speaking to me, let alone buying me cookies. 
I also feel like I should explain that the F & I (though I know he still cares for me) are very open about not being together, and still leaning on one another, and loving each other. He knows that I feel like something is missing from our connection - or as he put it, 'You love me but you are not in love with me, that is what is missing'. And I know that - in the long run - he wants marriage and a family & I (much like my sister at 9) walk a thin wooden fence on the subject and fall on either side of that fence at any given moment allwillynillylike (while totally talking to myself). And for the two of us to then that to stay in a relationship that is only getting more and more serious when we don't fall on the same side of the fence most of the time really isn't fair to his own hopes and dreams.

Teeter totter. 

I am still single because I am terrified of being responsible for someone else's happiness, whether it is the F's or a husbands or most importantly, a child's; especially when I am so terrible at being responsible for my own.
And for the Freeze Frame, for the Pause, (no, Mom, not that 'Pause'!) I have found a Carpenter (Yes, Like Jesus) in Santa Monica to er... fill in the blanks for the time being. It's been about three weeks.
Of steady not going steady.

What?! Carpenters wear a lot of plaid.
Even if they're from Calabasas.

Couldn't we have gone to Frida's Pitas?
That Mexi-Greek fusion place on La Brea?
No... We couldn't.
Cause I just made it up.
(It should be real though.
Make it make it happen,
Internet.) 

A Carpenter who I thought would prefer to keep things on the more Casual side of Friday, but I am starting to feel like even he wants more. For instance, he wants to be invited to the St. Patrick's Day fiesta that Goldi & I strong-armed the Doctor into hosting (Apartment F wanted an invite as well) and if he isn't invited, he wants to pick me up and take me back to his (actually quite beautiful) apartment off Santa Monica Blvd when it's over. Neither of which will happen because I don't see any reason (or necessarily want) to leave my friends. (That, and there is a certain boy that will most likely be there that I may or may not have shared a Moment and a kiss over Oasis's Wonderwall on Halloween.) (Also, a glaring example of F's intuition? A text that read, I feel like you don't want me to go hang out with your friends at the Doctor's because they're trying to set you up with one of his friends.' Argh...) Anyhow, between the Carpenter (they have a really good union) wanting me to, I quote (him), 'flaunt him in front of my friends' and the fact that he took me to restaurant where the waitress not asked where his parents had been but also his Grandparents, I am getting the feeling that he wants more than I do now as well. The ripple of something that went through the air when he told his brother (yes, I have met his brother) and his roommate that he took me to 'Paco's Tacos' was... Unnerving. They looked... Surprised. It was an odd moment; and odd moment that I am probably reading too much into, but at the same time... They seemed as surprised as I was that he would take me to somewhere so intimately 'Theirs'. Though, to be honest, most of time when I am texting with the Carpenter, I convince myself he has some form of... Special Needs. (Not sexually. He just seems retarded. His texts read like... Well, 'Me Talk Pretty One Day'.) He seems so stupid via text, that I start to reckon I've missed some twitch, some form of Autism, that I find I'm always surprised that when I am with him, he is articulate, honest, forthright and sweet.
Note: He, too, made it a point to tell me, at Paco's Tacos, that he does want children. (My response? 'Filed.')
We're supposed to be Casual!* Not speaking of children at his grandparent's favorite Mexican joint.

*Yes, Tar, we put on our jeans first.

He also speaks fluent Spanish, and when I told him that I understand it better than I speak it, he was surprised that I got everything right in his little quiz (which did not include, Where is the library?). Not only that, but when we were at Paco's Tacos, the waiter asked him en espanol, if he would like a coffee after dinner, I responded that I would. En ingles. He made a crack about me being flaca, and I nearly shouted, 'I'm right here! I can hear you!' And finally, he conceded that I can actually understand Spanish better than I am able to actually speak it. With that he if I could understand one last thing; and he muttered something under his breath. I immediately thought he was making a dirty joke or fun of me and asked him to repeat himself.
He said it again, this time louder and more sheepishly, yet still very quickly.

Tu esta muy bonita

I replied, blushing, with a simple thank you.

I am still fucking single because no one is ever good enough.
And one might presume, that in my world, that no one is not just anyone...

YES! SOMEONE PLEASE FIND ME THIS!
A full page of Paint by Numbers.
Happy 30th to Me.
No? You sure?
Damn.

It's me.

So here I go: Big birthday on the Horizon; Blank Page in Hand.
Turning Thirty, jobless and single.
Unsure of anything other than that my life is inexplicably on Pause.

No, not inexplicably. It's to be expected, I guess.
Because, apparently, even after all these years...

I'm still on the fence.
I'm still fixated on the television station that airs nothing but snow.
I'm still waiting for my Life to be a fucking Paint by Numbers...
...of a House & a Home, and a bike in the kitchen and a dog in the yard.
Or a Kat.

But it's not.
No one's is.


Sidenote: I do have a Second Date with 'The Mormon' (who is not, in fact Mormon [anymore]) on Monday. Our first date was at the Hollywood Improve about two weeks ago, and went very well. Actually, if you had been at the Hollywood Improv that night, you probably would have never guessed it was our first date, but more likely would've thought we had been together for years. The only real caveat is that he is an ex-Mormon. Like, only off the church and on the sauce +/- 18 months. Nevermind that he's divorced with a four year old, I'm more worried about trying to mesh an ex-faux-Jew/college wildchild with a divorcee Mormon who just jumped into the 'civilian' dating pool.

Takeover.

Today I am going to get shit done.
I'm going to apply for a thousand jobs, clean my entire apartment spick and span, read War & Peace, write it's sequel, and give Kat Moss a bath.
I'm going to take up yoga, quit smoking and drink detoxifying tea all day.
I'm going to clean out my car, my fridge & my voicemail.

I'm going to conquer the world.
But first, I should probably get out of bed & take a shower.
Baby steps, yaknow?

Update. 11:10 am. Still in bed. Now know the life stories of Natalie Wood, Rita Hayworth and Lana Turner. Suspect Kat Moss has pooped somewhere unseemly. Getting out of bed in five, I swear.

The Curse of the Skirt.

My Missoni skirt is cursed. 
Cursed I tell you! 

*But only when worn as a skirt. When it is worn as a mini dress, it's curse isn't as strong.

Oh the voodoo that you do!

Now I know why someone would sell a perfectly good, classic Missoni skirt to Buffalo Exchange.
Because it is cursed.  
Also, I should change the name of this blog to The Misadventures of the Buffalo, dontchathink?

This skirt is, quite obviously, cursed by an fiery & wild Italian woman. A woman who drinks too much red wine and wants to dancing the night away under the stars. She is too wild for me, letmetellyou.
The first time I wore Her, she was paired with my favorite denim shirt, tied in a perfect little knot at my stomach, with the sleeves rolled up and the collar popped. Her and I, accompanied by Beauty, wanted to go to every restaurant and bar in my tiny town, demanding to be seen in such an exquisite piece of Italian workmanship. She was seen and saw most everyone we know, and by the end of the night I was prepared for quite the headache the following day.
That damn Italian wildchild of a skirt kept me out most of the night.

The Missoni: She Be Crazy.

The next day, I immediately texted Bijou asking if she wanted to borrow the Missoni, as I can't handle that sort of woman. She said yes, and I sent the Missoni away. Be gone!

But then, last Saturday, I had a date.
And nothing to wear.
First dates are funny; for me, most of my man repellent clothing is not an option, as most of my closet is two sizes too big or takes the kind of crazy layering usually reserved for stubborn Kindergartners and places where 'Winter' is a season.
Once, I was wearing essentially a black cotton trash bag, and Apt F & I were about to go to lunch, and I said to him,

Wait! I have to change! I look like I'm wearing a trash bag. 

And his response?

But... (confused pause) You always wear stuff like that.

Touche. Anyhow, I try and find some sort of even ground for the First Date; a 'taste test' of sorts.
I remove a bit of my jewelry, and then add the pieces back slowly if the dating continues. I mean I want to show that I have a style that is all my own, but still look pretty and feminine and not alarmingly eccentric.
(I save the Crazy for later.) Now, I try not let clothes wear me, I love that I feel most comfortable in my own skin and style, but as one of my friends put it prior to my first date, 'No! No motorcycle boots! No Rib Cage sweater vests!' So much of my closet is more costume than sensible basics and I like it that way; but it's not ideal for a First Date.
So I rang Bijou and got the Missoni back.
This time, I wore her with a cream racerback silk tank and a silk Obi belt tied at my true waist and my perfect suede taupe mary-janes.
I felt phenomenal, I felt rich, luxurious and ready to go!
I arrived on time for a couple of cocktails at a beautiful dimly lit restaurant with panoramic marina views - I walked in and saw him sitting at the bar. I came up behind him, tapped his shoulder and said hello. He looked up and (as etiquette determines) said hello back.
He stayed seated as I took my place at the sunken bar, and he glanced at the Game on the TV, and took a sip of his already half drank vodka soda.
We exchanged pleasantries for a bit, and then I realized two things: 1.) He had a lisp, and spoke out of half his mouth a la Drew Barrymore, and 2.) He was not that interesting.
I ordered a glass of wine, and started asking questions. Basically, over two glasses of wine (and three more vodka sodas for him) he started speaking louder and louder about less and less interesting things, and it was apparent to both of us (or I think both of us) that there was no connection whatsoever. He actually said at one point, 'So what else about you...?' Our conversation was at a stand still.
He then mentioned that he was hungry and I recommended to calamari. But then I thought to myself,

Oh God. If I now have to sit through him eating calamari, and drinking another vodka soda I may die. Right here in this bar. 

I excused myself to the bathroom, and called Goldi from the stall and for the first time ever incited Code Blue, Something Bad Happened! I couldn't commit to another minute with him. Now, to be honest, he wasn't thaaaaaaaaat bad, he just wasn't... Good. He was a drunken bore. Who spit when he talked.
I navigated my way back to the, gave him a sheepish look, and explained,

I'm sorry. The reason I excused myself to the bathroom was because my friends kept calling. It turns out one of them has been pulled over for a suspected DUI and I have to go to them. I'm so sorry.

He laughed and said,

You know what you're doing right? You're doing the cliche 'leave for an extended period of time and then come back with and emergency.

No, seriously, I'm not. (Gulp.)

No, no I'm kidding. Go! Go help your friends.

And with that, I left. I never heard from him again.

Seriously though, Is this not the Best Picture Ever?
That's all.

I suspect he was as okay with not sharing calamari or another moment with me as I was.
Apparently the Missoni skirt is cursed a picky, easily bored Italian firecracker who does what she pleases.
I went home and changed.
And then...
I called The Carpenter. (Yes, like Jesus.)
More on him later, I promise.
(Also, he and I are going to dinner tonight.)
Also, I went on another date Tuesday.
Again, off the dating website I use.
But that time, I wore my borrowed from my Malibu Bad Ass' Blessed Blazer*.

*I wore it on my first date with the Aussie.

I'm Dating for Dinners again! 
Or... Let the Hunger Games begin!


Sidenote: Apartment F & I are navigating being friends as best we can; which, surprisingly, is pretty well. Go us! 

It's an International Summit Over Here!

48 pagina bekeken uit Nederland?  

Interessant.

Peace be with you!

So, I may not speak Dutch, whatsoever, but the oh-so-handy 'Stats' section on this little website tells me quite a bit (in English) about who is viewing my project, how they're finding it & what country they're viewing from.

And I do believe that I may have met my match when in comes to Interpol-style online stalking.
(For those of you that may have missed that specific blog, here's the link: I Spy.)
That being said, read along as much as you want my new 'friend'; but know that I have had a great year, a lot has changed since I started this little project & nothing that is written here is anyone else's experience or point of view other than my own.
So, new reader, enjoy.
But if you are going to keep pace with my life, just remember that is all you are doing.


You're getting a sneak peek into My Life. (Niet Hollander, bijvoorbeeld.)

I write this for my own sanity, for an artistic outlet on my best and worst days. I obviously write in a very public forum, and a I certainly invite new readers. Tell your friends!


But please, Come in Peace if you're going to Peek.


Sidenotes: Yes, Google translate is horrible, and no, I don't speak Dutch in any way shape or form, so whatever. And I do invite new readers & friends into my brain for their viewing pleasure and I quite like it that way. Basically, I just have a gut feeling that someone who was perhaps looking for information on a certain Dutchman we all may or may not know may have stumbled across my blog in an effort to get more information on him. And I also understand that it may seem pretty juvenile to post the above, but seriously, I don't care who reads this - I want people to! - as I believe that my experience and my thoughts are not anything that no one else hasn't felt too, my experience with love and friendship and self esteem and growing up are parrallel to most every woman's, and it makes me feel like I am not alone in this brain of mine.
But what I don't want is for any of these thoughts or experiences to be used as ammo against me or anyone I care about.
This blog is purely a selfish act of self expression and should be treated as nothing more.
So seriously, I come in peace and so should you.
This is my refuge, my silly thoughts and dreams and that is all.
Also, I still have that date tomorrow - Waterfront bar for drinks at 7:30.
Hopefully its not as crushing to my ego as my lunch un-date. Cross your fingers!