Toddlers & Tiaras

Over the weekend I went to a beauty pageant for toddlers and pre-teens. My four-year-old cousin was a participant, so my mom and I drove up to Winston-Salem to be supportive. As much as I love pageants and things of that nature, kiddie pageants creep me out: the big hair, the fake teeth, the spray tans.... it's all too much for me.

Not my cousin, but close enough.

This pageant was a little more g-rated because the girls weren't allowed to wear make-up or bathing suits. We sat through 100(!!) four to six-year-olds while they pranced around stage in big, poofy dresses. The pageant itself was boring; the best part came after the awards ceremony. Roughly 40 out of the 100 girls got an award for something, whether it was Best Formal Wear, Best Stage Presence, Best Handwriting, etc. The girls who didn't get an award were the real winners in my eyes though: they cried and stormed off as their overweight moms looked on and cried too. How embarrassing. My mom and I chuckled to ourselves as we watched the moms run after their daughters, tears in their eyes and tissues in their hands.

Needless to say, my kids are not allowed to do pageants. They're also not allowed to play sports that I don't want to watch (soccer, baseball, golf). I honestly would rather them be gay than play soccer, only because it would be easier for me to deal with. I'm planning on having twin boys (twins so that I only have to lose the baby weight once, boys so that I can be the only woman in my household and therefore, get all the attention) so hopefully I can mold them into the kinds of athletes I enjoy watching. That's what parenting is all about.

The Second Amendment

A few weekends ago my boyfriend (I know, right?! I finally locked someone down) and I went to the gun range. He loves guns and going to the gun range is a huge stress reliever for him. I was looking forward to partaking in one of his hobbies with him, especially since I've never been to a gun range or shot a gun before. He was so excited to go with me that he woke me up early Saturday morning and said "Get up! We have a long day ahead of us!" How precious.

I wore a bright yellow sweater in order to make sure I didn't get shot accidentally and close-toed shoes because obviously bullets can't penetrate them like they can flip-flops.  We watched a short safety video before picking out a gun during which I almost fainted because it basically convinced me I was going to get shot. The boyfriend picked out a gun for me (a 9mm Beretta) and bought ammo and a target. Meanwhile I stood there with my arms crossed and my knees locked, hoping I would pass out and not have to shoot. We got to our lane and that's when everything went south.

He was explaining all about the safety, loading bullets, etc. and I just burst into tears. I couldn't even hear him between the army of bullets flying around us, our super cute earmuffs, and my deep sobs. Being the great guy that he is, when he saw me crying he wiped my tears (and snot!) and told me it was okay, that I wasn't going to get shot, that I had nothing to worry about, etc. He also whispered, "there's no crying at the gun range, Victoria". I got it together and was able to shoot three rounds; on the fourth round the gun jammed so I set it down and burst into tears again. Long story short, I stood outside while he finished the last 47 bullets.

He was sympathetic, assuring me that it was okay to be scared and that he was proud of me for shooting the gun when I'd never even seen one before. This sympathy lasted about an hour. Afterwards he made fun of me relentlessly and called me a baby and a wimp for DAYS. True love!

This was taken the day after we actually went. I passed off his target as mine for an Instagram photo op. I'm the worst, I know.

Baby Talk

Lately, my 29 year-old boss has insisted on talking to us in a baby voice. Literally--she addresses us how she would address a small child. It drives me absolutely insane and when I don't respond she says "you're not feeling it today?" as if I've been "feeling it" any other day she's done it. Baby talk is reserved for babies, not overqualified employees of a menial 9-5 job. That being said, my dad can't stand baby talk, even towards actual babies. He forbid our family from speaking to my sisters and I in a baby voice when we were babies, which is probably the reason I have so many daddy issues today.

baby v.Lo

Similar to baby talk, here are a couple of things I find completely intolerable:

1. Being read to
I can read. Please don't read to me.

2. Hearing about people's dreams
I loathe when people tell me about their dreams. Saying "Victoria I had a dream last night that you were _____" is fine, but when you go into detail I zone out because I'm not in your head and can't see what you see.

3. Ice chewing
That "crunch crunch" noise is the equivalent to Chinese water torture for me. I will give the accuser serious side eye until they stop, and have also been known to knock over their ice cup "accidentally" just so they can cease. This is my #1 deal breaker in a relationship and also a reason for divorce, in my opinion.

4. People talking over their radio
Blasting the radio--not a problem. Blasting the radio and then yelling over it--problem. Turn your radio down and talk OR keep your radio turned up and stay silent. Blasting the radio and singing along with it is also okay, especially if it's a song I like/know at least 70% of the words to.

Panty Droppers

1. White Boys

 Any or all of the above will suffice.

My first boyfriend was white. Well, I guess technically he's still white, but go with me here. His name was Ronald and we were ten and it was true love--we dated for like two years (an eon in elementary school time). Ronald introduced me to the other side and while I've gone back and forth since, I will always have a special spot in my heart for the fairer race. Lesson learned: once you go white, it's quite alright.

2. Men with Glasses

Not quite.

Ooo wee nothing turns me on more than a man with prescription glasses! So few guys wear glasses that those who actually do come off as brave and confident, two things that really get my juices flowing. Plus, guys who wear glasses instantly look smarter than guys who don't. I feel like I can have great conversations about Tolstoy and thermodynamics with glasses-wearers (not that I actually want to talk about those things, obviously). That being said, there is a time and a place for glasses. Glasses don't belong in the bedroom and completely kill the mood. Take them off when you take off your socks. You will thank me later.

3. Good Grammar

When I stalk a potential mate on the internet, I automatically look at the grammar on their page (yes, even before I look at their photos). If it's terrible, I immediately write them off. If it's good, I immediately start planning our wedding. If you know the difference between your & you're, their & there, and to & too, theirs a great chance your going too score with me.

Note: if you ever notice the grammar in this blog to be incorrect, 1. don't tell me and 2. just assume I'm drunk every time I post and blame it on that.

Father Abraham

This weekend was CIAA weekend in Charlotte, a.k.a. a huge party weekend that brings together a bunch of black people and celebrities from all over the East Coast for the big CIAA basketball tournament. No one actually goes to/cares about the games but rather uses this tournament as an excuse to party.

Friday night I went to this party called "Grits & Biscuits" and was disappointed to find out that they served neither grits nor biscuits there. Someone described the Grits & Biscuits party as "a party where black people with jobs dance like black people without them" which was hilarious and fitting. I came with a group of guys but we got separated a few minutes after arriving to the club. I spent a good ten minutes looking for them but to no avail. Finally, I stopped looking and just stood in a corner, sipping my Red Bull and vodka and trying to look cool even though I was alone. And then I found HIM.

HIM was a white guy--the only white guy in the club. Since he was white I knew he felt out of place and would welcome a hot black girl talking to him. Jackpot. He looked a lot like Macklemore, was 36, and had two Masters degrees (win!) We chatted for awhile but no real sparks flew so I ditched him* and went to find my friends. The rest of the night was fun but uneventful. Unfortunately, we had the HARDEST time finding a cab to take us home so I ended up waiting outside on a curb in 25 degree weather until 3:45 a.m. Not gonna lie, I had a long internal debate about weather I should flash an areola or two to get a ride home. While sitting on the curb a guy yelled out at me "Hey I know you! You work at Chili's!" Long, deep sigh.

Saturday night we went to a club called Phoenix which I've been dying to go to for months. This club was unlike any club I'd ever been to: three stories, multiple DJs, bathrooms and bars popping up everywhere you looked... it was crazy. I felt like I was partying at Hogwarts. Unfortunately, when I got there they were playing reggae music and I HATE reggae. Hate it. They played a reggae version of "Father Abraham" which was honestly the most interesting compilation I've ever heard. I literally stopped and was like, "what the hell... they're really playing Father Abraham in the club". About 30 minutes later, a guy approached me, told me I was beautiful, blah blah, and asked me my name. I gave him my real name (I love my name too much to make up a fake club alias) and asked him for his.

HIS NAME WAS ABRAHAM. I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP.

I died laughing the irony (note: I am not actually sure this constitutes as ironic. Where is Alanis when you need her?) and we ended up exchanging numbers. I've been screening his calls ever since though (can you blame me? His name was ABRAHAM). I met another guy named Tron but didn't even bother with the number exchange because his name was Tron. So that's that.

Solid weekend overall. I got whiplash from a guy swinging his dreads in my face Saturday night and almost died of hypothermia Friday night but what can you do. It felt good to go out and meet people and I can't wait to do it again soon!



*Actually he ditched me. Whatever.

Big Boys

Big boys LOVE me. Not big like football-big, built-big... big like FAT. Fat fat fat. It never fails: anytime I go out with my girlfriends and we meet a group of guys, the biggest guy in the group flocks to me like a moth to a flame. I'm not sure if they like me because I look like I can cook or because I have a kind face and they think I'll give them a chance. Whatever it is, the biggest of the big always seeks me out.

If we got married I would be "Vic Ross". Sounds like a good enough reason to me.

To be fair, I love big boys too. They're usually funny, affectionate, and have low self-esteem which pretty much ensures they'll never leave me because they think they can't do any better. So that's good. Those are only a few benefits to being with a big boy; here are some more:

1. You can let yourself go and they can't say anything about it.
I dare any 300+ pound man to tell me that I've put on a few pounds or that I need to lose weight. Child please. I wouldn't entertain that BS from a normal-sized human, let alone a whale.

2. Big guys have an appetite
You can use your imagination here, but I've never met a big guy who didn't enjoy licking his plate clean. Mmmmm.

3. You will always look thin
What's easier than working out and safer than lipo? Standing next to someone huge.

Rob could be 200 pounds. We would never know.

That being said, there are a few downsides to being with a big boy:

1. You have to watch them eat
Big guys are expert eaters. They don't waste time with obstacles like napkins or silverware. They put their elbows on the table and sometimes lick fallen food from their clothes. I know that's a big generalization but we all know someone huge who has done these things so no worries.

2. They breathe hard
Remember that guy from Hey Arnold who always stood behind Helga, breathing heavily until he got punched? Imagine dealing with that all the time but not being able to punch your guy because he's huge and could kill you with his bare hands.

3. You always have to be on top
You can't be on the bottom. You just can't. And being on top is way too much work to keep doing night after night. There's no play wrestling, hot gym teacher/naive student role play, or naked Twister. Not that I'm into those types of things....

4. If you break up with them, they'll think it's because they're fat
Big boys are already riddled with insecurities (yes, even the funny ones) so if you break up with them they'll assume it's because they're fat. And maybe it is. On that note, if you or someone you know has recently broken up with a big boy, send him over to me. I'm always recruiting new members for the Clean Plate Club.

24

Original post from 2/6/13... I tried to fix a typo and it changed the date of this post to today. My bad.

In honor of today being my birthday, I present a montage of beautiful photos of me:

19th birthday; yes, I made all of my friends wear black so I could stand out more and get more attention (I have daddy issues, what can I say?) This birthday was amazing--we did karaoke at a bar for hours with some other guys who had the same birthday as I. As we exited the bar I stepped in some vomit which pretty much signaled that my birthday was over and the world was not going to revolve around me for another 364 days.

 20th birthday; I rented out a former fraternity house at Wofford and threw a party with two football players who were turning 21 and 22. This birthday is a little hazy, not gonna lie. Look at how many people came though!

 21st birthday; I made my abroad friends wear all black and they did (their people enslaved my people, whatever, we're even). Don't let the smile fool you: THIS WAS THE WORST BIRTHDAY EVER. I was abroad and homesick and cried for 9 hours straight. Also, I had a birthday dinner and invited my whole program to come. One of my classmates had the nerve to get hit by a car while crossing the street to attend my dinner. What an attention-seeking whore. I'm not sure I'll ever forgive her. 

 My 22nd birthday was on Super Bowl Sunday and it was phenomenal. My friends took advantage of the fact that I still remember most of my cheerleading dances from high school and made me perform them like some kind of circus monkey, which I loved. A few hours before this photo was taken, I tried to do a push up in tights on the counter top in my apartment which resulted in me slipping off of the counter top and bee-lining towards the ground. In an attempt to break my fall, I reached for the oven door handle and fell into the oven. Top 3 most painful things I have EVER experienced (I've hooked up with quite a few black males so that's saying something).

I didn't make my friends wear black for my 23rd. However, I only hung out with black people so it's kind of the same thing.

I'm kidding! For my 23rd I had a huge party at my apartment in Winston-Salem which was a wonderful and terrible idea. The cops came (allegedly) and someone broke my bedazzled birthday wine glass and I drank out of it anyway, cutting my lip in the process. Besides that it was an A+ night. I made electric lemonade, pink panty droppers, and a gin bucket which were a huge hit. Also, no one got hit by a car so that was nice, and more importantly, kept all focus on me.

Stalkers

I have already had 2 stalkers in my very short life. I think stalkers are attracted to me because I'm really nice to strangers and like to make them think I'm interested in whatever they're saying, even if I'm not.

I met my first stalker in the spring of 2005 when I was 16 and working at Aeropostale. His name was John and he approached me while I was folding polos one day. He was much shorter than me but seemed to be cool so I gave him my number (I'm so easy, I know. I'm working on it). In the 4 hours between meeting him and the end of my shift, I'd acquired 2 missed calls and 5 text messages from him on my Samsung flip phone. I immediately went into "suffocation mode" which involved me ignoring all communication and hiding behind fixtures anytime he came into the store from that point on. I worked there until 2008. That's a lot of hiding.

In the summer of 2009 I started working at Victoria's Secret in the same mall. Two months after starting, I came into work one day to see STALKER JOHN talking to my manager about working there. After he left (and I climbed out from behind a table of panties) I told my boss not to hire him because he was cray. She told me she'd already hired him and that we would be working in the stockroom together. AHHHHHH!!!! Fortunately I was able to use us working together to my advantage--he had connections with employees of The Pretzel Twister and would bring me a free pretzel every time we worked together. Take notes, ladies. This is how it's done.

My current stalker is a man who I affectionately refer to as Mr. Before & After (details on how he got this nickname in an upcoming post). Mr. B&A is 29, attractive, employed with a great job, and yet he can't get enough of me. Every time he comes to North Carolina he hits me up and wants to "hang out", a.k.a. dick me down. I always--yes, always!--turn him down but he aggressively pursues me and won't take no for an answer. Every few hours I get a "what's up" text and when I ignore those he says "I'm coming to see you", even though I've never once told him where I live. Scary, right? Now that I'm typing this I realize that maybe he's not a stalker because he's never actually found me; maybe he's just obsessed with me. And maybe that's not such a bad thing.

Tonight, We Are Young

Back in the day (2007-2012), I was fun. I went out at least two nights a week with friends to a party, club, bar, or even just another apartment for a wine night. Staying in on a Friday night was only an option if I hadn't fully recovered from Thursday night, but 9 times out of 10 I was good to go. I loved getting all dressed up and going out, and had no problem sacrificing studying to do so.

Since graduating in May, however, I have turned into a complete and total homebody. And the worst part is, I don't hate it.

As you know, this year my birthday fell in the middle of the week. Usually that would mean going out the weekend before or after. The weekend before consisted of me going to dinner and passing out before midnight after sushi, a beer, and a glass of wine. The weekend after is now... and I am currently sitting on my couch in sweatpants, no bra, and a UGA t-shirt I won at a raffle. Sexy, I know. Fortunately I've got my friend Bella Swan and the first Twilight movie to keep me entertained. Last night was even more wild: I watched a Say Yes to the Dress marathon before passing out and sleeping for 14 hours straight. Thug life.

I never knew how much working a 9-5 would change me, but it has shifted my weekend (and weekday) priorities completely. Sunday-Thursday I have to be in bed before 10 or else I get to work and fall asleep at my desk (this has happened more times than you would believe). Friday-Saturday I'm so beat from the week that I have no desire to go out, and what's great/terrible about it is that all of my friends feel the same way so they don't want to go out either.

Something's gotta give though--I don't want to wake up at 30 surrounded by cats and empty wine bottles, wishing I'd taken better advantage of my 20s. More importantly, how on earth am I supposed to meet my husband if I never go out?! Unless he's a Jehovah Witness or my maintenance man, I can't expect him to come to me. I need to put on my party panties and go out to explore Charlotte and meet new people, and I will... next weekend, of course.

Making Out with a Murderer

Note: This post is extremely long and for that I apologize.

Our last night in Vegas, my friend and I went to this all-white nightclub called Pure. (Note: "all-white" refers to the furniture and fixtures, not the people). We had a great time but the music started to take a turn for the techno so we left around 1:30. We went back to our hotel and made a last minute decision to stop by LAX again to get a few more dances in before tapping out for the night. While at the club, these two guys approached us. Their names? Freddy and Jason.

Yes, like the killers in the movies!! I am not making this up!

I hit it off with Freddy and my friend hit it off with Jason, both of whom were from New York. Freddy was cuter, but Jason was more my type (go figure. I hate myself and my standards). We danced and chatted with them for an hour or so, and I got the impression they wanted to leave with us and possibly come back to our rooms to "hang out". There was no way in hell I was going to hook up with this guy I'd just met, so I told my friend that I was going to head out while they were paying their bar tab to avoid the awkward "sorry, I don't want to sleep with you" convo that was inevitable. She told me that was rude, so I stuck around for awhile. They came back and Freddy asked me what we were doing afterwards. Instead of responding like a normal, mature human being and making it clear that I didn't want to hang out afterwards, I did the first thing that came to mind.

I sprinted out of the club.

I ran so fast that security thought I was trying to ditch my tab and followed me out of the club. Through her laughter, my friend told them I was fine and wasn't trying to drink-n-dash. She, Freddy, and Jason briskly walked through the hotel to catch up with me but they were no match. I made it onto the elevator when I heard Freddy yell "hold the door!" and this stupid broad who was in there with me held the door so the three of them could get on. The whole 12-floor ride up to our room Freddy asked me why I was trying to avoid them. Again, I did the first thing that came to mind.

I told him I was a "sweet Southern virgin" and that I didn't want to get his hopes up that something sexual would happen between us later. Half true; I'll let you guys decide which half.

Freddy Krueger and The Sweet Southern Virgin. Sounds like a children's book, no?

He was nice about it and actually ended up being a really cool guy. The four of us hung out in our hotel room, drinking and talking until about 5 a.m. Even though Freddy was "my" guy, my friend was definitely hitting it off with him more and I was hitting it off with Jason more. A little after 5, I passed out mid-conversation because I was exhausted.

Around 5:45, I woke up to a pitch black room and Freddy kissing me. I was irritated that he woke me up from my sleep but didn't really mind the kissing. His lips and hands started to drift but I quickly smacked them away (I'm a virgin, remember?) and then he asked if I wanted him to leave to which I responded yes. As I rolled over to go back to sleep, I looked over and saw my friend hooking up with Jason. I thought it was kind of odd that she was hooking up with him since she didn't seem that into him but didn't give it much thought.

The next morning my friend and I were lounging around, nursing hangovers and debating where to go for lunch. I made a comment about how I was surprised that she hooked up with Jason. This was the conversation that followed:

Her: I didn't hook up with Jason.
Me: WHO DID YOU HOOK UP WITH?!?! I saw a guy in your bed!!!
Her: Freddy!
Me: But Freddy was in my bed last night.
Her: No, Freddy was in my bed. Jason was in your bed.
Me: WHAAAAAAAT?!?!?!
Her: You didn't realize that was Jason?
Me: No!
Her: Yeah well after you went to sleep we discussed how Freddy and I were more compatible and you and Jason were more compatible, so we decided to switch.
Me: *blank stare*

It's been over 24 hours and I am still completely befuddled by the whole situation. What the hell, Vegas. What. The. Hell.

Chippy

A friend and I went to Las Vegas for the weekend for no actual reason except that we like to party and travel. We stayed at the Luxor, the big pyramid hotel that you see in movies and whatnot (fun fact: since the hotel walls are diagonal the elevator moves diagonally, which is fun when you're sober and scary as hell when you're not).

After going to the Lady Gaga concert (which was incredible, by the way) we went to this club in our hotel called LAX. It was absolutely insane in the best possible way. Great music, free entry, and most importantly, open bar for women from 10-12. We'd been there for about two hours when these two guys approached us. The taller, cuter one approached my friend and the shorter, harder-on-the-eyes one approached me. Shocker.

Anyone who knows me knows I am WAY too nice to guys who approach me. What can I say, I have a big heart. It takes a lot of courage to approach a sexy lady like myself so I feel bad turning guys down. I'll start being more selective in 2014. Maybe.

 

This picture has no relevance whatsoever and was actually taken on a different night than the night this blog is about, I just really like it.

This guy introduced himself to me as BJ and since I'm mature I immediately thought blow job and wondered if this was his way of asking me to give him one. The more I talked to him, though, the more I realized he'd probably never gotten a blowie in his life and definitely wasn't going to get one that night.

He first told me I was beautiful, naturally beautiful, because I didn't have on any make-up. I had on eyeliner, mascara, concealer, and lip gloss but I let it go. Next, he told me he loved my "naturally curly" hair. I'd spent 30 minutes straightening it before going out. Basically this kid was already 0-for-2 and continued to get worse from there.

He then told me I had a beautiful smile. I smiled in response...and then he said, "Wait. Do you have a chipped tooth?!" which caught me COMPLETELY off guard. (For those of you who don't know, I chipped my front tooth when I was 13 on a class trip to DC. A classmate named Colin was chasing me around our hotel and when he caught up with me he accidentally pushed my head into a glass window and my front tooth broke off in my hand. The moral of this story is chase guys, don't let them chase you. After the incident, one of my 8th grade teachers nicknamed me "Chippy", a nickname that I looooove and never got sick of*).

 

Relevant photo from the night.

Back to BJ. After I got over the shock of being asked about my tooth, I told him yeah, I'd chipped it awhile ago but had also gotten it fixed awhile ago too. He grinned wide and said, "Me too!!!! Look!" I pretended to see it and nodded politely, mustering up an "Oh wow!" and giving my friend "SAVE ME" eyes. Next, BJ told me I reminded him of his mother because I was genuine and naturally pretty (here we go again). He then pulled out his cell phone to show me pictures of his mother and told me she had breast cancer and that he was afraid of losing another parent because his dad died when he was younger.

Before you start to a) feel sorry for him and b) think I'm a bad person for exploiting him on this blog, keep it mind it was roughly 2 a.m. when this conversation took place and this club was packed. 'Twas not the time nor the place. I was sympathetic (well, as sympathetic as one can be with "Back That Ass Up" playing in the background) and even gave him my number. He asked me if I could send him a pic of me in my "Cruella deVille" dress to which I responded no.  His next question: are you on Instagram? Being the wonderful person that I am, I gave him my Instagram name and he followed me right then and there. Don't worry, I blocked him the next morning.

Last thing: when I saved his number in my phone I saved it as "BJ". He said, "Uhhh actually my name is Deron. People call me DJ for short though." Oops.


*This is a lie. That nickname still haunts me to this day.

I Need More Black Friends

I've attended predominantly white schools my entire life. My elementary and high schools were diverse but still had a majority population and my colleges were private and located in the South so... well, you know. As a result, I have a good amount of white friends. I probably have just as many, if not more, white friends as I do black. To be fair, I also have a lot of friends who are of other races (no Asians though--I'm slightly racist towards them for no good reason.)

Having white friends is awesome. Without them, I would have never been to a beach house, an open bar wedding, the inside of the KA house, etc. I also wouldn't know what polo was or just how comfortable Rainbows are. However, I need more black friends.

My white friends are great in the fact that they're always respectful of my skin tone, but sometimes they err on the side of caution to the extreme. For example, my suite mate junior year once said "Not to be racist, but can you use a blow dryer?" Nope, I air dry my hair while I'm out in the field picking cotton. The one I get over and over again though is: "Not to be racist, but can you get a sunburn?" The answer is YES. I got a terrible sunburn when I was 11 after hanging out poolside with my (white) friends for 8+ hours. The sun does not discriminate!

Also, these questions aren't racist. Asking me what Busta Rhymes was saying in that one song and to teach you how to dougie also aren't racist, just slightly annoying and stereotypical.

For many of my white friends I am their best and/or only black friend, so they think I know the answers to everything about my race, which simply isn't true. I don't know why black people love watermelon, hate mayonnaise, and are always associated with fried chicken. I don't know why there's no White History Month or White Entertainment Television. I don't know why Beyonce's hair always looks so good (actually I do know: weave). I don't know why black women are always so angry, but I would bet it has something to do with black men. Sheesh. That's a post for a different day, though. Hell, that could be an entire blog...

My "First" 5K

This weekend I successfully completed my first 5K. Technically I've done two 5Ks in the past but I was 12 for one of them and hungover for the other so this was my first one as an actual running (jogging) adult. Over the past couple of months I've been running 3-4 days a week both at the gym and outdoors so signing up for a 5K seemed like a logical thing to do, plus running with a goal in mind is so much better than just running for the heck of it.

The 5K was in Cowpens, South Carolina and was hosted by a local running organization. I really, really wanted to find a 5K that supported a cause I cared about because running is stupid and paying to run is even more stupid. If the money were going to a good cause I would feel much better about it. Unfortunately, my friend and I were unable to find a January race nearby that was cause-oriented, so we paid 20 bucks each to run for no real reason.

My three goals going into the race were: don't die, don't walk, and don't take more than 30 minutes to cross the finish line. Thanks to the man upstairs and the fact that a good third of the race was downhill, I completed all three goals. There was one point during the race that I thought I might have to walk, or worse, vomit, but I pushed through and thought about the wonderful shower and meal I was going to indulge in post-race. After I crossed the finish line I kept running--straight into a field of grass where I sprawled out gracefully and tried to catch my breath/slow my heart rate/stay alive.

I finished in 29:23; 44th out of the 115 women who participated and 129th out of the 245 total runners. Most importantly, I finished THIRD in my age group!!!! Not too flabby. (Excuse the pun).

A scene from my favorite movie, Forrest Gump. This is basically how the race was, with me in the front and everyone else trying to catch up with me. I didn't have on a hat, however. Or a beard.

Although I by no means consider myself a runner, it felt amazing to reach a running goal. I heard the other day that 90% of Americans can't run a mile and I survived running three in less than half an hour. I don't love running, but I do love the feeling of completing a run. I love getting faster and feeling stronger. I love pushing my body to see what my limits actually are. Most of all though, I love how my abs look like a Hershey bar post workout.

Sleepovers

Contrary to popular belief, I hate spending the night with men. I love sleep and sleeping by myself is one of my absolute favorite things to do. I can drool, get up to pee, and of course, hog the covers with no judgment when sleeping alone. When sleeping with someone else, however, I feel like I have to sleep like a robot on her period. No thanks.

I wish I looked this cute while sleeping. Sigh.

I have dermatographic urticaria, a skin disorder that causes hive-like breakouts. To combat this disorder and avoid being treated like a leper, I take allergy medicine every night. Since I don't carry allergy medicine with me, if I spend the night at a guy's place there is a 100% chance I will break out in hives at some point during the night. You guys can only imagine how embarrassing this is: being covered in welts while in the arms of a man, usually post-intercourse, trying hard not to scratch and even harder to convince him I don't have an STD.

Usually when this happens I scratch in silence or rummage through their cabinets in hopes of finding a shot of Benadryl. If that doesn't work I bring out the big guns: telling them I'm allergic to latex. Most guys take sympathy on me; others politely say "so maybe we just shouldn't use a condom this time". I'm covered in hives and you want to expose your bare penis to this?!?! Fair enough, let's do it.

Secondly, I am the strangest sleeper alive. I sleep like Superman: face down with my arms straight out in front of me and my toes hanging off of the bed. Spooning is nice, but I can't fall asleep 1. on my side or 2. with a dick on my back. I usually maintain the cuddle until the guy falls asleep, then I break the cuddle and head straight into Superman position.

This is exactly how I sleep. Cape included.

The last major issue I face with male sleepovers is the inability to wrap my hair before we fall asleep. If I don't wrap my hair at night or sleep on a satin pillowcase (I know, I know, I'm a diva) my hair loses a ton of moisture and I end up looking like a slave. It's bad: dry, unmanageable, and all over the place. That combined with the drool and the hives makes me the absolute least attractive person in the world to wake up next to. Unless of course we spend the night at my place, in which case I can control these extraneous variables and look fabulous as always.

Spanx and the City

Most people think I'm pretty put together. I did well in school, have a full-time job and seem sane so most people think I have my life in order.

Most people are fools.

I am a hot mess. New Years Eve was a perfect example of just how hot of a mess I am.

Monday, 6:00 p.m.
Arrive in Atlanta after making a last-minute decision to spend New Years there with my friends instead of in my apartment, alone, drinking champagne and crying.

Monday, 8:30 p.m.
Pregaming commences. I decide to be classy and drink Patron and Grey Goose.

Monday, 9:00 p.m.
I decide to be "classy" and not wear any underwear. Note: THIS WAS NOT MY FAULT. I was going to wear a Spanx but my friends told me I didn't need to (aww!) so I didn't. In my excitement about not needing a Spanx, I forgot to put on underwear. Whoops. The moral of this story is don't drink and dress.

Monday, 9:30 p.m.

Monday, 10:15 p.m.
Leave friend's apartment to go to club, bottle of wine in tow for the 25-minute ride there.

Monday, 10:40 p.m.
Arrive at club with full bladder. Since I don't have on underwear, peeing outside in the bushes is not only an option, it's the best option. I pee some on the bushes, mostly on my foot.

Monday, 10:50 p.m.
Enter club. Immediately find the stage and start dancing on it. Laugh when boys ask me to dance because 1. Usher is playing and I always dance solo to Usher and 2. I just peed on my foot and these boys have no idea.

Monday, 11:40 p.m.
Fall. Hard. Fortunately some nice guys help me up and place me back on the stage where I belong.

Tuesday, 12:00 a.m.
Happy New Year! Make out with the closest person to me, a guy who tells me his name is Marge. He looked like he was from a country that ends in -stan, but he spoke English. I think.

Tuesday, 1:00 a.m.
Get invited to VIP. Take several, several shots with some friends from high school and a white guy named Sanchez who may or may not have roofied me.

Tuesday, 2:30 a.m.
Leave club after an amazing night. Sleep in the backseat the whole way home. Arrive at friend's apartment; trip getting out of the car and land on my back with my feet still in the car. Seriously re-evaluate my life and my decision making skills.

Tuesday, 3:00 a.m.
Take off dress because the sequins are cutting into my skin. Get redressed in appropriate pajamas and go to sleep peacefully!

Tuesday, 3:00 a.m. (for real this time)
Take off dress because the sequins are cutting into my skin. Pass out naked on an air mattress. Friends cover me with a blanket and then proceed to play spades around my body.

Night = fantastic. Next 24 hours = not so much. I have 20+ cuts all over my arms and legs from violently taking off my dress. My booty is bruised from the fall. I have a lip-shaped bruise on my neck (how did that get there?!) Oh, and my hair currently looks like this: