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I was tagged to write 10 things I like about myself. Apparently this is an exercise in positive thinking so I shouldn’t feel bad about tooting my own horn. So here we go…

1. I’m a loyal friend. I was never one of those girls who ditched her friends for her boyfriend. I always felt that female friendships are something to cherish and not take for granted. If my friends need me, I’m there. You may really love your significant other, but only a true girlfriend will tell you if your makeup looks slutty, your hair is frizzy or you shoes don’t go with your outfit. They are also the ones who understand lady parts because they have them. Who wants to screw up a relationship with someone who gets your period woes? Not me!

2. I’m a good writer. While I used to consider writing as just a hobby, it ended up becoming my major in college (journalism), propelling me head first into a job (publicist), introducing me to the world of blogging (hi!) and convincing someone to pay me to write about girly things (here! look!). I’ve also been published and have recently had some pretty cool people take notice of what I write. Not too bad for doing something you enjoy.

3. I love fiercely. I would put my life on the line for the people I hold closest to my heart. Yes, I am a sap–oozing girly, lovey, annoyingness all over the place–but it goes beyond that. Sometimes I look at Michael and my heart surges with love and it takes all I have not to grab him and spin him around in circles because weeeee! love! Especially since it’s often in public and then I would just look crazy.

4. I’m emotional. Now yes, this could be considered a negative thing, but I think it just means I care. I love hard (see above), but I also hurt hard. I cry at movies (and, cough, commercials), I hurt when my friends and family hurt. And when I get mad, I get mad. Maybe it’s my New York blood, but you don’t want to cross me. I also have very limited patience, but I guess that’s more for the 10 things about me you don’t want to find out about.

5. I’m a discount diva. I love to shop as much as the next girl, but I’m slightly frugal. No, not cheap. Frugal. Because of this, I have developed a knack for hunting down fabulous clothes and shoes for even more fabulous prices. Sure, it takes committing some serious time to digging through racks, but it’s worth it. French Connection tops, Kate Spade shoes, Juicy Couture sweaters…all for waaaay less than you paid. Haha, suckers.

6. I’m musically inclined. I started dancing when I was three, piano at five and violin at nine. I got rhythm, baby. I was one of the best in my dance school and rocked my piano recitals. I was pretty good at the violin too, but piano is my real love. Since moving away from home I haven’t had a piano at my disposal and I miss it a lot. Once we have a bigger house I’m buying one and playing it all the time.

7. The goods. What do I like about myself physically? My mouth is full and a color “women try to replicate with lipstick”, as my mom would say. My hair is shiny, my breasts are perky and I have fantastic eyebrows. In addition…

8. I have a great smile. Perfectly straight teeth (no braces!) and a big mouth make a winning grin. I always won the Best Smile awards in elementary school and summer camp. I’ve even had complete strangers stop me and tell me how nice it is.

9. I’m thoughtful. I like doing things that will make other people happy. When my friend started student teaching I sent her an unexpected card detailing how great she was going to be. She called me so happy because she had just gotten through a rough first week and had come home to my card. I dig through the shelves at the grocery store to find the yogurt covered raisins Michael likes and I sometimes bring my boss in a treat from Starbucks. It’s the little things that mean the most and I like to give that to people.

10. I have great shoes. I don’t have to say too much about this because, yeah, you know. I love everything about them–from searching through the store, trying them on, purchasing them and wearing them around. I get a weird sense of pride whenever someone looks at the rows and rows of shoe racks and tells me how great they are.

So, now that I’m done talking myself up…I tag ClinkMike, Anna and Sass.

I got Ma’med.

As I was signing the receipt for my turkey wrap, a boy on the other side of the counter asked, “do you want to try this peanut butter fudge, Ma’m?”

When nobody answered him I looked up to see him staring at me expectantly.

“Did you just call me Ma’m?” I asked him.

He stared at me dumbfounded; fidgeting with his “Ben” name tag as the girl next to him snickered.

“Um…yes?” he replied.

“I’m only 24! Do I seriously look like a Ma’m?”

“Well, I’m only 20,” he said smugly. “So, you’re older than me.”


While waiting in the reception area of my doctor’s office this morning, my attention turned to a girl who was standing at the desk. This girl, who was only 20 years old (I know because I heard her give her date of birth) was wearing the tiniest denim skirt I had ever seen on a human being. Not only was it tiny…she was, well…NOT. The denim was stretched tighter than Joan River’s face and because it was so small, it was creeping upwards.

I saw more crack than anyone should ever have to see before 10 a.m. Or ever, actually. Tiny skirt and no underwear? Why?!

The site of this girl made me remember back to my senior year of college, the first day of Greek Week.

The opening ceremony of Greek Week is a true Greek system spectacle. Girls serving as representatives of each house dress up in handkerchiefs and call them togas, guys strut around shirtless and push the squealing girls around in homemade chariots. Everyone is drunk by 9 a.m. After the chariot race, fun and silly events take place like tricycle and bouncy ball races.

Those of us who weren’t participating in the race sat down on the sidewalk to watch. Across the street from us was a group of girls in their togas, barely lucid and stumbling all over the place. As we watched one particular girl fall out of her high heels, a gust of wind blew, tossing the skirt of her toga napkin into the air.

“Oh…my…God,” said a voice behind me. I turned to see what the person was looking at. As the wind blew and the fabric lifted up over and over again, there is was.

Her vagina.

In her drunken haze (or maybe on purpose), this girl went out in public wearing nothing more than a dishtowel. And showed the entire Greek system her vagina.

Over and over again.

Wind blows…


Wind blows…


It was like a train wreck. The entire side of the street could not look away. Because not only was her sad little vagina flapping in the breeze, it was bald and tan. People, vaginas should NOT be tan.

But the best (or worst, depending on how you look at it) part? She tried to participate in the bouncy ball race. As she struggled to balance on the ball the referee said, “Um…you can’t put your bare, um, you know on the ball…”

Too drunk to be embarrassed about it, she stumbled down the street with her friends.

I think the lesson for today is always wear underwear. Even if they’re boy shorts. Because nobody needs to see your vagina.

Whenever my coworker is out of the office she leaves me in possession of her Magic Eight Ball. Last time I had it was February. I shook it as hard as I could and asked the same question I always ask it, “Will Michael propose soon?”

My sources say yes.

I really wanted to believe it so I wrote down the date on a Post-It and stuck in my desk drawer.

The Eight Ball? Was wrong. I’m not sure what the Eight Ball considers to be soon, but it’s been five months since I asked it. Not quite my idea of soon.

Since aquiring it on Friday, I’ve asked the same question once every day. Each day has been a different answer.


– It is decidedly so.

– Outlook not so good.

This is usually the time I shake it again, because obviously the Magic Eight Ball is just tired and is therefore giving me the answer I do not want to hear wrong answer.

Since the Eight Ball is being stubborn, I decided to ask it some questions about my weekend instead.

Is it going to rain for the Blessing of the Fleet? It is decidedly so.

Will that stop us from going to the beer tent? Concentrate and ask again.

Will that stop us from going to the beer tent? Very doubtful.

Will I have fun at the party on Saturday? Yes.

Will I end up drinking one too many? You may rely on it.

But it will be worth it, right? Better not tell you now.

Ooooh, that tricky Eight Ball.

I just made you say Underwear.

Underwear, yes. Can we talk about that, please? Because I’m having a serious issue with mine today. I wore a dress, and instead of going the traditional thong route–as I usually do when wearing a dress made from jersey material–I decided to wear boy shorts.

I always have the highest hopes for boy shorts. In theory, they’re fantastic. They’re a comfortable alternative to a thong, promise no panty lines and don’t leave you picking something out of your crack all day.

That’s what they want you to believe. Yes, they.

These damn boy shorts have done nothing but ride up all day long. Yes, I have no VPLs (Visible Panty Lines), but I would sacrifice that for a floss-free afternoon.

So I ask you, my faithful friends and readers, for help. You haven’t steered me wrong before. Is there such a thing as a perfect boy short?

And if so, where can I find it?

Me: Yeah, you didn’t hear? Kanye’s new album is dropping the same day as Fitty’s. There’s like, mad drama over it.

Jen: Almost runs into parked car. Excuse me? What did you just say?

Me: What?

Jen: –silence–

Me: Oh, um. I mean, Kanye West’s new CD is coming out on the same day as Fifty Cent’s. Apparently there’s a lot of controversy over it…better?

Jen: Uh, yeah. What the hell was that?

Me: I don’t know…it sounded normal coming out of my mouth.

Jen: I think that’s the problem.

Me: I’m ghetto on the inside.

And everyone calls him Fitty. (Said under my breath.)

“Try not to feel too jealous, hunnie. Your time will come.”

The end of my dad’s voice mail hung in the air as I processed his information. Cousin. Got engaged. In Paris. Ooh la la.

I know I shouldn’t complain about this. My cousin is awesome, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t happy for her. I AM happy for her. I’m also more than slightly jealous of her. When I talked to her this morning she was completely giddy…gushing about her plans for a February wedding and still completely shocked at the recent turn of events. It was so pure and genuine, I was smiling as I read her words.

All this disappointment? It’s not fair to Michael. We had a wonderful weekend together. The kind of weekend that feels like it was created just for us. The kind of weekend–as cheesy as it sounds–that made me catch my breath, take his face in my hands and say “I just love you SO MUCH!” Because if I didn’t say it, it was going to burst out of the top of my head and fly all over the living room.

This weekend we talked about our five year plan. About what the future holds for us. At the top of his list was Get Married. It’s at the top of mine, too.

I know it’s coming. I can see it in his eyes when he kisses me. I can feel it when he brushes the hair off my face, wakes me up from a nap with a kiss, or lets me be the little spoon.

I want to be his little spoon for the rest of my life.

I’m ready.

I always find it really amusing to see what people Googled to get to my blog. I still get multiple searches for variations on the word “boobs”. In the last seven days there’s been some good ones, and one pretty nasty one that I refuse to post here. I’m not sure how someone searching for information on sexual positions using the backdoor region ended up here, but GO AWAY.  Maybe Google has a sick sense of humor, because half the time the searches represent nothing I’ve ever written about.

People searching for these phrases visited These Little Moments this week:

I peed myself at age 15-I’m sorry to hear that. But question, why are you Googling it? To see if other people are, in fact, peeing themselves at 15?

Who makes ace bandages-Um…isn’t it…Ace?

“I peed myself” bathroom-OK, seriously. I’ve never peed myself! I cannot help you!

Busty Miss Molly-See? Told you. Every. Single. Day.

Big Hair Fanny-Like, big hair on their fanny? Because…ew.

Get doo-doo smells out of clothes-Wash it? Throw it away? Seek help for having clothes that smell like doo-doo?

“I like to lose weight”-Hey! Me too! OMG we should totally be friends weeeee!

Cleavage enhancing liquid filled bathing-bathing suit, I’m assuming. And hunnie, you do not want liquid-filled anything in your bathing suit. They will float when you get in the pool!

Butt and white pants-OK, this one I understand. I feel your pain!

What are people searching to get to your blog?

One of the hardest parts about graduating college was the inevidible day when all my friends moved away. Rhode Island attracts a lot of students from New York, New Jersey and Connecticut, or “Tri-Staters” as my friend and I would say. It was great to meet up with these people, to share a common understanding of what a hard roll actually is and laugh at how obviously it was the Rhode Islanders–not us–who had the funny accents.

The not-so-great part is that most of these Tri-Staters had no intentions of sticking around after graduation. So as I made the choice to stay in the Ocean State, my friends and roomates loaded up their cars and headed home.

As time passed, it got easier. I have some great friends who are local and still see the ones who moved away every so often. But now things are changing. And anyone who knows me will tell you, I don’t do well with change.

Ashley is packing up her stuff and moving to the northern part of the state. Now, I understand that this is not a HUGE deal. If nothing else, Rhode Island is small. I can get to her new apartment in a half hour. 40 minutes if I hit traffic. But, right now she lives 10 minutes away. And before that she lived three minutes down the road. And even with the knowledge that her job is walking distance from my house, I am still beginning to slightly panic that I will hardly see her.

Then there’s Elle…my other half from college. Come fall she will have moved to D.C. And while I couldn’t be happier for her, starting a new life in a new town with a great career, I can’t help but be sad. Because while we don’t see each other too often, if we missed each other too much, she was just a short car ride away.

This all brings me to last night. As I climbed in my friend’s car to head to dinner, she casually said “I want to talk about my thoughts on moving. But not till we get to dinner.”

My heart stopped. The mere fact that she didn’t want to talk about it until I was in a public place with a glass of wine in front of me made it perfectly clear: I’m losing her too.

While she hasn’t made any final decisions, it’s looking pretty good that by next year she will be on the opposite coast, an entire country separating us. I quietly sipped my wine–willing myself to drink slow–as she talked animatedly about her plans to fly out there this summer and see if it was right for her. When she asked me what I thought I had two options: try and convince her to stay (for purely selfish reasons) or tell her to go. So I said what I know was right.

“You should go. I’m sure you’re going to love it.”

I hoped my smile, which felt tight and forced, came across as genuine. While I want nothing but the best for her, I can’t help feeling that with her departure a lot will change.

I can’t help feeling like not only is everyone leaving, but they’re leaving me. I guess it’s part of life. When my friends from high school returned home after college, I stayed put. But it seems different now. With classes and weekly parties a thing of the past, it’s really hard to meet new people. Where does a 20-something meet new friends?

Actually–and this might sound really pathetic–the person I’ve started to become really close with lately, the person I am actually beginning to think of as a friend…I’ve never actually met. Apparently blogging is the new online dating. Just for friends.

24, blonde hair, brown eyes. Loves martinis, shoes, bad TV and good pizza.

Any takers?

Since I’m now a public access television star, I’ve had to go into hiding to avoid being crushed my all my fans. Because of this, I have nothing of real interest to tell you about today. Being famous is so stressful.

Alright, fine. I really have nothing to tell you because I’ve been doing that crazy thing called work all day. So, instead of a story, you get shoes! BAD shoes. Just as a heads up, last time I did this one of my readers actually owned a pair that I was dogging. (Sorry, DE!) I apologize in advance if your feet are currently adorned with the monstrosities I’m about to make fun of. And if they are, maybe we need to go shoe shopping together.

It reminds me of those plastic bags from the grocery store you put your produce in. Only it’s the one you filled with cherries that you accidentally sat on in the car.


If penguins ever go extinct, we’ll know why. It even looks like it has an eye! The shoe is staring at you!


I think I’d rather strangle myself with the strap than wear it on my foot. Especially since it seems to be made from electrical tape.


Sticking with the produce theme, here’s a perfect way to get your daily requirement of potassium.


A reader submission courtesy of La. A nice autumn leaf attached to your foot by shriveled, dried out grass.


This shoe is called “Memories”. Memories of what, exactly? Of the day you were tied to the stake for exposing your big toe through the hole in your shoe? Wench!


I just have to come right out and say it. Ever seen a Silver Bullet? Just stretch it out a little further. This shoe looks like a vibrator. Yes it does, yes it does, yes it does!


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