I’m not a dumb girl. Quite intelligent, acutally. But there are so many things about this world that baffle me. I mean, I get it…this is a great big world that we’re not meant to fully comprehend. But, c’mon. Some things? Some things make me want to yell at people. Maybe it’s my lack of common sense; they say the book smarts create that see-saw effect after all, don’t they?

The thing is that I’m not talking about the obvious non-sensicals. Like why people listen to Eminem or why they wear socks with their Birkenstocks. I get it. Personal freedomk, yadda yadda yadda. What I’ve got is some monumental shit that very well may knock you off your axle for a mere moment. Brace yourselves (sure, grabbing your desk will do fine) and continue reading.

I’m bringing it to the proverbial table with the hopes that you can help me discern the existence of the following baffling phenomena. Thusly, here are my current top three, presented in glorious list format:

1. Why do men take so long to take a shit? Are they clogged up? Are they masturbating? Does it take a while to get things moving? Wouldn’t you rather spend that time doing something else? From my experience, I think it’s got something to do with an “alone time” that doesn’t equate to cranking one out. And, is it me or is it slightly disturbing to think that such alone time should take place not only in the bathroom, but while one is pantless and vulnerable.

2. When you’re dying your hair, there is a step that invariably–regardless of brand–appears toward the end of the process. Before you rinse all that gooped chemical from it’s neat pile on the top of your head, you’re supposed to add a little water and work into a lather. And then you rinse it. What the fuck is that supposed to do? Was the ammonia and other shit not effective enough? Pretending that you’re now simply using it as a potent shampoo product is going to trick it into, like, finishing it’s attack on your follicles or something? What?

3. Why do construction vehicles have gigantic, blaze-orange signs instructing everyone to its posterior that we should not follow it? I mean, we’re not retarded (well…most drivers aren’t) enough to follow a dump truck down a gravel road or some shit. Do they think that these trucks put people into trances or something? You don’t see us losing sight of what we’re doing and suddenly involved in a high speed chase because–oops!–we followed a state trooper, do you?

Just try to roll those over in your mouth a bit and see if the ceiling doesn’t cave in. Ok, maybe this really isn’t ceiling-caving material, but it bothers me, ok? It really, really bothers me.

Ok, so we’ve all done the online thing. And don’t lie and say you haven’t, because you know you’ve got that secret Match.com account…you know…just for browsing the pictures.

Now, while I don’t necessarily think it takes a rocket scientist to figure out the smart way of dating online, you should probably be relatively intelligent before you start up a website. Enter Online Dating Tips dot org. Oh, that’s right. Dot ORG. As in, it’s a philanthropic entity that’s here to make the world a better place. Sadly, there aren’t rocket scientists running this site, because after I wrapped my brain around the dot org thing, my eye spied a misspelling on the site’s major advertisement. Match.com is now Math.com…like sex candy for geeks who are into pi and shit.

So, we haven’t gotten off properly well, have we? But I keep reading…(I can try to be open minded at times)

I am compelled when I see the headline “Getting Started” and click on the first link: “Best Dating Websites” And while I won’t continue to nit-pick, there was yet another typo in the very first paragraph. But moving forward…They listed a bunch of sites that they claim are great. And after wondering momentarily why JDate wasn’t mentioned (I’ve heard of more marriages from that site than anywhere else) I finally saw something I liked. The philanthropists start talking about creating your online profile and suggest that the most important thing is honesty:

Also, there are many review and comparison sites out there, just like this one. Each of these online dating services has amazing features and hundreds of singles all looking for the same thing – a connection. Just remember that the key to developing a good, healthy relationship at any level is honesty. You want to present yourself as someone with integrity who is interested in learning about other people.

Halle-freaking-lujah. I mean, seriously, Online Dating Tips may be better off dedicating their entire site to just this aspect of online dating. If we could actually get people to start presenting themselves truthfully online, the world *would* be a better place and Online Dating Tips *would* qualify for it’s Dot Org status. I mean, the whole passing of oneself as a spring chicken to have irresponsible and carefree dialogue with people they’d normally never approach is, essentially, half of what’s wrong with the world today. Right, slightly dramatic, I know, but I’m sure you’re inclined to nod your head in agreement.

But I digress…this site slightly redeemed itself, but I wanted to find some juicy morsel that would either turn this into a glorious review of true Dot Org-ers (ogres?) or an abysmal trashing of some internets retards (a category in which I graciously fall from time to time).

Then…then, I found it…

There’s a section of the site that provides tips (duh) on how to flirt. Online style. Dear God. I’m not sure if I feel worse for the people that had to spell this shit out, or for those who actually need such spellings. It started with this chart:

…which I really can’t bring myself to discuss. No reply necessary? There’s just so much wrong there. I’m picturing old ladies hunting & pecking at their keyboards with little mischievous smiles. *shudder* But it gets better…

Another way to flirt is by hinting at something interesting without actually giving away too much information. Perhaps you could say something like, “After this last weekend, I had to buy a new pair of shoes.” Your comment leaves much to the imagination, drawing the person into the conversation and interested in learning what you did over the weekend that required the new shoes.

New shoes? Did you fucking piss yourself? Puke on them? Step in a massive mound of elephant shit? I mean, any of the plausible reasons for needing new shoes don’t sound too appealing to me…

I kind of had to stop there. Bottom line? If you need tips on dating online, you probably shouldn’t be dating, online or otherwise. And if you do seek such advice, try not to get it from an online source that’s just as apt as yourself.

*This shit was paid for, bitches. I make ‘em as entertaining as possible. Join in the fun by continuing the floggings in the comments section! I’ll even have a go on the dunk-tank plank!

I haven’t had one in ages, so I’m fully entitled. Happy Belated Green Day. I’m too hungover to even add an exclamation point. Yes, hungover. I write the day before, ok? Deal with it.

And tell me all about your St. Patrick’s Day, unless it involves anything that may make me nauseous. Fuck it. I’m gonna go watch Breakfast at Tiffany’s.

But before that, let’s play a little game that involves trying to boast about celebrities that you really can’t lay claim to knowing, but try to anyway. (Except Meme can’t play…she’s connected to like the whole Arquette family, it’s rumored. Don’t ask how.)

Anyone watch Brothers & Sisters? Well, I went to school with the young one, Dave Annable. And I just found out last night that he’s dating Kate Walsh from Grey’s Anatomy!

Basically, back in the day, he was fully in our circle of friends, when we thought he was cool enough. We even did this game show Pictionary thing for our college TV station. (And yes, I DID cheat!) Anyway, he joined the rugby team (!!??) then dropped out, and then randomly appeared in some goofy commercials a while back, making us all geek (remember the Starburst ad where the dude turns the wrapper into origami with his MOUTH!?)

Well, he’s even on Wikipedia now, and, like, I know him…and he’s, like, dating stars! (Plus there’s the age difference, but whatever…she looks young, right?) I’m really too hungover to think here, but what I really want to know is how this is all significant to ME. I mean, it is, right? There’s got to be money to be made…I do have those elementary school pictures…and stories from the college dorm room with that girl in the stairwell…or was it his closet?? You know what, I’m pretty sure it was both.

This is not a confession. I am not embarrassed.

However, I feel that I am obligated to disclose this to you all. This way, the next time we meet and have a conversation, you will have no right to offer such comments as, “Ummm…that was weird….”

The fact of the matter is that I’m the lyrics girl. It’s just what I do. I make no apologies. If you happen to say something that coincides directly or indirectly with the lyrics of a song, be it rock, rap, or freaking bluegrass, I will immediately sing those lyrics. For example,

Scene: Restaurant. Young, smokin’ couple perusing the lunch menu on a relaxing Sunday afternoon.

You: Man, I’m jonesin’ for a beer.
Me: [lovingly, motherly, perhaps] But you’re getting fat.
You: You’re not the boss of me!
Me: [singing] you’re not the boss of me, now! you’re not the boss of me, now, and you’re not so big!
You: Why would you do that? [looking at his partner with mild disgust and confusion]

My gut reaction is not to explain it, or restrict this behavior with a definition. But perhaps you have some questions? Well, the answer, invariably, is likely a solid yes.

Yes, I still sing if I can’t hit the notes.
Yes, I still sing if I’m with someone I hardly know.
Yes, I will type the lyrics if the conversation is happening online.

In fact, let’s just do this. Here’s my contract. Got a pen?

Upon willingly entering into conversation with me, you now know to expect this sudden, sometimes inconvenient and often inappropriate, outburst. You surrender the right to remark on said behavior in a derrogatory manner [see Example]. If any commentary must be made, it shall be along the lines of you’re-so-funny or I’m-laughing-with-you. After said interruption, the conversation shall continue as normal, and it shall be frowned upon to redirect the conversation to anything related to the song or lyrics that have just been sung. Any breach of these terms may result in foul language, silent treatment, and/or bodily injury.

It’s just part of the package, baby. You get it all. (Or nothing at all...)

PS. Automatic enrollment in Jenna’s cool club for anyone that can tell me the artist responsible for the lyrics in this post’s title (without Googling, you cheaters.)

Yep, I’m one of those that proclaims, every year–with glee!–my birthday. So that time has come again and you are all here to suffer through it. It’s officially my birthday week (screw the just-one-day philosophy).

The thing of it is that there are so many of you out there that couldn’t give two craps about your own personal birthdays, and maybe even that of others. And I’m here to say that I totally don’t get you. Me? Yeah, I get me. But you? Not so much.

The way I see it is that your birthday (week) is the one time of the year when you have every reason to be in a good mood. I’ll lay it out there right now that I totally don’t buy into the whole “but I’m getting OLDER!” crap. Old schmold. You’re as old as you feel, always. I mean, unless you’re rapidly approaching life expectancy, you have no reason to fear aging unless you’re completely vain.*

But back to the good mood thing…

Your birthday (week) means at least all of the following:

1. People are guaranteed to be nice to you (if you tell them it’s your b-day, hence my annual proclamations). And these niceties can include getting out of work & obligations, massages, verbal compliments, sexual favors, entertainment, flowers, and sometimes kittens.

2. You can eat cake and not feel like a fat ass. Well, unless you are actually a fat ass. But in that case, you still get to eat cake. And cake is fucking delicious. Especially if it’s pink. Or RED VELVET!

3. Presents! C’mon. Even if you’re the hippiest of hippies and have completely disavowed yourself from commerical, capitalist society, you appreciate the occasional friendship bracelet, don’t you? And even if people don’t get you something, they’ll probably feel guilty about it, which you can fully work to your advantage. And that’s not even getting into what you can do when they forget the day completely.

4. Alcohol. For free. Does that need further explanation?

All that being said, I’ll wrap things up here with a reminder…it’s my BIRTHDAY WEEK. Please commence any of the aforementioned pleasantries, as I will be sure to do the same when your time-of-the-year rolls around. If I remember, that is.

*Someone please shove this in my face when I turn 30 in a few years and start to do the whole I’m 29 AGAIN! thing.

I’m a forward-thinker. If I’m not happy with something, sure I bitch and moan a tad, but generally don’t dwell there. It’s all about exacting change, people. And recently, I came to terms with something very near and dear to my heart: the great state of New York. That’s right. You see, I love my great state, but, sadly, some very real and major flaws have planted themselves upon her visage like a splattering of damn leeches.

So, here, allow me to bitch and moan a bit, but–simultaneously!–offer my cures (or, some may call them opinions, or mere suggestions).

Shall we? In list form, of course, here are my top three:

New York would be the most perfect place on the planet if we could just make the following cuts…(in no particular order.)

1. Eliminate New York, the city, that is. Unfortunately, this urban sprawl shit is really kicking my real-estate-shopping ass. Especially after 9/11, the prices of houses in my area have nearly doubled. Talk about b-a-n-a-n-a-s. (Whoa. Never realized how difficult it is to spell a word when you need to place hyphens between each letter…try it!) I just think the trade-off of world culture and all that jazz would be worth it for my finances.

NYC has also perpetuated the silly (using restraint there) notion that anything above it shall be deemed “UPSTATE.” Which means that the ENTIRE STATE is UP from ITSELF. Yeah. Ponder that one and get back to me.

2. Abolish all winter morons. I love having seasons. It’s one of the top reasons I love where I live other than it’s proximity to the Hudson, major military bases, and that place I just suggested we axe. (From hereon in to be referred to as, my ass) Unfortunately, other people find this region attractive and they move here from southerly locales. When the snow comes, and they have to drive a car around in it, they do all of the following:

3. Murder, imprison, or otherwise destroy all persons with airs of entitlement. I’m not sure exactly what’s going on, but there is an epidemic here, and I’m beginning to conceed that it is “a New Yorker thing.” Or (hopefully) maybe it’s just bad parenting. If that’s the case, then I’d like to do away with all parents. Yes, all of them. I’m all for throwing the baby out with the bathwater if it’s going to mean I don’t have to deal with snobbing teens driving sporty cars, wearing to much makeup and hair product, flipping me off for not getting out of THEIR way. Because, I’m sure, they have somewhere very important to be. Some place where they must be doing excessively important things. For, like, important people. And, why, just today? I witnessed a couple of kids driving said car, appearing with said forms of excess upon their bodies, sitting at a red light. And you know what the girl in the passenger seat did? She littered. Guess what she tossed out the window? A key. That’s right. A KEY. Who litters a damn KEY?!

*Deep breath*

So, what do you think? I’m gonna go ahead and Carbon Copy Senator Clinton on this. She’s probably looking for a good cause to launch her ahead of Obama. I think this would be just the ticket.

Are you feeling the strain of a relationship that’s tweaked to the max? Or maybe you need help deciphering signals from your companion to assess your tension level. Whatever the case may be, here are some handy translations for you and your (soon-to-be-ex) companion! From your smart-ass friends here at Girlspoke…always here to help…find examples of phrases recently uttered from the mouth of the beast and get their accurate translations:

Better half says: I’m going for a drive

He/She really means:

Basically, I’d rather do all of the following (happily!) than be in the presence of you:

1. Pay about 58 cents a minute, just to drive around aimlessly in my inefficient SUV that likely has an oil leak.

2. Possibly participate in the funding of terrorists. (Everything’s connected these days!)

3. Flip off Al Gore and the ozone layer.

4. Enter into the arena where my odds of death are about 1 in 15,000. Yeah, I’ll take that bet, sir.

5. End up at a seedy bar surrounded by peanut shells and stale alcoholics that likely started their pathetic journies when they left the house “for a drive” about 15 years ago.

Better half says: Do you think you could start [enter suggested behavior modification here]?

He/She really means:

I’m now realizing that you’re not the person of my dreams. However, I’ve invested too much time into this gig, so I’ll commence my transformation of you at this point. I’ve been putting up with your hairballs in the shower for like a fucking year, and it’s so damn gross that I can no longer stand the sound of you breathing. So, yeah, if you could work on that, it’d be great! Mwah!

Better half says: What?!

He/She really means:

Well, this isn’t one of your run-of-the-mill inquisitions. This what is a loaded question, and you could hear it the moment it was uttered. In fact, maybe you heard it for several moments, as this what seems to take on several sylables. And these sylables are all pointing the finger at you. In fact, this what is more of an accusation for being the stupid, worthless, unmotivated, unorganized, waste of space that let him/herself go months ago, isn’t it? In fact, your mate is essentially telling you to shut the fuck up, and fast, because if there weren’t that glimmer of hope remaining in your puffy eyes, your sense-lacking ass would have been dropped weeks ago.

Better half says: We could really use a vacation.

He/She really means:

I’ve kind of forgotten why I like you. Maybe some time in a tropical location may trigger this back to memory. That, or lots of rum. Or maybe seeing other people in bathing suits. Either way I figure I’ll know if you’re worth keeping around. It’s worth the several grand just to put this one to bed.

Better half says: You know what….just!….forget it!

He/She really means:

Fuck you!

This is a good sign though, because the restraint is still present. In fact, none of these red flags should worry you too much. Nothing’s a done deal just yet. But maybe you want to firm up those thighs before your judgement-day vacation, eh? At the very least, always remember: it’s ok to cry, as long as you end up laughing. (Or fucking.)

Ah, the boob job. What’s left to be said, right? Well, I was reading some commentary over at MyBodyPart.com and I had to lay down some of my own thoughts. I’ll try not to sound mundane.

The site is clearly pro-boob job, and basically pro-cosmetic surgery. But before I get into that, let me make my own stance clear.

I love me a perky set of titties.

There. I said it. I mean, I know I’m supposed to hate the notion of plastic surgery and all the unrealistic expectations it sets and bludgeoning blows to esteems it hands out. But the truth is that I think some superficial enhancements may just do some bodies good. According to this site, the number of surgeries has been steadily increasing in our nation. Therein lies the debate. Are we seeing more surgeries because our young girls are feeling overwhelmed by pressure to look like Anna Nicole (may she rest in luxurious peace)? Or do you think it’s because women are feeling more empowered and are scoffing at the stereotypes that overshadow the saline sacs? Maybe it’s both. I’m certainly no scientist, and many around here would suggest I’m closer to an asshole or even Satan, perhaps, than I am a philosopher. But MyBodyPart.com kind of sums it up best, here:

Breast augmentation surgery is an effective way for people to obtain a fresh perspective on life. An unattractive chest can be a mental drain for a person and after obtaining this treatment, many patients are surprised to see how a procedure designed to create changes on their physical bodies has also rejuvenated them mentally and emotionally. If you view breast augmentation as the cure all for all of your problems, you will probably be disappointed with the results. However, if you understand that breast augmentation is a treatment that will only enhance your attractiveness, then this could be one of the best things you can do for your life.

You want to get more ass? Fit into those hot halter tops? Stop playing lift-em-up in the mirror every time you take a shower? Then get a new set. Or maybe you’re suffering from the sag after years of breast feeding or intense jogging without the help of a sturdy support bra. This gig is for you.

But maybe you prefer yourself au natural. If that’s the case, send a big flipped bird in the direction of anyone who may make you feel self-conscious. Fuck plastics.

The thing to remember here is that everyone does things for their own reasons. Who are we to judge an 18 year old that gets implants because of a birth defect? Or even the Beverly Hills blonde who wants to keep her marriage firey hot? Same for the flat-chested that couldn’t be more in love with their just-a-handful.

So, kind of like prostitution, I think boob jobs are a victimless crime. Wait…did I say that out loud? If you want a biased, but not in-your-face obnoxious pro-surgery pep-talk, head over to MyBodyPart.com. (Please don’t tell them I compared them to hookers.)

*_{As a matter of disclosure, this was a paid for sponsored post, but didn’t we make it fun?!! Now Jenna can buy herself some decent fucking bras for her kickass knockers. -Meme}

I am. Very. Easily amused, that is. And, aside from Kurt Cobain wanting to be like me, I have found that this is more of a character flaw than cutesy quirk. But I think the problem is in my actual laughter, not just the fact that I’m laughing. Which of course, leaves me completely confused and slightly paranoid. I mean, do I have one of those laughs?

Case in point: sitting on the couch with the manfriend and an Aflac commercial comes on the TV. And, sure…I’ve seen the damn thing like fifty times. But I still fucking laugh, ok? Man-friend’s reaction? Snide commentary (”it wasn’t that funny.”) and perhaps a rolling of the eyeballs. Evidently, I have demonstrated my simplicity and he is thusly annoyed. But, does it mean nothing that I even resisted the urge to recite the lines along with the duck? AFLAC! Personally, I think that deserves some credit. I mean, the commercial is intended to be funny. It’s a successful marketing ploy. I am reacting in the manner the ad-gods have intended, but I’m the freak?!

Another example? At a minature lecture in college, the professor was going on and on about Hawthorne. I’m not exactly sure what the topic was, but at some point, he compared a character to a couple of kids “playing poker in the back seat.” Get it?! Poker? POKE-HER? Fucking brilliant pun! And this was coming from a white-bread, JCrew-adorned Minnesotan who typically walked aroud campus with his right hand neatly folded into his suit jacket pocket. Am I to understand that he didn’t want us to catch his ha-ha? Because, when I laughed–out loud, I recieved at least three glares from fellow attendees. It was all over their faces…what’s wrong with you?

But here’s what I do know: I don’t have a cackle. I don’t have a nasal laugh. I’m not stupid; my laughter does not come from a lack of knowing what the hell anyone is talking about. I have superb taste in basically everything, including humor.

So then what is it? What is the world, or at least my man-friend, trying to tell me? That my laugh is obnoxious? Too loud? Does it last a bit too long? I mean, FUCKING LEVEL WITH ME! Because the irony is simply overwhelming. And guess what? I want to crack up about it a little bit. Clearly I’ve won the battle of logic, but what fun is amusement if the joke is on you?

(But seriously, how funny is that fucking duck!?)

UPDATE: Click here to listen to me laughing lots…(and talking dirty, by chance.) Now, you can really level with me. How’s my laugh??

I haven’t been getting much sleep here lately, guys. And by “much”, I mean, no more than four hours a night. I’ll admit, at first, it was kind of cool. It was like, wow, I’m so hardcore that I can treat sleep like the plague and still rage my way through the day and evening. I mean, I might as well be a damn rockstar, if we’re being honest here.

But that was in the beginning, when everything was fresh and new, and I was young and beautiful. Now? Now I’m no longer boasting rockstar status and have slipped into the mid-life paranoia habit of Web MD-ing all my ailments, invariably pinning them all on my lack of sleep. I mean, we’ve all had rough patches, whether they may be from stress, whiskey, or unfortunately long-lasting lovers. But I honestly see no repreive in sight, guys. And, believe it or not, I kind of want to cry a little. Ok, maybe I already have. It’s ok though, I have plastic wrap over my keyboard now.

But anyway, I’m convinced that this lack of sleep must be what shady officials like Jack Bauer do to all their criminal hostages in dark confinement cells. The sad thing is that I’m not on TV, nor am I a real-life detainee. Well, that last one is probably a good thing, but I’m not sure…my judgement is going.

So, let’s look at some of the side effects, shall we? (courtesy of the infamous Wikipedia, naturally.)

Well of course I’m fucking irritable, numbnuts. Did you read the introduction? FOUR HOURS.

Waht?

This isn’t the first time I’ve been taken for a drunk, people…

I thought that was my shiteous haircut.

Well, that’s a charming one, isn’t it? Pardon me, I’m just generally confused. No, no, not stupid, just generally confused.

Oh, lord…here’s a good one:

I prefer to be called ashy, thanks. Pasty makes me want to revert to kindergarten and eat some glue.

Seriously? This is a symptom? Like, it needs to be listed?

…and that’s my cue. Fucking Wikipedia.

Anyway, I guess I’m not going to die from this lack of sleep thing. But Wiki did back me up on the interrogation-tactic thing. I guess my fate is to be a less glamorous, non-paid, glue-eating freak show of misfiring synapses. At least Abe Lincoln knows what I’m talking about.