I don’t want you to be a homebody who just blogs, makes jewelry, bakes and reads all the time.

At first, I wanted to be really angry. How many times have I tried to explain that I need my “me” time, my time to myself, time to recharge after a long day interacting with a thousand people? I felt like he was saying, “Honey, you’re a loser, and you need to get a life.”

(I wish I knew how to turn off that auto-defensiveness that comes with each bit of criticism or advice that comes my way, especially when it’s from the person whose motivation is never, ever ill-intentioned.)

But the more I think about that conversation, the more I realize: he’s right. He talked about how he feels like I don’t really hang out with any girls my age, except for when we have big game nights with a bunch of couples. He doesn’t want me to fall into being an old married lady just yet; I’m young, I’m adventurous, and most of all: I’m a GIRL. And girls need girl friends, no matter how wonderful their husbands are.

He’s right.

And as much as I’ve come to feel like you, my blogging pals, are just as good as any close girl friend I’ve ever had (and sometimes, better), I really do need to make a better effort to connect with people who live in the same city as me. I need girlfriends to drink Cosmos with, to see chick flicks with, to talk about how boys are gross and sweaty with, and to sometimes turn to for advice or comfort. And Nora? Cari? Kyla? Emily? Nilsa? Mandy? You don’t even KNOW how badly I wish those girls could be you!

But it’s time to man — er, woman? — up and start putting myself out there. I’ve got to make some genuine friends (who live within 20 minutes of me) because I really AM turning into a homebody. And that’s not to say that beading, blogging, reading and baking are in any way bad or lame or anything…cuz um, hi! They’re some of my absolute favorite things to do, and I’m not about to stop doing them. Still, I need a better balance. I need to get out of the house for more than just work, the grocery store and the gym. I need a social life.

Maybe you remember way back when Joe set me up on a girl date? And maybe you’re thinking, “What happened to those two new girlfriends?” Well, we’re still acquainted, but for one reason or another, we’ve never managed to get together again since then. And that’s okay, because not every girl I meet is necessarily “compatible” with me, ya know?

There’s still one little problem, though. Think you can guess what it is?

Yeah. I’m TERRIFIED! What if I reach out to a girl at the gym who seems cool, and she’s all, “Um, eww. Your mousy hair is, like, seriously cramping my style. Could you move over a couple of treadmills?” Or picture this: I’m walking through the grocery store, piling stuff into my cart (peanut butter, pickles, rainbow chip frosting — you know, the usual — not to eat together, of course, but she doesn’t know that), and another 20-something girl goes for the same tub of frosting. Our hands touch. We both chuckle awkwardly. And I say, “Wanna come over and watch Titanic and bake rainbow chip cupcakes and braid each other’s hair?” And then she goes, “Oh, I thought this was spackle. I threw my Donna Karan boot at my boyfriend and it left a hole in the wall. But anyway, I don’t eat frosting. Actually, I don’t eat at all. Can you tell me where I can find spackle?”

Okay, so I’m kind of making fun of all those hair-flipping, 400-dollar-jeans-wearing Santa Barbara girls, which does not bode well for actually becoming friends with any of them, especially if I told them about my blog and they read this post, right? But all joking aside, I really am uncharacteristically afraid to try to make friends, and I think it’s because in the past, I’ve always been kind of thrust into situations where I’m in a room full of girls who are all feeling exactly the same way, so the chances of finding at least one other person that relates with you and thinks you’re pretty cool are a lot higher. Basically, I haven’t tried to make any real friends since college.

So basically, I’m a huge loser, and I have no idea how to make friends without being creepy or awkward. Which obviously explains my current pattern of blogging, beading, reading, baking, lather.rinse.repeat. My life is entirely too thrilling. Really.

So…help?

I have to preface this by confessing that I suck at being brief. Which you will soon discover, if you make it through this whole video. My first take was 15 minutes long, and since I don’t have any video editing programs, I had to retry it.

My second take?

Still ten minutes long. Sorry, pals. I won’t hold it against you if you don’t watch the whole thing. The good news is that the MOST embarrassing part is toward the beginning (where I sing).

And also: I do this weird “tsk” thing a lot. How did I never know that? I’m sorry for my strange little ticks and noises and incoherent speech (and also all the strange clapping). Oh, and for the little bit of hair that is sticking out on the left (your left) side of my head. Awwwwkward.

OH. Annnnnd, the video ends very abruptly, because Youtube cut it off at 9:12, which makes me really sad. But it took literally ALL night to upload, so I am not about to try it again. Therefore, I owe Cari a mini-vlog where I recite her requested Romanian phrase, since that was basically the last thing I was saying that was of any importance, right when the Youtube gods decided that I needed to be done.

Without further ado: the vlog. Stay tuned afterward for a much shorter, cool supplementary video.

Okay — here, to help me fulfill Helly’s request for a Romanian drinking song, is a random video I found of just that. Sorry I couldn’t be the one singing!

***

So, what’s the verdict? Am I awkward or what?

If I ever decided to embarrass myself do another vlog post, what kind of things would you like to see?

***

What would it take to talk YOU into doing your own little vlog?

____________

(Pssst…Don’t forget to enter my fabulous giveaway by midnight on February 1st! And tell all your friends.)

So, you’ve all seen the trashy billboards for stuff like “Exposed!” or “Hott Girls in Your Area!” right? Well, there’s this one in Joe’s parents’ city, which we seem to end up driving past almost every time we’re visiting them. It’s got a photo of a white girl with tons of makeup on, her boobs squished up so they look as enormous as possible, and penciled-on eyebrows that look something like this:

…only WORSE. More jagged, a lot thicker, and way darker than the color of her bleached-orange hair. And the girl’s expression is not inviting, or even the least bit coy. She looks downright pissed off.

So, whenever we pass by it, I always end up staring at this billboard thinking, WHO finds that look sexy?!

Enter Joe. One day, he catches me staring at the billboard while we’re at a stop light, and he says jokingly, “Are you considering a career change, honey?”

And with a completely straight face, I reply, “I don’t have the eyebrows for that kind of job.”

Perplexed, Joe just sits there looking at me, waiting for an explanation. So I said…

“And by eyebrows, I mean boobs.”

Joe busts up laughing at me, his hilariously witty wife, while I’m thinking, I really did mean eyebrows…but then again, the boob thing is true too.

Yep, I’m a keeper.

***

Anyone else baffled by the kinds of “poster girls” they use for their Gentlemen’s Club-type ads?

(Another note: TMI Thursday is brought to you by LiLu, and if you click here you can read a bunch more of her very own stories, but be warned: if you thought my paptastrophe edition was bad…you ain’t seen nothin’ until you read HER stuff.)

Months and months ago when Joe and I first got engaged, I remember having a phone conversation with my mom during which she told me some really awkward yet completely applicable information about when she was a newlywed.

I won’t divulge any of that information (both for her sake and my own), except for the point in the conversation when she paused and said, “But on a more serious note: Always remember to go pee right after having sex. ALWAYS. Trust me.”

I asked her why and she mentioned something about infections and grossness and just-trust-me-okay, and I swore I would follow her advice.

Then I told Joe this post-sexy-time tip and he made kind of an icky face as if to say, “What a way to kill the mood; ‘Honey, that was really special, but I gotta go pee now so I won’t get all infected and stuff.’”

Thus, I was torn. Or more accurately, my mother’s advice was quickly negated by my fiance’s distaste of its mood-killing aroma. (Little did he know what a REAL mood-killing aroma smelled like… #foreshadowing!)

So, we got married. And I think for the first month or so, I did end up going pee shortly after sex most of the time, but it was mainly because I needed to, yanno? But in the last several weeks, for whatever reason, the needing-to-pee had not really come up after we did the deed, and I hadn’t thought to deliberately make it happen.

I’m sure you can see where this is going.

…No?

Okay, you asked for it.

About a week and a half ago, I started noticing that my pee smelled really nasty. Like, picture the worst-smelling baby poo you’ve ever been unfortunate enough to witness, add in some extract of asparagus, and finish it off with a pinch of STINK BUG. It’s that gross. I was pretty irked by this new aroma, but I went about my business and just made it a point to get extra-especially clean (not that I wasn’t before, just that it was even MORE intentional now) and hoped the stink would unstink itself.

But then last week, it happened.

I went pee and right as the last few drops dripped into the toilet, I experienced a wave of indescribable pain that was…well, indescribably BAD. It felt a little bit like it does when I’ve been drinking water all day but don’t remember to go pee until my bladder is waaaayyyyy too full, only WORSE. Exponentially worse, people.

I thought my bladder was trying to squeeze through my pee-hole while simultanously my pee-hole was being stabbed repeatedly with an ice pick. Ouch.

So that was disconcerting. (Also made sexy-time sound not so sexy there for a few days…on top of the aforementioned mood-killing aroma.) But even after a couple of days of this excruciating pee-pain, I didn’t think back to my mother’s advice.

UNTIL…

Until Saturday morning, when I went through the whole smelly-pee-followed-by-immense-pain ordeal,  only this time as I went to wipe, I noticed a tiny bit of a reddish tint to my pee. Yep…I peed blood.

Then I started to worry. I WebMD’d my symptoms and discovered that HELLOOOOO? I have a urinary tract infection. (That, or a “foreign object in the vagina” or gonorrhea, of course…)

And THAT’S when I thought back to my mother’s advice those many months ago, and went, “Ohhh…now I get it. Also, OUCH.”

So, yeah. I went to the doctor on Monday and confirmed that it’s a bladder infection, got me some nasty-smelling (but not as nasty as my infected pee) antibiotics, and this thing should be gone before the weekend.

All told, I’ve learned a lot these last couple of weeks. Namely:

• Always take your mother’s advice (at least when it comes to your vagina)… Your husband, though well-intentioned, can’t exactly relate…

and also:

• Sex is sexier when your pee-hole smells pretty.

Oh, and one last little tidbit for your amusement: Last night, Joe and I were getting ready for bed (and by “bed” I mean “sexy time”) and since the sexy time has been a little sparse lately what with my infection and pain and OWW, Joe said, “Ohhh, so THIS is what those pills are for!”

And I said, “Yeah — to make my pee stop stinking so bad!”

And Joe said, “Uh…I meant the OTHER pills…but bwahahahaha!!” And there was much crack-up-age, and then we enjoyed some almost-completely-healed-from-bladder-infection sexy time. Yay!

But before I start this one, I should warn those of you named Mom, Dad, MIL or FIL, or basically anyone I’m related to…you might not want to read this. Or maybe you will find it hilarious and reminiscent of your first months as newlyweds?

I’m just saying: proceed at your own risk.

(It’s about sex.)

So last weekend Joe and I went down to his parents’ place because a friend/cousin of ours was having his 30th birthday party in the area. We’ve stayed at my in-laws’ house a million times, but this was only the second time we’d stayed there since they actually became my in-laws. And as a married couple, there is now this whole new aspect to staying there.

You know…the aspect of sleeping in the same room together, versus snuggling on the couch before parting ways and sleeping in our own rooms. Also the aspect of ooh-there-are-so-many-fun-places-we-could-DO-IT-here! I’m just being honest. The house, if you’ve never been there, has an AMAZING view of the San Fernando Valley. I hope you can see where this is going.

Except you TOTALLY can’t.

SO…

On Saturday morning, Joe’s parents left for a meeting that would last until about noon. And we all know that Parents Out of the House for a Specified (or Unspecified) Period of Time = Let’s Do It in the Living Room with the Awesome View!

…Right?

Anyone with me?

Well…Joe was. (Actually, it was his idea.) So anyway, here’s where it gets good (and incorporates the ever-clever title).

We’re on the couch, and we’re…you know…making whoopee and enjoying the view. That is, until one of Joe’s parents’ dogs, Spikey, came over by us and started whining. Poor guy looked so confused and distraught, and we just kind of giggled and brushed it off.

But THEN.

Well, then Spikey made it clear that he wanted some action, too. He trotted over to the little doggy bed, braced his front legs up on one side of it, and started HUMPING that thing like there was no tomorrow.

Talk.

About.

Awkward.

I won’t go into further detail, except to say that Spikey only did that for about 30 seconds, then he left the room (rather bummed-out-edly, I’d say) and let us get on with our business.

So, yeah. I guess next time maybe we should put a sock on the door to let Spikey know that he should wait in the other room? Tee hee hee…

P.S. To our parents — If you read this post all the way through and are shocked/offended/embarrassed/ashamed, Joe and I will just say, “Call it payback for the times when certain children might have heard (or seen) things that little children should NEVER hear or see certain parents doing. Booyah.”

(Oh, and a side (but very important) note: IT’S MY DADDY’S BIRTHDAY TODAY!! Happy 49th, Dad! I love you tons.)

***

Hi! I’m Lucy! Usually I just hide out in my dusty corner of the Internet, but Tabitha has kindly let me Guest Blog (even though I am ignorant and totally Googled ‘guest blog wha…huh?’ after she asked) so I am venturing! forth! Just for a minute. While we wait for wedding pictures, which is what we’re all REALLY wanting to see.

Tabitha said to blog about married life or motherhood or whatever. Married life and motherhood are both things that are a lot of fun, and I highly recommend them! They do, however, come much easier if you can laugh about them, and all that they entail.

I remember being pretty stressed out for a few days after our wedding, because
1.) I had to live with a boy
and
2.) I no longer had my amazing bridesmaids to take care of every last little bump in the road for me.

You know what snapped me out of it? When we checked into our cruise ship cabin and saw…

BUNK BEDS.

This was absolutely hilarious to us! We laughed and laughed and laughed, until I apparently became so weak with laughter that I had to lay my then-skinny (le sigh) behind down. All alone.

My in-laws had booked the cruise for us as a wedding gift, and while my wonderful MIL swears up and down that she didn’t INTENTIONALLY get us bunk beds for our honeymoon… I have my suspicions. After all, this is the woman who, upon accidentally renting a somewhat dubious movie for us all to watch, turned to her son (the father of her granddaughter!) during a particularly awful-to-watch-with-parents scene and earnestly assured him, “People don’t really Do That, honey.”

But yeah, my point or whatever! After discovering that even as a Married Couple (dun dun dun) we had the ability to laugh at stuff that is funny, I (more or less) got over myself. And we had a great time! Even though my husband got seasick, and a cold, and the sentence, “The waves are making my phlegm go back and forth, and back and forth …” may or may not have been uttered…in spite of all that! I have tons of fond memories of our not-so-ideal honeymoon, because that is when I figured out that while married life is not exactly the fairy tale or romance novel we envision it to be when we are 12, it IS a wonderful thing because no matter what, you are in it together. Which is a pretty good trade-off, if you ask me!

Although Tabitha, dude, I sincerely hope that you score AT LEAST a full-sized bed on your honeymoon.

***

You and me both, Lucy. You and me both. Thanks so much for sharing your fun (though admittedly a tad awkward) honeymoon story! I hope you two figured out a way to…well, you know…”snuggle” in spite of the bunks!

…I’m kind of annoying! And I feel like I sound bratty…or, like…I dunno, just lame.

My mouth moves funny when I talk, which I NEVER ever knew, and I totally judge other people whose mouths move funny when they talk.

I hate the sound of my voice, but that’s nothing new.

My eyebrows are in desperate need of some shaping, and my glasses are super reflective. Need to bust out those contacts more often.

Oh, and I remembered the song that was playing on two different stations at the same time: it was “Gives You Hell” by the All American Rejects.

And just so you know I’m not really as down on myself as it seems, can I also tell you that I feel surprisingly pretty today, especially considering I’m only wearing mineral powder foundation and mascara? And my hair is up in a (two-days-since-last-shampoo) ponytail? Maybe I’ve just really lowered my own expectations of myself. Ha.

No, but seriously. I may never vlog again, because I can’t stop watching them and obsessing over my weird face and mouth movements and my totally shapeless eyebrows. And my voice. I sound like a man.

Then again, I might start vlogging EVERYTHING, because you all deserve to know what I’m really like…right?

(P.S. Fourth of July pictures/videos are coming…as soon as I have a chance to upload them.)

The Rules: Flip out your blog and pick a post from your first 2 months in blog-land that shows your mentality and outlook from the onset of your blog.

*****

I suppose I could’ve chosen a post from the beginning of THIS blog, but I think it would technically be cheating. See, I first began blogging in December of 2001, on livejournal.com. So…painful as it was to look back on my own naivete and try to find something that expresses my “mentality and outlook,” I’m giving it a valiant effort.

Here is the most legitimate post I could find in my first two months of blogging. I wrote this on December 29, 2001. I was a junior in high school. Sixteen years old. Naive. Innocent. Seriously…just wait until you get to the end.

*****

Post title: “Killing Time”

Everyone is making their resolutions
(So far I’ve not determined mine)
People cram last-minute contributions
To compensate for their efforts’ decline

I fail to see the meaning
In meaningless endeavors
To prove of one’s self-cleaning
In light of new “forevers”

So while others go about
Becoming supposedly sublime,
Since I’m so full of doubt,
I’ll just keep killing time.
—–
Okay this just popped into my head out of nowhere and strangely I was already on livejournal to enter it. So let me know your thoughts on it… Thanx!

Kiss my Peach.

PS: If you haven’t noticed, I’ve been making up random phrases with the word (or forms of) PEACH. Most of them mean nothing, they’re just fun.

*****

*chirp chirp*

…Is anyone else feeling a little uncomfortable with the fact that I wrote “Kiss my Peach” at the end of this post? Talk about awkward! I swear, though, I definitely had NO idea what sort of connotation that phrase could have. Like I said in the Post Script…random phrases. Meaningless.

Or so I thought. Ah, to be sixteen again.

My freshman year in high school, I was in this human biology course. Over half of the class were seniors, primarily football players, who needed to take the course in order to graduate. So, lots of eye candy for a timid freshman like me. Of course, my sights were set higher than my classmates.

I had a crush on the TA.

I really, really want to tell you his actual name. Because it’s hilarious. But I won’t… Instead, I will just say that his first name was the same as his last name. Yes, this guy’s mother was so uninventive that she gave her son his last name as his first name.

Anyway, we’ll call him Steve. Steve was soooo dreamy. He was a senior, and a stud, and totally popular and oblivious to my existence. *Sigh* What more could a naive freshman want in a first high-school crush?

Now, as a freshman, I had absolutely NO idea how to flirt. Or how to put on makeup. Or how to dress fashionably. I did, fortunately, know how to shave my legs.

But my timing?

Was always.

Off.

At some point during the year, Steve began to notice me in class, at least enough to remember my name when he called roll, and smile at me when I came in from passing period. So, when he started to befriend me, I started to make efforts to look cuter, and then subsequently act like my cuteness had nothing to do with him, of course.

To cut to the chase, one morning I was running late. I had planned my outfit the night before: a cute jean skirt and a pink blouse, or something along those lines. But I woke up after my alarm, and thus didn’t have time to shave my legs. I decided to go ahead and wear the skirt anyway, because heck, the hair on my legs was pretty blonde, so unless someone actually TOUCHED my leg, no one would even know. And no one ever touched my legs.

Well, wouldn’t you know it.

We had a lab assignment in human bio that day, and so I was sitting on a tall lab stool, focusing more on my posture and keeping my legs daintily crossed than on the work we were doing. Steve was coming around to each station to check on people’s progress, and then it happened. He came straight up to me and smiled, said hello, and placed his hand on my knee as he began to ask how my day was going.

It all happened in slow motion. The instant his hand touched my bare knee, I thought, Noooooo!!! Hairy legs! Prickly knee! Eternal mortificatiooooooonnnnn!!

“Hi Tabitha, how has your da–” He paused and looked down at his hand on my knee. He didn’t move his hand. Instead, he swiped it across my knee and said, “Wow, very bohemian today.”

And that, my friends, is why high school SUCKS.