Perverted Bar Experiences Make Me Laugh

"Do you like it creamy?"

Someone actually asked me this over the weekend.

No, I wasn't filming a porno. All I did was order a chocolate martini. But instead of inquiring whether I prefer Stoli or Smirnoff, the bartender, aka Sketchy Mcsketscherson, countered back with that gem, laden with sexual connotations.

I wish I could say I responded with something clever like, "Only if you're the one providing the cream."* or the standard, "That's what she said."

Unfortunately, I'm not very quick on my feet when it comes to, well...anything, but witty comebacks in particular. Hamilton "The Babe" Porter would annihilate me in a putdown war.

Instead, all I could muster, through muffled laughter, was a pathetic, albeit enthusiastic, "Yessss!!" a la Buddy the Elf when asked if he likes sugar.

The bartender probably thought I was the perverted one after that exchange. Either that, or he gets off on responses to that question.

Although the 'creamy' martini was amazing, I'm not sure I want to know the secret ingredient.

A similar situation occurred to me and my friend Lo over the summer. But instead of a bartender, the pervert was a bar patron.

Let it be known that Lo doesn't put up with shit from guys. She is far better than I am at getting random, sketchy men to leave us alone. Take this weekend, for example, when the DJ honored our request and played Britney. We, being typical girls, jumped up and down, hightailed it to the dance floor, and busted out our best Britney moves. At least three guys try to join us, but Lo wouldn't have any of that nonsense. "You have to respect Britney. This is a girls-only song," she said as she moved closer to me before they could try to sandwich in between us.

Anyway, Lo came to my hometown to visit me for my birthday. We went out to dinner, and before she left, she said, "I need a good, strong drink for the ride home." This is why we are best friends.

So, we went to a nearby martini bar called 3 Monkeys. All the decor is monkey-themed. They even garnish your drinks with a tres cute plastic monkey. Lo and I liked them so much we both kept ours and have them hanging from our rear-view mirrors. They're like the grown-up version of friendship bracelets.

We're sitting at the bar, enjoying our martinis, when this older, sleazy guy slides onto the bar stool next to Lo. After a few minutes of awkwardly hovering, he taps her shoulder and asks if he can eat her monkey.


Clearly, this guy was a regular and used that line hundreds of times if for nothing else than for sheer shock value. You'd think that by age 35 he could think of something a little more creative.

Lo's response, after looking at him with the perfect mix of disgust/disbelief: "No, you cant have my monkey, but I'm sure if you flirt with the bartender he might give you his."

The only thing worse than a bad pick-up line is a guy that can't take a hint. Even with Lo's back to him, he continued hitting on her, even claiming that he invented The Gazelle. Um...I'm pretty sure that's a Tony Little trademark, dude. But, whatever. If we can't shake you, we'll at least humor you for the benefit of a good laugh later on.

Oh, the bar scene. An adult playground for the good, the bad and the perverted.

*courtesy of Just Jack

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year: College Football Playoffs, Company Holiday Parties, Drunk Santas

Okay, so although I just posted "Meet Pete, Part 2" yesterday, blogger is saying it was posted last week. Blogger is such a lying bastard!

After a week of writing such an emotionally draining post, I need to get back to my carefree, lackadaisical self. So, I figured I'd recap last weekend.

(I could also go for a very large, strong apple martini. Doesn't this look delicious?? And it's festive, too.)

God, I'm ADD lately. Back to my weekend recap:

Friday night: Watched my college football team battle it out for a bid to the championship game. We lost. To the team we beat in the 2004 National Championship. I was devastated. I chugged as many beers as I could before leaving my friends' apartment. Then, The Hoff had to undress me because I refused to move once I laid down in his bed. Not a good night.

Moving on to happier times...

Saturday: Went shopping with The Hoff. Always a little nerve-wracking to bring a guy, especially a boyfriend, shopping with you. As you're well aware, I take my good, sweet time doing everything and shopping is no exception. The Hoff got extra brownie points for following me into store after store as I searched for an appropriate company holiday party outfit.

After zero luck in 10+ stores, I decided to try Ann Taylor. I should have just gone there in the first place. I can always find something conservative and work-appropriate at AT...it's just not always in my price range. I picked up this cute, one-strap top (except mine was black and the bow was a black velvet material:


And the best part? The price! (Originally: $79.99. Marked down to: $6.50) Yay me! I also got some cute new shoes that were also on sale. (Couldn't find a picture of those.) Not as cheap as the top, but a good deal nonetheless.

I love a good bargain. And I love shoes. The weekend was starting to look up.

Saturday night: Went to my company holiday party with The Hoff, mainly for the free alcohol-a selling point for most work holiday parties. The party started at 7. Because I'm me and because we got lost, (I let The Hoff look up directions. Bad idea. He gets lost even when he uses his Garmin, which he programmed to have the voice setting of an Australian woman. I think it's testament to the fact the The Hoff doesn't listen when women talk.) we arrived at 8:30...and the party ended at 10. Oops.

In actuality, this was perfect timing. It gave us just enough time to mingle for a few, drink our beers and laugh at girls my age get wasted on wine and make asses of themselves in front of their bosses. Then we were off to party #2 of the evening.

My friends Liz and SJ were having a joint birthday party at a bar in Georgetown. This is the same bar that I used to frequent after Pete and I broke up when I started dating a bartender who works there. We'll call him Alaska, because he's from-you guessed it-Alaska.

Anyway, I haven't seen or talked to Alaska since our last date. I think he could tell I wasn't into him anymore. May have had something to do with the fact my whole body tensed up everytime he tried to touch me the last few times we went out. At least he got the hint and spared me from having to deliver a lame ::insert bullshit "i-just want-to-be-friends:: spiel.

Saturday night, this particularly bar was participatingg in a Santa Bar Crawl. That's right folks, for one glorious Saturday evening during the month of December, you can don your Santa suit and make your way down M street, stopping at select bars in a quest to get annihilated while spreading Christmas cheer.

Um...hilarious is all I can say. But it was also a little disturbing to see such a symbol of childhood Christmas magic falling all over the place, puking in alleys and grabbing girls in inappropriate places.

This Santa spectacle also meant that the lines to get into bars where longer than usual. I've never had to wait to get into this bar, and the bouncer said it would be at least 20 minutes before we got in. Meaning we'd have to wait outside in the 20 degree cold. I didn't mind waiting, but The Hoff, being a typical male, didn't bring a coat and was started to show the beginning stages of hypothermia after 5 minutes. Wuss.

So, we went to the bar next door to wait for the line to die down. My friend SayJo was in town from Denver, so she joined us and we ended up staying there for most of the night. Why leave when you have a table and you don't have to wait for drinks?

I kept pounding beers, and finished off my round with a celebratory SoCo and lime shot. I would advise against this drinking rampage if you're sitting down the entire time. My influx of alcohol hit me all at once, and I knew as soon as I stood up it would be ten times worse.

Somehow, I made it from that bar to our original destination in time to wish Liz and SJ a happy birthday before heading home for the evening.

Sunday: Spent the entire day at the mall, both working and shopping. Had The Hoff come meet me so we could shop for the little boy we adopted from the angel tree. (Thanks, Martini for the good idea!) Went into The Children's Place for the first time since I was 7 and exchanged awkward glances with The Hoff when he walked out carrying the bag. Let's hope we won't be frequenting that store anytime soon...

After our shopping spree, I introduced The Hoff to one of my favorite holiday romantic comedies: The Holiday. So corny, but so cute. I love the story line between Kate Winslet and the old man, Arthur. I tear up every time he enters his night of honor to a packed auditorium. I'm such a sap.

I just realized I forgot to post my weekly Miss. Procras. stats last Friday, and frankly, I can't remember that far back, so here's the stats for this week:

Times late to full time job: 3 (*please note that I was sick on Tuesday)
Average number of minutes late to work: 25
Times late to part time job: 1
Average number of minutes late to work: 8
Number of times snooze button hit on alarm clock: 10

On a positive note, I was on time to a work conference on Wednesday. AND, I had to be there at 8 a.m., meaning I was up at 6 a.m. Quite the accomplishment. I'm giving myself a gold star for that one.

Meet Pete, Part 2: The Break Up

So, I'm more than week late in getting this posted, but would you expect any less from me?

Honestly, I think I've been prolonging this post because it's so hard for me to write. Partly because I think I'll come across as the bad guy, but mostly because this gives my relationship with Pete more closure. Writing about a breakup always makes it seem more...finite.

But I haven't written about our breakup yet, so this will be therapeutic.

::Sigh:: Here goes...

Pete and I were together for two years. And, as I said in Meet Pete, part 1, we were long-distance the entire time.

After graduating from college, Pete moved to Philadelphia. Both of us decided that a 3-hour drive wasn't that big of a deal and that we'd see each other most weekends and holidays. I found out the hard way that while this concept sounds reasonable in your head, it's quite the opposite when you're experiencing it first-hand.

Looking back, I seriously don't know how we lasted two years. It's exhausting-both emotionally and physically-to be constantly traveling on the weekends and trying to cram a week's worth of activities into 2 1/2 days.

Of course, we often talked about moving to the same city and being together long-term. Around March 2007, I had a little "I-can't-do-long-distance-anymore" breakdown, but Pete was there to reassure me. "Let's just get through this year, then we can see where we're at and hopefully move closer to each other," he said. With some sort of timeline established, the distance seemed more manageable.

We finally got through the year, but we were still in the exact same place as the previous year. I felt like I was in a dead-end relationship. I resented Pete, because I felt like he didn't care about me enough to move for me. And I resented living in D.C., because he wasn't living here with me.

The thing is, I didn't want to move to Philly, either. The only people I knew there were Pete and his friends. I couldn't imagine leaving my dream job and my friends in D.C. It was terrifying to me. Plus, I couldn't stand being around that many Eagles fans. I'd go insane. (Did you know they are the only NFL team to have a jail in their stadium?? Seriously, Eagles fans don't even like their own players...just ask poor Donovan McNabb. No wonder he has to eat Campbell's Chunky Soup after every game-I'd need some comfort food ASAP, too.)


Anyway, back to the story.

I started distancing myself from Pete. I selfishly thought that it would be easier for him to move to D.C. He had a lot of friends living here, and job opportunities are more plentiful for him than me---he's an engineer. In hindsight, it was unfair of me to expect him to do something I wasn't ready for either.

Around this time, with my resentment toward Pete at its peak, I went to Vegas with a group of my friends from college. Best week EVER. I freakin' heart Vegas.

During my vacation, I regrettably succumbed to the temptations of Sin City and found myself hard-core making out with a guy on the dance floor of The Bank, and then again back at his condo. Now, I'll be the first to admit there is no excuse for cheating. Pete did not deserve that in any way, shape or form. But, it also helped me realize that Pete and I were holding on to a relationship for the sake of comfort and familiarity, not because we were still in love with each other.

Another important piece to the puzzle is that Pete and I rarely had sex. I'm talking maybe once a month. This was entirely my doing-I was just never in the mood. I figured that initial spark had faded. Umm...WHAT THE HELL WAS I THINKING??!! I'm 24, not 80! That was not normal or healthy-I realize this now.

But there I was in Vegas, with a guy I knew nothing about, wanting to do the very thing I couldn't even fathom doing with my own boyfriend. I kept asking myself, why I was so attracted to a complete stranger but not to a guy I was supposed to be in love with?

Things got worse when I got back to D.C. I knew that Pete didn't deserve to be in a relationship with someone who wasn't 100% committed, but I wanted to talk to him about everything in person, so I waited until the weekend when he'd be in town.

Meanwhile, Pete was calling me at least ten times a day. This wasn't abnormal-Pete typically called/e-mailed/texted me multiple times throughout the day. But what I once found endearing, I began to find suffocating. It was like having a three-year-old attached to your leg, refusing to let go no matter how hard you try to pull him off. And coming from my week in Vegas, where I talked to Pete maybe once a day, I felt my claustrophobia increase ten-fold. (I'm sure the guilt I felt from cheating didn't help matters.)

After hanging up with Pete for the eighth time on the day he was due to arrive to D.C., my co-worker, Lawrence, immediately imed me :

Lawrence: Aren't girls normally excited when their boyfriends call? Particularly when they are coming to visit?
Me: Yeah, I guess so. It's just I'm at work, and I feel like everyone can hear my conversation. Plus, this is the eighth time he's called today.
Lawrence: Still, I'm more excited to get a root canal than you just sounded.
Me: Shit. I was that obvious?

So, that night, Pete arrived, and I spilled everything. I told him how suffocated I was beginning to feel, how I felt like our relationship was on a dead-end road and how, instead of talking to him in the first place about my feelings, I went and cheated on him.

Pete was upset, don't get my wrong. And he had every right to be. But, deep down, I think he knew our relationship was over, too. He agreed with everything I was saying. He saw himself acting clingy, and knew it was pushing me away, but he still did it anyway. Probably because he didn't know how else to handle the rift I was creating between us.

He left the next afternoon, both of us concluding that if we were meant to be, things would work themselves out. Not a smart conclusion to come to. It's sort of a glass half-full mentality, and although I'm an optimist, I think people say things like that that because they don't want to believe that someone they considered their best friend-a person they confided in, trusted and loved-would be so abruptly cut out of their life. It's dangerous territory, my friends.

And this was totally the case with me and Pete. But instead of admitting to it, we used non-refundable plane tickets to Denver (to visit his parents, no less!) as an excuse to continue talking almost every day. So we did the most toxic thing you can do after a breakup-we didn't change a thing. Sure, I didn't see him until we left for Denver (which was about a month after I returned from Vegas), but we were still maintaining the same emotional connection we had when we were a couple, never allowing ourselves to heal from the break up.

To complicate things even more, we started dating other people. Obviously, we didn't talk to each other about our dates and hook-ups, but we both knew what the other person was doing. Also not a wise decision...someone always ends up getting hurt.

This dysfunctional "breakup"/pseudo-relationship continued for about three months. The whole time, I think Pete was more emotionally invested than I was-something I selfishly never stopped to consider. It all came to a screeching halt once The Hoff entered the picture (more on that in a future post).

I felt even more conflicted that people kept questioning my decision to break up with Pete. I hate using this phrase to describe him, because it sounds so cliche, but Pete's just a genuinely good guy. Everyone loved him. My family, my friends. And a lot of them couldn't, and still don't, understand how I could let him go.

Having them question my actions made me start to question myself. Had I just gotten scared of what the next step might be for me and Pete? Was I so used to dating assholes, that I pushed away the first nice guy to come around?

In typical girl fashion, I overanalyzed our relationship and my decision. But, I ultimately determined that this was my life and my decision to make. While I value my friends' and family's opinions, I had to do what was right for me.

And, I began to realize, much to my amazement, I was happier. For the first time, I actually began to enjoy living in D.C. Since my weekends were no longer devoted to spending time with Pete, I was going out and experiencing the city. It probably helped I was no longer in Philly every other weekend, too.

I realized that I had used Pete as a crutch for adapting to post-college life. Instead of finding my own happiness, Pete was my source of happiness. Another not-so-smart thing to do when undergoing major life changes.

And even through all this, Pete and I are still friends. (I told you he's a good guy...I don't know if I'd be friends with me after all that.) We talk once every few weeks, and things are different...but they're healthy now. We're finally on the same page. Sure, Pete and I created unnecessary hurdles in our road to recovery, but I wouldn't change a thing. We live and we learn.

I'm thankful that I can look back on our relationship and smile, remembering the good memories I shared with an amazing person. I just hope that he feels the same way.

**Phew! Okay, I'm done rambling. I worked on this post for a good week. No, I'm not kidding. It's hard to breakdown two years of a relationship into one blog post and do it justice, so I hope I don't come across as cold-hearted and/or cruel.

I also wanted to give a backstory to some future entries of the post-Pete and pre-The Hoff era. It was my first time dating in the post-college world and I met some winners, let me tell you. Ladies, there are definitely men out there who are never worthy of an early arrival. ***

How 'Bout a Round of Applause...A Stading Ovation

I think I deserve some recognition. Like a pat on the back. Or a cookie. Or an award in the form of Manolo Blahniks.

Yes, ladies and gents, I did it!

I actually made it to work on time Sunday morning. The boutique was open at exactly 10 a.m. for teeny boppers and bridezillas to shop their little hearts out.

Let me just say, the only "recognition" I've received so far came in the form of a bagel and a coke from Panera. But The Hoff gave me those more as cure for my hangover than as an award for being on time, so I don't think that really counts.

Work on Sunday was pure hell. Between my massive headache, waves of nausea and droopy eyelids, I didn't think I'd survive until 5 p.m.

Thankfully, my manger let me leave an hour early. I don't think it was a gesture of kindness. I'm pretty sure she thought that I was scaring customers away. Either way, it gave me an extra hour of weekend leisure.

Turns out, I needed every hour I could get. I've been working 15-hour shifts the past two days and I'm pulling another 15 hours today.

This whole working-two-jobs things is really starting to infringe on the important things in life. Like blogging. And drinking. I don't even want to think the number of shows on my DVR I have yet to watch.

But tommorrow marks the beginning of a 3-day break from the boutique job. That means more time to partake in a few of my favorite things. (No raindrops on roses or whiskers on kittens included.)

Btw...I saw "Twelfth Night" on Sunday at the Shakespeare Theater in DC. Highly recommend it if you're in the area. The actress who played Viola looked exactly like Julie Andrews in "The Sound of Music." I've caught myself humming tunes from that musical all week. I'm a dork, I know.

BUSTED!

Just call me Paris. Or LiLo. Or Amy Crackhouse. Or any of the hundreds of celebs who have donned an orange jumpsuit lately.

No, I didn't actually get arrested. Don't have that resume-booster... yet. But I do feel like the convict of my office.

I received a huge slap on the wrist yesterday. I'm sure you can guess why. Hint: it has nothing to do with inappropriate work attire or unprofessional relations with co-workers.

I was reprimanded for.........(drum roll, please.)

Tardiness.

Shocking, I know.

I knew it was bound to happen sooner or later. Employers don't tend to appreciate the art that is Running Fashionably Late.

My supervisor was kind enough to greet me yesterday morning with a friendly e-mail. I'm hoping I can start supplementing my bowl of Wheaties with electronic correspondence like the one below. Now this is the breakfast of champions:

Hi Miss Procras.

I wanted to bring to your attention our attendance policy. Please read it carefully. It is very important for everyone to be to work on time.You have been consistently tardy to work. Please remember to be in the office by the following scheduled time.

Early Shift 8:30-5pm

Late Shift 9:30-6pm

If you happen to be late, please make sure to call ahead of time if you know you are not going to make it on time. Also, keep in mind, in order to make up time this must be requested early on that morning so it can be approved. You must communicate this to boss #2 or to me if boss #2 happens to be out that day.

Thank you.

Yikes/Crap. You know what this means??

1) My disguises don't work. AT ALL.
2) I actually have to start getting up on time. Does anyone know if there are alarm clocks that come without a snooze button? Or maybe I should just buy a rooster. I'm sure this guy could wake me up:

Honestly, I need kicks in the ass like this every now and then. They motivate me to be more ::gulp:: punctual.

I really hate that word. And I hate how life is driven by a clock.

But I guess while I'm in the working world I need to suck it up and at least attempt to arrive on time.

So this morning, I only allowed The Hoff to hit the snooze button twice before dragging myself out of bed. (Actually, he threw the covers off me and literally had to push me out of his bed. Same difference.) Regardless, I walked into my cubicle at exactly 8:37. That beats my average arrival time by 13 minutes.

See, I'm improving already!

The real test will come on Sunday. I'm scheduled to open the boutique at 9:30 a.m. And...I'll be two hours away in my hometown.

I know what you're thinking. Why in God's name would I do this to myself, knowing my track record?

I have four words for you: friends. holiday party. alcohol. I love all three enough to risk it.

Full report Monday on how this all unfolds.

Weekly Miss Procras. Stats:
*Days arrived late to full-time job: 5
Average number of minutes late: 21.4
*Days arrived late to part-time job: 1
Average number of minutes late: 3
*Times late meeting friends: 0
*Number of times hitting snooze on the alarm clock: 12

(PS-I know I promised Meet Pete, Part 2 today. In typical Miss Procras. fashion, it has been postponed until next week.)

Meet Pete, Part 1

I struggled with whether or not to write this post. It's always weird to bring an ex up in conversation, much less write about him.

But, ultimately, I think it's important to introduce my first long-term, post-college boyfriend. Here's my reasoning:

1) We're still friends.
2) We were together for two years, and I have a lot of stories involving him, so he'll be making a cameo or two here.
3) How we met makes for a great story.

I'll refer to long-term, post-college boyfriend as Pete Sampras. He's Greek, he plays tennis, he has a curly fro-it works.

I met Pete in Puerto Vallarta during spring break of my senior year at college. It was pretty much lust at first sight.

Let me set the scene for you. If you've ever gone through one of those chessy travel companies for your spring break destination, you know that they hype up this magical wristband called a party pass. Basically, this drunken-orgy inducer grants you access to certain bars and clubs without having to pay a cover or for select drinks (ie-Tecate beer and Montezuma tequilla). It also shoves you into the same nightspots as the other spring breakers in the area.

This particular night, the designated bar was Senor Frogs. Quite the classy establishment. If you haven't been to one, I highly recommend checking it out.

I arrived early with my group of friends so we could eat dinner and get a head start on our drinking. After a barely edible meal, we started doing body shots of tequila off each other. A few minutes later, two guys paid for this waitress to pour liquor down our throats and smash our faces in her boobs. Hey, at least we got free shots...oh wait, we could have gotten free alcohol minus the motorboating experience...

Fast forward a good 4 hours later. We're all obviously schwast-faced and watching everyone attempt to dance on the concrete floor covered in foam. Yes, it was a foam party...if that doesn't scream inebriated, uninhibited college fun, I don't know what does.

So, I'm sitting on a barstool, laughing at the people who are slipping everywhere because they can't stand up in the foam, when I get the drunken urge to make out with someone. I won't blame this on the booze or the atmosphere, because this tends to happen quite frequently.

I turn to my friend, SayJo, and slur: "The next cute guy that walks by, I'm going to grab and make out with." (I don't think I'll ever have that much liquid courage to pull off such a maneuver, so I took a more subtle approach.)

I look to my right and my friend Q. is being hit on by one of the guys sitting at the table behind us. As luck would have it, right behind him was his cute friend, chugging his beer. Done and done.

I stroll on up to the cute friend, giving him my best seductive look.

Me: Hi, I'm Miss. Procras.
Pete: Hi, I'm Pete.
Me: So, do you wanna dance?
Pete: Sure, but can we finish our beers first? (Side note: the bouncers weren't allowing any drinks onto the dance floor. Main reason I stood post at a barstool for most of the evening.)

At that point I knew I had picked a winner.

After downing our beers, we made our way to the herpes, I mean, foam-filled dance floor with the rest of the intoxicated college kids. It's a good thing I was so hammered at this point I didn't even think about the pina-coloda scented grossness that was covering my body.

A few songs later, Pete and I decide to stumble up to the bar and order more drinks. It's important to note that on-stage behind us, contestants were being summoned to participate in a "dance" competition. I say "dance" because the girls who entered definitely weren't dancing. They were striping.

No amount of alcohol could make this scenario not awkward. Pete kept trying to avoid looking at the stage, and I didn't know whether to make out with him to keep his attention on me or stay quiet so he could enjoy the show. I chose the later. It kinda reminded me of that scene in Love Actually where the body doubles are testing the lighting or whatever for a porno.

Once the queen stripper was crowned, we returned to the cesspool of foam. I decided to really turn on the charm and show Pete a stipper move of my own-the Miss. Procras. Sass. I would describe it, but I don't want anyone stealing what little mojo I have. Much like the "bend and snap," the Miss. Procras. Sass has a 98% success rate.

Within seconds, Pete and I were making out. (Told ya. "The Miss. Procras. Sass-works every time!") And the ambiance couldn't have been better. "Gasolina" by Daddy Yankee was blaring from the speakers, foam was flying everywhere, people kept knocking into us...it's the first kiss every girl dreams about.

Pete ended up coming back with me to the condo I called home for the week. Somehow, we lucked out and got the room with the double bed to ourselves. Unfortuately for him, after 8+ hours of drinking, I went into shut-down mode and passed out midway through our sesh. Oops.

Needless to say, I didn't really count on seeing Pete much after that. But the following night, as fate, or whatever you want to call it, would have it, my friends and I were ahead of his group in line, waiting to get into a club. Pete and I started talking-more out of obligation than anything else-or so I thought. When there was a lull in the conversation, I walked back over to my friend Charlotte.

Charlotte: Uh...I think he was still trying to talk to you.
Me: Oh really?
Charlotte: Yeah, his mouth was open to say something else when you walked away.
Me: Now I feel bad.

But I didn't go back over there. I figured he was probably just being nice. Who wants to be tied down to one person during spring break anyway?

He still sought me out in the club, though. And we ended up spending that night, and the rest of the week together.

On his last day there, we exchanged numbers, and Pete hugged me and said me he didn't want this to be goodbye. I felt the same.

Even after that, I told myself it was just a spring break fling. I didn't want to get my hopes up. Obviously though, Pete meant what we said, and we started dating long distance...something we'd do the entire time we were together.

Check back tomorrow for Meet Pete, Part 2.

This is for My Girls All Around the World

Okay, so I don't want to get on my feminist soapbox, but have other single 20-30 year-old woman noticed how often finding the perfect guy is thrown in our faces?

I mean, when you're a naive 13-year-old, you think you'll graduate high school, go to college, fall in love and be married by 23. That's what many of our parents did, so why shouldn't that happen to us? But this isn't 1978, it's 2008. And marriage right out of college is no longer the norm. (Especially if you're like me and went to a college that has a ratio of 65% women to 35% men and those women are ranked in Playboy's Top 10 Hottest Girls on Campus. Not so easy to land a guy with those stats working against you.)

Still, I can't help but notice how critical my single girlfriends are of themselves when they aren't dating anyone. I'm guilty of it, too.

As a human race, I know we all long for companionship. But why is it okay for guys to still be single until 40, yet as women, we're either looked down upon or feel inadequate for not having a ring on our finger by our 30th birthday?

When we really stop and take a look at it, how far have we come, as a gender, in the past century?

Sure, we can vote, acquire birth control and fight in wars. But are we still equating our self-worth with snagging Mr. Right?

I think so. Just look at all the TV shows, movies and books targeted to our age group:

*Take the Friends series finale. Rachel gave up the chance to live in Paris and move up in her career for Ross.
*Even Carrie forgave Big for the millionth time and married him. Was anyone else upset with her storyline in the movie?
*And in all my favorite chick lit books (Something Blue, Good in Bed, To Have and to Hold), the heroines, at the end of their journey of growth and self-discovery, always end up with a male by their side.

Please do not misunderstand my intentions of this post. I am not anti-marriage. I would eventually like to get married to Mr. Perfect. (Though I'm sure, like everything else, I will be fashionably late in getting to that point. And I will most certainly be late to my own wedding.)

My goal was to give all of us women a boost. Let's stop suppressing ourselves from outside influences and our own self-doubts and start feeling assured with who were are as a person, regardless of our relationship status.

Working 9 to 5=Understatement of the Century

I've worked almost 70 hours in a week. So much for a Thanksgiving break.

Dolly, come help me sing my troubles away. I know you've still got it in you. (Though you're looking increasingly more like a cross between Joan Rivers and MJ. Sad, because you were presh during the "Steel Magnolias" era.)

Seriously though, I don't know what got into me this past week. I arrived to work mostly on time (I consider 5-10 minutes late still on time), stayed past my scheduled shift and didn't go out drinking once this weekend. (Though I did drink a majority of the bottle of wine I bought for Thanksgiving dinner...a girl's gotta decompress somehow.)

I also had nightmares all weekend. Saturday night, I actually thought there was a ginormous spider crawling from my canopy onto my comforter. It was so realistic, I jolted out of my bed and turned on the lights, only to find it was just me and my collection of stuffed animals sharing my covers...thank God. Then, last night, a shark attacked me and took a giant chunk of flesh out of my bicep.

What I want to ask my f-ed up subconscious is why the thought of a grapefruit-sized arachnid caused me to leap 10 feet, while I soundly slumbered through the attack of a 7-foot ocean predator? Clearly, the shark would cause the more painful death. But I guess these things don't cross your mind during REM sleep.

The dream-dictionary websites I reference daily say that spiders are symbolic of feminine power, keeping distance from a tempting situation or protection from a self-destructive behavior. While a shark symbolizes anger and hostility, or could indicate the struggle of a painful and emotional period.

Um...could they come up with any more meanings? I sorted through them all, and I'm convinced that my jobs are to blame for these crazy dreams.

Clearly, the spider dream occurred because I'm trying to protect myself from the self-destructive behavior of working too many hours. And the shark dream is indicative of work causing me severe emotional trauma. Hmm...maybe I can use this as medical proof and file for short-term disability. What a genius idea!

Miss Procras. lately:
Miss Procras. on vacay-I mean, short-term disability:

I'm sold. Who else is with me?