I'll Get By with a Little Help From My Friends

Per yesterday's post, we all know how splendid the Red Sox game with The Hoff went.

By the fifth inning, I was so annoyed with watching him incessantly text another girl, I finally broke out my phone for moral support.

Me: So, The Hoff keeps texting this girl right in front of me. So awkward and weird!

SK: Oh that's just great! Is it the slut from your blog? I just read that the other day. [Ed. note: she was referring to FTW]

Me: No, it's some girl named Dee. Who the eff is named Dee??

SK: Dee Snider hahahahahah

The thought of The Hoff texting someone who looks like Dee Snider made me spew my beer all over the place and almost fall out of my seat.

Please to enjoy pictures of this handsome specimen of a human being.

Here he is in his glory days as the frontman of Twisted Sister:

These days, he looks more like this:

Friends make everything better. And to those of you who have listened to the all the drama and provided a shoulder to cry on or a much-needed laugh - THANK YOU. It means more than you know.

And now, I'm off to enjoy this fabulous 3-day weekend! Happy Labor Day/excuse to drink on Sunday night!!

Becoming "friends" with your ex

You ever feel like you have so much going on you just don't know what to write/say?

Where to even begin.....

I guess, first things first, The Hoff and I are officially no more. He came over a couple weeks ago and told me that he thought it would be best for us to make our break permanent, since he could never fully trust me. It kind of knocked me on my ass, honestly. I felt like Jennifer Aniston in the "Break Up," hoping that by not being with me The Hoff would miss me so much that he'd want to do whatever it takes to resolve our issues and be together.

Well, things didn't turn out so hunky-dory for Jen and they certainly didn't go any better for me. At least she got a nice dinner out of it and an attempt at salvaging. I got nothin'.

I will say though, it's nice that The Hoff and I didn't have some horrendous break up where we can't even stand to look at each other. We're still "friends." As much of a friend you can be with someone who used to know every inane detail about your day and who you shared all of your intimate secrets with. Someone who is now regulated to the status of receiving random gchats or texts every few days and awkward silences when you do finally hang out in person. Because really, after the obligatory "how's work going?", "how are your roommates?", "the weather we're having is hot-as-balls" chit-chat, what is there left to say?

I don't want to know what girls he's met, who exactly he's been bar hopping with on weekends, how he's thrown away every card I ever wrote him...

Trecherous terriorty to venture into, folks.

And when we do hang out, I want to hold his hand, call him the pet name I so creatively/nauseatingly created for him and have him kiss my forehead the way he always did to let me know that everything is okay in the world.

But it's not. The Hoff and Miss Procras. chapter is over. And the reality of that slaps me across the face everytime we hang out.

Like last night.

For his birthday (which was in May), I bought tickets to the Red Sox vs. Orioles game. Nothing too horrific happened. The Hoff just kept pulling out his phone, texting someone repeatedly who had a name that more than likely belonged to a female. Of course, being a girl, my mind started wandering. I mean, who does a guy text multiple times while he's watching his favorite sports team? I gotta assume it's to converse with a girl he's interested in/wants to sleep with, but that's just me. (Side note: I did some Facebook stalking this morning and confirmed it most definitely is a girl around my age, who is cute, which makes it that much more of a low blow.)

Granted, I hold no claim to The Hoff. He is a free man who can text, hang out with and date whoever he pleases. But to text someone so blatantly infront of the person you spent the last two years of your life with, the person who is taking you out for your birthday, well...that sucks.

No other word for it. It just plain and simple sucks.

So, I guess the age old question remains - can exes be friends?

I think to a certain extent, yes. I'll never have the type of relationship with The Hoff that I once did. I'm pretty sure it will remain a very surface-level friendship. But, I can still laugh with him and have fun.

And at the end of the day, I can look back at the past two years and smile. I don't think of the fights or harbor bitterness toward anything that happened. I think of all the trips we went on as a couple, our inside jokes that only made us keel over laughing and all the new experiences I shared with The Hoff. Are there some things I'd do differently? Absolutely. But I've come out of this relationship a better person. And I think that's really all anyone can ask for.

Always the mistress, never the wife?

I used to joke in college that I would always be the mistress and never the wife when all I could find were one-night stands, not serious relationships. It was funny then.

Four years and two long-term relationships later, it's not so funny any more.

Do I have some gene that makes me unmarry-able?

Will I end up like Samantha in SATC, or worse - a 72-year-old single woman with 9,000 cats to keep me company?

Let me back up for a minute - the reason for this pity party is The Hoff and I are on a break. We both decided it would be best to take some time and figure out if we're truly meant for each other.

The more I think about it though, the more I wonder - shouldn't we know by now? Choosing a lifelong partner should not be this hard. I've always heard that when you know, you know. And neither of us do.

We hung out last night, for the first time since we decided to take a break (which was less than a week ago).

Worst idea EVER.

It was his roommate's birthday, so there were tons of other people around. The Hoff and I don't even know how to act around each other right now much less when all our friends are around = most awkward situation I've ever been in.

To make matters worse, one of The Hoff's friends (who is a girl and who I'm not the biggest fan of) showed up. For blogging purposes, I'll refer to her as FTW (Fake Tan Whore). I won't bore you with all the details, but basically I just feel like she never respected my relationship with The Hoff. She's a flirty person, who apparently has a "boyfriend." I say "boyfriend" because I don't think anyone has ever actually met the guy.

Needless to say, I've tried to be as nice as I can to this girl while suppressing the urge to beat her with my 4-inch stilletos. (The grungy ones I used to wear to frat parties. Don't want to ruin a good pair of heels.)

Last night, when The Hoff and I were arguing, she tried to pull me away from him so we could chat. I ignored her. So then she got in my face, called me crazy and went on some tirade about how The Hoff and her are just friends. I walked away.

I could sit here and slam FTW until I'm blue in the face, but at the end of the day, it's not about her. It's about me and The Hoff.

I think we sometimes misplace our hurt anger on the other person, because it's so hard to believe the person we love and care about most in the world would do something to hurt us so badly. But that's the risk you take when you fall in love.

And I'm so hurt by The Hoff right now. I feel like he put FTW above me last night. When we were still together, I kept wondering what she has that I don't to make him want to be so close to her. Is she a better listener? Does she laugh at his jokes more? Does she make him feel more wanted than I do? And what's worse - now that we're on a break, I know that she's the one he's confiding in. It's hard enough to see your ex get close with someone else, but when it's with someone you know doesn't like or respect you, it makes it that much harder.

To FTW: if you happen to stumble upon this (it is easily accessbile thanks to the grand and glorious interwebs), as much as I think you'd like it to be, it's never been about you. May you never have to endure your own significant other getting friendly with someone like you.

To The Hoff: I just want you to be happy. I hope that you find whatever or whoever it is that can make you smile everyday.

I quit my job! And other fun updates!

Time for a mayjah update.

A) I quit my job. Can I get a hell yeah?!! No more threats, accusations and mean looks! (For now.)

B) I started two new ones.

I’m working for a temp agency during the week and at Jessica McClintock during the weekends. This is my fourth prom season working there. Why I continuously subject myself to the trivial demands of teenage girls who just want a dress they can stain a la Monica Lewinsky I have no idea. I’m a glutton for punishment.

Good news is, I will have fun stories to share on this blog.

Anyway, this is my plan for the next two months until I figure out where I’m going to grad school. It’s strange, because I visit Richmond and feel at home and love reconnecting with some of my best friends. But D.C. fits, too. And the thought of leaving The Hoff and my friends up here is terrifying.

But I know I’ll end up where I’m supposed to. I’m excited to start a new chapter of my life. I know that I’m capable of far more than I’ve accomplished in the four years since I graduated in college. And I’m determined to make it happenen.

I’ve even toyed with the idea of getting a PhD. Can you imagine? Dr. Procras. Ha! But I’ll cross that road once I obtain a master’s degree. It may be all the school I can handle.

C) With the pay cut I’ve taken, I’ve started frequenting more happy hours. It is so much cheaper to drink during the hours of 4 – 8 pm! The cell phone flask will start making more and more cameos when I decide to go out on the weekends. Momma’s on a budget!

D) I’ve tried to make The Hoff my sugar daddy. He is less than enthused. But, he treated me to a movie this weekend. Those who haven't, go see "Hot Tub Time Machine" immediately! Huh-larious! And bonus points if you've seen it and recognize the actor who plays the one-armed bellhop.

E) I have bangs now. And my hair is darker with highlights. I'll try to post a pic soon.

F) I’ve read two Nicholas Sparks books in three days. They’re my crack cocaine. I feel so lame reading them, and even more lame when I cry while reading them, but they are just SO DAMN GOOD.

G) A weekend wouldn’t be complete without a compelling Lifetime movie. Sunday, “Student Seduction” with Elizabeth Berkley was playing. I’ve seen it before, and I’ll probably see it 50 more times. The former Jesse Spano plays a high school chemistry teacher who offers to tutor a stuggling student. Dude turns out to be a little psycho and assaults her, but then accuses her of coming on to him.

Why are these movies soooo good?! And how do they cast such award-winning actresses?!

That’s all I’ve got for now. Hopefully I’ll have some good teenaged retail crisis stories to share soon.

The Hoff Does Not Heart Lifetime Movies

We all know I have a slight obsession with Lifetime movies. The acting is stellar (hello...Tori Spelling stars in 59.8% of the movies), the content is compelling and there's also a moral to the story (i.e. don't sleep with your friend's husband; don't marry abusive psychopaths). Deep stuff.

My all time favorite lifetime movie was on Sunday night. Maybe some of you have heard of it? It's called "She's Too Young." Basically, it's about a group of high school students who all contract syphilis because they sleep around with each other. The focus is on a freshman girl, who gives the popular jock head just so he'll like her and ends up contracting syphilis. Obviously, it's a classic.

Fortunately for The Hoff, we were at his place so he could witness this award-winning drama. I've never seen someone cringe so much while still stay glued to the television screen. The movie reinforced his stance that he doesn't ever want to have a daughter and brought out some of the most hilarious commentary.

My favorite? "This movie is giving me a negative boner."

I think The Hoff and I need to make Lifetime movie date nights a regular occurrence.

Things I Think I Can Do When Wasted

I was a shitshow at blogger happy hour two weeks ago. A complete, and utter SHITSHOW.

After vomitando-ing up the delicious pizza, eight glasses of wine, one martini and one lemon drop shot I had consumed, one would think I'd be ready to call it a night. (Mind you, it wasn't even 11 p.m. at this point.)

Not so much.

For starters, while The Hoff attempted to hail us a cab, I proceeded to jump over a huge mound of snow. But instead of jumping feet first, I decided it would be much more effective if I soared, a la Superwoman style, over the block of slush/ice. I later asked why my hands were scraped and covered in dirt.

When The Hoff and I finally got into a cab, I started making small talk with the cab driver. "I promise not to puke in your car, Mr. Cab Driver, sir" were my first words to the poor soul chauffeuring us home.

Next, I asked him where he was from and begged him to teach me his language. He said Afghanistan. Side note: Is that language called Afghan? I have no idea. (I know, I know-typical ignorant American.)

Apparently, I butchered everything the guy tried to teach me, and I definitely don't remember any of it. But at least Mr. Cab Driver, sir was a good sport and didn't throw me out the first block of the ride.

One would think that at this point I would go upstairs and pass out. Logic isn't part of the wasted Miss Procras' repertoire.

The Hoff's roommates were up drinking, and I deemed it absolutely necessary to join in the fun. When The Hoff would hand me a glass of water, I'd immediately start scavenging around for a beer. Didn't matter if I picked up an empty bottle or someone else's beer, so long as I had one in my hand.

I then harassed his one roommate long enough that he let me play Call of Duty on Xbox live. Now, I've never played this game nor Xbox 360. The guy on the other end of the Xbox antennae was trying to help me, but I had my own agenda.

"Let's kill some bitches in this plane! I know they're in there!" (FYI-it was a helicopter not a plane, and it was completely empty.)

Somehow, I managed to stay up til 3 p.m. watching "Training Day" with one eye open. Anyone else have trouble watching t.v. while wasted? I'm incapable of not seeing double unless I keep one eye closed.

Note to self for future drunken occurences: I can't fly like superwoman, learn a foreign language, play Xbox games or watch television. Damn, what CAN you do when intoxicated???

What it means to be a writer

Today marks shitty day number 224 at work. I've been there a year and a half, not by choice, but by necessity. Mama's got to bills to pay and red wine to buy.

I spent the day hovered over my keyboard, watching tears hit the keys one by one, rejecting any ounce of advice The Hoff solicited via gchat, because sometimes it's easier to sulk in misery than find a solution to the problem.

Here's my dilemma:

I'm on job #3 since graduating college three and a half years ago.

Job #1: Proposal writer for government contractor. First and only job offered to me upon graduation because it's the only one I applied to. I figured I'd be cool, since 'writer' was in the title. Yeah, um...not so much. I sucked at this job and finally decided after crying in the bathroom for weeks on end that I needed a change. It was around that time job #2 landed in my lap.

Job #2: Editorial assistant for two log home magazines and a timber home magazine. Gotta admit, I knew zero about log or timber homes. But I was applying what I learned in college, utilizing AP style, and editing documents on InDesign. Life was good. Until the economy went down the shitter, starting with the home industry, and my position was eliminated 14 months after I started.

Job #3: Information specialist for a government agency dedicated to women's health. Believe in the cause, not so much the organization. I essentially answer phone calls and e-mails from people who have the average IQ of a rock. I think I've mentioned I'm also a breastfeeding peer counselor before on this blog. I'm not sure how much talk of sore, chapped, cracked nipples I can tolerate.

Life is full of promise and opportunity when you graduate college. I envisioned myself as Kate Hudson's character in "How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days" or Jennifer Garner in "13 Going On 30," fashion magazine writer/editor by day and gallivanting girl about town by night.

Then, reality knocked me on my ass and I realized that you have to be Anna Wintour's goddaughter or have some divine intervention to be selected as an employee at one of the coveted fashion magazines. That is, if any of them survive this recession.

And I go to job # 3 day after day, knowing I'm better than what I'm doing, all the while being micromanaged by my supervisors. And all I really want to do is write. It's the only thing I've ever been above average at and the one thing that has consistently brought pleasure to my life.

But what do you do when you can't get paid to do your passion?

I watched "Julie and Julia" tonight, a movie any blogger can relate to, and Julie posed the question, "what does it mean to be a writer?"

-Do you have to be published to be considered a writer?
I'd argue no for the sole fact that numerous famous authors were never published during their lifetime, but that probably never affected their classification of themselves as a writer.

So how do you become a writer?

To watch Julie go through her own enlightenment, unfolding her talent and achieving her dreams made me realize something: If both Julia Child and Julie can go from government secretaries to published authors, then dammit, there may be hope for me yet.

But for now, I may not have a book deal or a movie offer, but I have this blog and that's incentive enough for now. Thanks for sticking around for the ride.

Ode to Grits

Last night, The Hoff and I had a nice romantic dinner in honor of D.C. Restaurant Week.

Our last Restaurant Week experience was God awful. I'm talking, I-would-have-rather-eaten- Ramen-noodles-and-a-Big-Mac awful. The only saving grace from that experience were our drinks, and only because we knew the bartender.

But, a friend recommended this particular restaurant so I figured it was safe to dine there for Restaurant Week. Plus, they don't discriminate and allow you to chose anything on their menu.

It was good. Not AMAZING, but good. 1,000,000 times better than the place that popped my D.C. Restaurant Week cherry.

The best part of the meal? The gouda grits served with my shrimp. By far some of the best grits I've ever tasted.

I'm pretty crazy about my grits. True story: I once, stammered into a Waffle House in Richmond (best place to go for late night drunk food) and belligerently yelled "I want my fucking grits" for a good 15 minutes until their wholesome, buttery goodness were placed in front of my face alongside some cheesy scrambled eggs, bacon and toast.

(...I think I just exposed my white trash side.)

At least I didn't belligerently demand my favorite Southern side dish in an upscale D.C. restaurant...YET.

Last night, as I was devouring my gouda grits and shrimp, The Hoff tried and bite and decided that he liked my grits just as much as me. I told him that if he's going to eat the epitome of Southern food, he has to say 'y'all' everytime he takes a bite.

Didn't go over so well.

Bahstan Boy that he is, I don't even think he brain can wrap around the essence and beauty of 'y'all.'

This means, darling Hoff, no mo' grits for you!

To: Miss Procras. From: Ellie the Echo

Evidently, my car thought I was on the naughty list this year. I've kinda put her through the ringer in the two years I've owned her. Scraping her side against a pole in a parking garage , losing a hubcap by running up onto a curb, leaving her parked in D.C. to get keyed by some hoodlums....you get the idea. Ellie the Echo is not happy with me.

But, Karma's a bitch. And Ellie decided to turn the tables on me last night.

I was at Pentagon City mall for a haircut and some last-minute shopping. I returned to my car and began driving away, when I heard the tell-tale thumping sound of a flat tire. I pulled back into a parking spot and went to assess the damage.

My front passenger side tire was ridiculously flat. I'm talking, rim-touching-the-pavement flat. After talking to The Hoff, I decided to drive to the nearest gas station.

Now, if you're from the D.C. area, you know that the Pentagon City mall area is basically all shops and apartments. NO gas stations. Why they don't have any fuel near where thousands of people shop and reside is beyond me.

I was sobbing, and praying, and cursing Ellie for being a piece of shit. She couldn't care less, and continued to thump and shake more violently with each block I drove.

After two miles, I finally caught glimpse of a gas station. The blue, red and white illuminated Exxon sign never looked so good. Before I was able to pull into the station, a Hispanic gentleman pointed at my tire.

No shit, Sherlock. I feel like I'm caught in a size-6-on the Richter scale earthquake, but I thought that was normal for a car. Thanks for the heads up.

I frantically pulled up to the air machine, grabbed my wallet and exited my car. When I reached the tire this is what I saw.

Yeah, I don't think putting air into that would help.

So, I went back to the driver's side door to retrieve my phone. Door was locked. I ran around to the passenger side. Also locked. Checked my coat pockets for my keys. Only found lint and an old movie ticket stub. Glanced at the ignition and saw keys still there, swaying gleefully from side to side. (I swear they were taunting me.)

I'm sure Ellie was on cloud nine by this point.

The gas station attendant was nice enough to let me use her phone to call The Hoff and USAA's roadside assistance.

The Hoff, knight in shining armor that he is, arrived in 15 minutes and kept me from getting frostbite. Within 45 minutes, the roadside assistance crew arrived, unlocked my car and replaced the shredded heap of rubber with my spare tire.

Not only do I drive a clown car, but now I'm driving with a donut. My commute on 66 and 495 was quite interesting, since I can't drive faster than 45 mph. I felt sorry for the poor souls behind me.

Moral of the story: don't ever drive on a flat. And maybe I really need to consider moving where a car isn't a necessity.

Queer Eye for the Straight Guy Chrstimas Edition

The Hoff and his roommates crack me up. They're the epitome of guy's guys. Football watching, farting, burping, beer-guzzling twenty-four year olds. And I heart them.

They've become some of my closest friends in D.C. and I couldn't ask for a better group of guys to party with and test my lackluster cooking skills on.

And I have to admit, they surprise the hell out of me. You'd think a house occupied by four 24-year-old guys would be equivalent to a frat house. But it's always decently clean.

In fact, they've got me beat on the Christmas decor front.

They purchased a well-shaped, full Frasier Fur Christmas tree (I feel like I'm describing a glass of wine or attractive person. Promise I don't have a tree fetish-ha!) Lights are strung, ornaments have been borrowed from yours truly, and the real shocker: the tree is color coded!

Only red and silver ornaments are hanging from the tree, with a few gold ones mixed in. It's like Queer Eye for the Straight Guy came through for the holidays.

See for yourselves. (Sorry the quality isn't so great, but you get the idea.)

And don't worry, that tree will have tons have presents surrounding it soon enough. They're all buying gifts for each other. Bromance at it's finest.

Frugal Fashion Finds

It's been a few weeks since I've done one of these, so I figured it was time for another. That, and I'm really excited about the AMAZING deal I got this past week weekend on a dress for my friends wedding.

I wanted a deep purple dress. I found one at Macy's that I LOVED, but was reluctant to buy because of the price tag. (It was orginally $124, marked down to $74, but my budget was $50.) I put the dress on hold, and spent the next two hours scouring the rack of my go-to stores: Ann Taylor, Banana Republic, Nordstrom, Express, The Limited, Forever 21.

Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

Three hours at the mall and I had nothing to show for it. Most depressing feeling EVER. I went back to Macy's and tried on the dress again. I figured since it fit perfectly and was the exact color I wanted, it was worth splurging.

Upon examinig the dress for imperfections (as every fashionista should), I noticed two small, barely-noticeable snags. Bingo! My golden ticket to a 10% discount. (That's typically the most stores will offer on damaged merchandise.)

I did a little happy dance, and made my way to the cash register. I was right, the most they would offer me is 10% off and it would be a final sale. Done and done. It's not like I want to return the dress, anyway.

The cashier rang up the dress, and when I looked down at the subtotal, it said $39.00.

My mouth dropped. The Hoff elbowed me to hide my expression so the cashier wouldn't think it was a mistake.

I don't think I've ever been so estatic about a purchase. I get the dress I loved AND stayed $10 under my budget!

I couldn't find the dress online in the color I bought, but here is is in black.

Ralph Lauren Jersey Halter Dress

Sick Day Revelation

Recap coming as soon as I get my lazy ass around to loading pictures onto my computer. And by my computer I mean The Hoff's. (Mine doesn't have internet access at the moment.)

So, instead, I'm going to write about something that doesn't require the use of yet-to-be-uploaded photos.

In between naps, I spent my sick days watching such greats as "Sex and the City," "27 Dresses," and "Marley and Me." Fortunately for me, Cinemax and HBO had them on repeat.

During the scene in "27 Dresses" when Sexy McSexface (aka James Marsden...loved him since "Second Noah" - you're my instant soul mate if you remember that show) is trying to get Katherine Heigl to say "no" to people, I realized I'm a lot like her character.

Let's take a moment to embrace the hotness that is James Marsden....

::swoon::

::faint::

Okay, back to my point.....

I definitely lack the assertiveness gene.

This may be why I've had two, yes TWO co-workers ask to borrow money from me. And not $.65 for a coke or $3.99 for a happy meal. I'm talking $50-100.

So, much like Katherine Heigl's character, I meekly responded that I'm sorry, but I can't loan them money. Luckily, these people asked me via text or im and not face-to-face.

What I really wanted to ask them way if they'd lost their G.D. mind and to work the oh-so-lucrative street corner if they're so hard up for cash. Of course, I'd have to say this in a diplomatic, don't-report-me-to-HR, I'd-really-like-to-keep-my-job sort-of way.

But seriously, to be asked to borrow that amount of money from co-workers? I must be doing something wrong.

And then I realized, I did the same thing in relationships. I never spoke my mind or made demands.

I wanted to be the cool, laid-back girlfriend. So if something bothered me, I just kept my mouth shut.

Until recently.

After my epiphany a few months ago, I've learned its okay to say what I want.

To name a few: I need date nights once a week, help with the dishes after I cook (and to have dinner cooked for me) and a kiss on my forehead before I go to sleep.

And you know what? The Hoff's still here.

So my expectations must not be that unreasonable.

If I can do this in one of the most important relationships in my life, I can certainly apply it toward others.

My new mantra:

No more worrying about what people think.

Time to be me, with no apologies or regrets.

Easier said than done, but I'll get there.

Boy Logic Makes Zero Sense

Before I go off on my tangent, I have to apologize for my negligence in posting. This week has been pretty intense - I'll explain later. And I know I normally post my frugal fashion finds on Friday (holy alliteration, batman!), but I just don't have it in me today.

So, I'll just vent to my fantabulous blog readers about The Hoff and his way of thinking.

You see, The Hoff needs a new car. He is currently driving a 1998 Toyota Camry, lovingly referred to as Tonya, the green monster. It's got quite a few dings (pictures to come soon) and malfunctions-i.e. the security system is shot to hell and randomly goes off while he's driving. I like to think of these as artistic flair.

In the glorious state of Virginia, state inspections are required once a year, and in Northern Virginia, emissions inspections are required every two years. Poor ol' Tonya won't pass either without $1300 worth of work done. She's worth $1500-$1900. Obviously, it's time for a new car.

The Hoff was expecting this and has been looking at cars already. And, he's hell bent on getting a BMW.

Maybe it's just me, but I don't understand the appeal of luxury cars, or cars in general. The minute you drive them off the lot, their value depreciates by thousands of dollars. More than likely, it's going to get scratched, dinged, damaged, etc., so why pour so much money into something you won't make any money off of??!!

I've tried to reason with him:

Me: I just don't get why you don't look into a Toyota, Honda, Nissan, etc.
The Hoff: I've wanted a BMW my whole life. I'm 24, I don't have any responsibilities, it's the perfect time to get one.
Me: I've wanted a pair of Jimmy Choos my whole life. I'm 25, my legs will never look like this again-I may as well invest in some stilettos to accentuate them. But, why should I spend $1000 on Jimmy Choos when I can get the same effect on a $65 pair from Nine West?
The Hoff: Go ahead and get them then.

This, coming from the guy who rants and raves that he doesn't understand why girls need so many shoes, purses, etc. Yet, a luxury car is justifiable.

I'm throwing in the towel. I've tried to be the voice of reason, but there's just no getting through. Luckily, I'll have something to throw in his face when I go on my next shoe shopping spree.

The Hoff may have won the battle, but I will win the war! :)

iPhones Are Whores

The Hoff and his roommates enrolled in the AT&T Family Plan so they could all get iPhones.

Let's all say it together now: AWWWWW

In all seriousness, it was a pretty genius idea. They are all paying less than they were with individual plans. Let's just hope they remain as close as the Bradys throughout the length of the contract.

And I have to admit, I sort of heart the iPhone. Even though it has been the source of some lovers' quarrels.

Quarrel #1:
I asked my friend, Queen, who has had an iPhone for quite some time, what apps I should download onto The Hoff's phone. She recommended "Sally's Beauty Spa." It's basically a time management came where you tell Sally, the spa owner, in which area of the spa she should be working. Some clientele are more patient and higher tippers than others (like in the real world), and if they get pissed off for poor service, they storm out and throw merchandise around.

I can play this game for hours - much to the chagrin of The Hoff. After two hours of being so trasnfixed in spa land and oblivous to anything going on around me, the Hoff said: "Now I know how girls feel like when guys play video games."

Major milestone for women achieved without even trying. I. AM. AWESOME.

Quarrel #2:
I found a free wine tasting going on in Georgetown on the Washington Post's Going out Guide, so The Hoff and I decided to check it out. I vaguely read directions on how to get to the restaurant, but didn't write down the address or directions. I just assumed we could use GPS on The Hoff's iPhone to find our way.

He was not pleased I didn't come prepared. Um...when are men ever prepared??!!

It didn't help that AT&T has craptastic service and it took 15 minutes for googlemaps to load.

Thirty minutes later, we finally made it. All was right in the world by our second glass of wine.

Quarrel #3:
A few days later, The Hoff and I were venturing to another location in the city we had never been, aka we'd get miserably lost without specific walking directions.

The Hoff: Did you print out directions?
Me: No, I just thought we could use your iPhone.
(I actually had printed off directions, I just like to get The Hoff exasperated for comedic value.)
The Hoff: Miss Procras., my iPhone is not a whore! She's not available whenever you want her!
Me: BAHAHAHAHAHAHA

I'm sure there will be many more of these throughout the iPhone's existence.

Facebook + Relationships = Trouble

I have a love/hate relationship with Facebook. At best, I'd consider us frenemies.

Sure, it provides hours of distraction at work and keeps you connected to faraway friends, but it also raises added complications, especially when relationships are concerned.

1) Can relationships actually start from a Facebook encounter?

Witness dialogue from “He’s Just Not That Into You:”
Mary: He MySpaced me.
Nathan: Ouch!
Mary: Oh.
Joshua: Oh girl I don't know about that... My trampy little sister says MySpace is the new booty call.

2) Is it absolutely vital to confirm your relationship on Facebook?

3) What about when you break up? Is it best to delete an ex from your friend list?

4) If you stay Facebook friends, is it healthy to: sneak a peek at an ex’s profile, pics, status; send messages occasionally? What’s proper Facebook ex etiquette?

When I apply these questions to my own life, I wonder – am I going about this Facebook relationship thing all wrong?

1) The night I met The Hoff, I scurried off before he could ask for my number to avoid an awkward goodbye. I obviously wanted him to ask for my number, but I didn’t want him to know that. To my surprise, I got a friend request and FB message from him the next day. Guess this refutes the logic of Facebook communication = booty call.

2) I never confirmed a relationship on Facebook until I started dating The Hoff. And even then, I didn’t confirm it until we had been together almost a year.

I just don’t understand people who feel the need to broadcast their love and devotion all over Facebook. It makes me want to vomit all over my screen reading about how perfect someone’s boyfriend/husband is and how they can’t wait to see them in 2.75 hours.

The Hoff’s roommates used to joke that The Hoff and I weren’t in a real relationship since we weren’t even confirmed on FB. Since when does a social networking site determine how real your relationship is?

I think that’s bullshit- you can absolutely be in a loving, committed relationship without advertising it. Though I will admit, it does prevent certain former flings from contacting you, thinking you are single, when they can easily check your relationship status.

3) My most recent ex is still on my friends list. We didn’t have a nasty breakup or anything, so it didn’t seem necessary to delete him.

4) I have to admit, I do check out my recent ex’s profile/pics/status updates everyone once in a while. He has a new girlfriend and a new job, and I have to admit, it does sting a little to read that and feel like I know nothing about a person that I used to know everything about. But I can’t stop myself from looking.

It makes me wonder if that nagging feeling of knowing your ex is with someone else ever goes away. And if not, is it really healthy to keep him on my friends list and have a constant reminder that I’m no longer a part of his life? And if I do delete him and he realizes it, will I look like pathetic and immature?

I think as new technologies emerge, we have to create new rules and boundaries for ourselves. Like with cell phones, I have a few friends who will file a girlfriend’s number under their recent ex’s name so that even if they drunk dial him, they’ll reach someone who can cheer them up. (Of course this doesn’t help if you know the bastard’s number by heart.)

I have a feeling by the time I get my personal Facebook etiquette system down pat, something else will come along that I have to figure out all over again.

So I'm curious-what are your Facebook relationship rules? How do you think relationships should be handled on social networking sites?

Drool Me a River

I'm not the best bed buddy in the world.

I steal covers, maneuver myself into a diagonal position so I'm monopolizing 99% of the bed and grind my teeth.

I also have what doctor's refer to as a bit of a drooling problem.

Sunday night, I attempted to watch Mad Men with The Hoff. Since the new season started a few weeks ago, I've been telling him I'll watch an episode. (He claims it's one of the best shows on t.v. right now.) I haven't been able to make it to the first commercial break without crashing. That's what happens when you bring your A-game all weekend...

I must have been really spent this past Sunday because before I knew it, The Hoff was grabbing my jaw to keep me from grinding my teeth. (I have my own personal mouth guard.) Then, I woke up, lifted my head, and noticed a string a drool connecting my mouth to an Olympic-sized puddle in the middle of The Hoff's chest. (Don't worry, I mopped before zonking out again.)

But I wasn't done wrecking slumber havoc yet.

When The Hoff was trying to peacefully sleep, I pulled all the covers onto my side of the bed while simultaneously pushing him onto the floor in effort to obtain my preferred diagonal sleeping position.

The irony to this all is I have to be in a completely quiet environment to fall asleep. I can't have the t.v. or radio on (unless I'm completely wiped out), and I DETEST snoring. I've gone so far as to sleep in my car or a bathtub to avoid the freight-train noises that come from people with a deviated septum. It irritates me that much.

And The Hoff is a very pleasant bed companion. He sometimes lightly snores, but it's so faint it wouldn't bother anyone accept yours truly and her bat-like ears. You better believe he gets poked in the ribs anytime his breathing reaches 1 dB.

...I definitely would have kicked my ass to the couch by now if I were him.

Random Humpday Fun

It's humpday and my eyes are glazing over from nothing to do at work.

Luckily, my dearest friend, Queen, sent me an e-mail full of random thoughts to keep me entertained. It was basically a list of things you've thought to yourself a hundred times but never dare admit to anyone else.

Below, is a smattering of my faves (with my own commentary, of course.) Enjoy!

I wish Google Maps had an "Avoid Ghetto" routing option.
Especially to avoid areas like SE D.C. Thank god the Nats stadium finally moved.

Nothing sucks more than that moment during an argument when you realize you're wrong.
This happened to me last night when I got into a debate with The Hoff and his roommate about when Big Ben was drafted and won his first Superbowl. They just got iPhones and put me in my place with confirmed facts from Wikipedia. I HATE being wrong!

I don't understand the purpose of the line, "I don't need to drink to have fun." Great, no one does. But why start a fire with flint and sticks when they've invented the lighter?
Amen.

Have you ever been walking down the street and realized that you're going in the complete opposite direction of where you are supposed to be going? But instead of just turning a 180 and walking back in the direction from which you came, you have to first do something like check your watch or phone or make a grand arm gesture and mutter to yourself to ensure that no one in the surrounding area thinks you're crazy by randomly switching directions on the sidewalk.
Story of my life. Anyone know how to do this discretely?

I totally take back all those times I didn't want to nap when I was younger.
Why the f didn't I take advantage of nap time in Kindergarten?!

Do you remember when you were a kid, playing Nintendo and it wouldn't work? You take the cartridge out, blow in it and that would magically fix the problem. Every kid in America did that, but how did we all know how to fix the problem? There was no internet or message boards or FAQ's. We just figured it out. Today's kids are soft.
Kids today, I swear.

There is a great need for sarcasm font.
::sarcasm:: or note the sarcasm just don't cut it

Sometimes, I'll watch a movie that I watched when I was younger and suddenly realize I had no idea what the hell was going on when I first saw it.
That would be "Dirty Dancing" for me. Totally didn't realize she got an sma-smortion.

How the hell are you supposed to fold a fitted sheet?
And keep them wrinkle-free? It sucks waking up with a gazillion sleep lines in the morning.

I would rather try to carry 10 plastic grocery bags in each hand than take 2 trips to bring my groceries in.
Who cares if you get indents in your arms that hurt like crazy and you have to waddle to keep from tipping over because one side is always heavier than the other?

The only time I look forward to a red light is when I’m trying to finish a text.
Or put on make-up, pluck my eyebrows, find the pen I just dropped so I can write down an address. Yeah, I'm that annoying/unsafe person who multi-tasks while driving.

It really pisses me off when I want to read a story on CNN.com and the link takes me to a video instead of text.
Don't they know most people can't have sound on at work?

Answering the same letter three times or more in a row on a Scantron test is absolutely petrifying.
I'm convinced teachers have some conspiracy going on to fuck with students when they're already experiencing peak stress levels.

I love the sense of camaraderie when an entire line of cars teams up to prevent a jerk from cutting in at the front. Stay strong, brothers!
Can this please happen in D.C. more often? Let's start a club!

Every time I have to spell a word over the phone using 'as in' examples, I will undoubtedly draw a blank and sound like a complete idiot. Today I had to spell my boss's last name to an attorney and said "Yes that's G as in...(10 second lapse)..ummm...'Goonies'"
I work in a call center. This happens to me at least 15 times a day. And I'm totally going to start using movie titles or celebrities instead of fruits or common names. What's the fun in that?

It should probably be called Unplanned Parenthood.
Seriously, I don't think anyone goes there who is experiencing a planned pregnancy.

I hate being the one with the remote in a room full of people watching TV. There's so much pressure. 'I love this show, but will they judge me if I keep it on? I bet everyone is wishing we weren’t watching this. It's only a matter of time before they all get up and leave the room. Will we still be friends after this?'
Precisely why I always avoid sitting next to the remote.

I disagree with Kay Jewelers. I would bet on any given Friday or Saturday night more kisses begin with Miller Lites than Kay.
No commentary necessary. This is just hilarious.

Why does the entire right side of my body hurt?

Because I'm a drunk asshole, that's why.

Let me explain.

This weekend, I experienced the shitshow that is Dewey Beach. I've heard DC-ers and NOVA-ites rave about this place for three years now, and I figured I needed to see what all the fuss was about.

The Hoff and I decided to take a trip with his roommate and his roommate's girlfriend. I found us a hotel that ended up being in prime drinking location (i.e no more than 4 blocks from the all the good bars.)

Friday night was normal enough. I was in that happy-drunk state where everything is right in the world.

But Saturday was a different story. I was pissed to begin with because the Steelers lost (I know it was only preseason football, but I still hate when they lose).

Then, two sleazy d-bags decided it would be a good idea to grab my ass. Side note: I'm often told I have a ghetto booty, and have been blessed with such nicknames as 'junk in the trunk' and 'bootylicious,' so I've grown accustomed to the attention my ass attracts.

That being said, I do not appreciate random dudes grabbing my goods. You have to be inducted into the super-exclusive Miss Procras. ass-grabbing club to have that honor bestowed upon you.

Problem #2 is I've never been that good at sticking up for myself. (I usually have Lo around to do that for me.) My rebuttal (no pun intended) to being assaulted? Throw ice fat one of the guys from five feet away. Yeah, I'm bad ass.

I decided that after the bar, some good ol'fashion drunk food was in order. But by the time The Hoff and I got our pizza, I felt sick and asked if we could go back to our room.

This is where things get really, really fuzzy.

I ate a slice and a half of pizza, then kept mumbling over and over that I didn't feel well. The Hoff escorted me to the bathroom and held my hair back while I vomitandoed a few times.

Next thing I knew, I woke up wondering why the hell the right side of my body ached so much and realized I was passed out on the floor of the bathroom. Apparently, I refused to move after my vom sesh, so The Hoff gave up and brought me a pillow and blanket so I could slumber peacefully on the cold, hard, germ-infested floor.

My side is still in pain.

Oddly enough, that was the first time I passed out on a bathroom floor. Picnic tables, stages and underneath tables are usually more my style.

I really need to find more comfortable places to lay my head when wasted - or just don bubble wrap before I go out drinking.

The Donald is going to appear and yell "You're Fired!" any minute now

This week has been an interesting week at work. And not in a good way.

Yes, I was late every day, but that's standard. (Today I was only 9 minutes late, which I gave myself major kudos for.)

Tuesday, I wore a new pair of dress shorts I purchased from Banana last weekend. (They were this style, but tan.) I bought them specifically for work, and paired them with peep-toe brown heels and a dressy brown top. I couldn't wait to wear a fun, new outfit.

Around 11 a.m., I got an IM (yes, we use Instant Messenger at work-annoying as hell) from one of my supervisors that said, "Hi Miss Procras., may I speak to you in the conference room for a minute please?"

I knew this little chat was not going to go well. It's akin to being sent to the principal's office in elementary school. I could just hear the childhood taunts of "ooooooohhhhh! Miss Procras. is in troooooooouuuuuble!!"as I walked to the conference room.

Turns out, our little meeting was about my new shorts. Apparently they don't adhere to the company's dress code. Even though I've been wearing a gray and black pair all summer and even though another co-worker had on a pair last week (to which, my manager replied, that there is no rhyme or reason for who gets singled out.)

Now, I would have no problem with this policy if it were consistent. I would also have no problem if the dress code was more clearly outlined. When I first started, the dress code stated we could wear jeans on Friday. So, I wore jeans on my first Friday, then got a friendly IM that day stating our department does not allow jeans.

Does anyone else see a problem with this besides me? Why the F-ity F would you say something is okay to wear if it's not?! And why, if you're going to be anal, would you not be as specific as possible?! Especially since there are so many clothing options for women!

I was livid. I try really hard to project a professional, polished image at work. It's not like I go around, cleavage exposed, ass hanging out.

So I vented to The Hoff and my mom during my lunch break and drank a few cosmos after work. Cosmos cure all.

Then, on Thursday, The Hoff had a meeting he needed to leave for by 9 - the same time I needed to leave. I woke up, looked at the clock, and was horrified to see 9:45 flashing in front of me.

I rubbed my eyes. The time didn't change.
Thought maybe I had my days wrong and maybe it was actually Saturday. Pondered for a few seconds, and realized, unfortunately, it was Thursday. The Hoff had 15 minutes to get to Woodbridge while I was already 15 minutes late.

Panic set it.

As calmly as I could, I woke up The Hoff. I've never seen anyone fly out of bed as fast as he did. I've also never heard anyone curse that much. (Must be the Bahston in him.)

Honestly, neither of us can even remember the alarm going off. Definitely interesting explaining that one to the boss.

At this point, I'm so over my job I just don't care anymore. I keep telling myself to suck it up so I can continue paying my bills until I find something that actually falls in line with my career goals.

For my sanity's sake, I really hope that's sooner rather than later. (And before the Trumpster shows up.)

Thank the sweet baby Jesus it's Friday. Time to detox from work and intox (I know that's not a real word, but it should be) on alcohol!

Ranting Sesh, Version 1

Part of dating The Hoff means watching Red Sox games. Any and all that are televised here in our nation's capital. (The Hoff claims this is hardly any, but I beg to differ.)

I've come to accept this trait of The Hoff. As a loving, caring girlfriend, I know to only call him during commercials if I'm not with him when his team is playing.

And I have to admit, I've found myself cheering for ol' Beantown. Especially when they play the Yankees.

In fact, I don't think I detest any sports team more than I do the Yanks.

Johnny Damon: Yuck (Way to lie about never leaving Boston and then going to their arch nemesis for a measley $4 million pay increase. Whatever-don't need you anyway.)
Derek Jeter: Gag me (Dated Mariah Carey, 'nuff said.)
A-Rod: Sorry excuse for a human being. (Kate Hudson, please stop hanging out with such a loser. You seem wayyyy to cool for him.)

In comparison:
Pedroia: MVP (what, what)
Youkalis: That guy just looks like he could kick ass and take names.
Ellsbury: HOTT
Ortiz: Love when he's at bat and spits on his gloves then slaps his hands together. Cracks me up for some reason. (Hey, I have to find something to entertain me.)

My heart broke a little this weekend when I had to watch the Sox lose. I think I got more angry than The Hoff watching those bastards gloat. I even hid my face under the covers when A-Rod was up to bat. I refuse to waste minutes of my life watching that d-bag.

I'm still a little heated from last night if you can't tell.

I apologize if any of my readers are Yankees fans. I still love you, I just don't like your team. :)

Tonight, I'm FINALLY posting pics and a recap of my Bermuda vacay.