Today I met an misogynist and I survived.

If I haven't mentioned it before, I work in outside sales for a retrofit construction company ie. 23 year old attractive female, surrounded by 50 plus males. This position seemed like a dream come true for an self-proclaimed attention whore, such as myself. Today, I not only realized the challenges women face when dealing with men who are attracted to them, but also the negativity any sex receives when in an industry uncharted by their gender.

I found a new company two weeks ago and left information and samples of our product for the owner to look at at his convenience. One week later, I received a phone call asking me to come by and answer questions, provide pricing, etc. Normal. Done it before. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Our appointment was set for 9:00 am today. I show up at 8:45 because I have a problem not showing up early. I am informed upon arrival that the owner, "Steve," is at an appointment and will not be there until 10:00. "That's fine." I begin. "I can go and come back." Fortunately, I had another appointment around the corner that took a half an hour, which allowed me to multi-task, which is a turn on for me. I have a point, bear with me. I go to my other location and return at 9:45, early again. I patiently wait for Steve, and pass time by writing a list of things I need for Palm Springs, knowing that I already had the list completed in my head and that I would not look at it again.

Steve finally arrives at 10:15, driving a red truck. He invites me into his office, clears a chair for me and manages to call me "young lady" at some point within our initial meeting. Before I can even begin my pitch I am stopped with, "Wait, you have ever installed a window before have you?" Excuse me. Do I even need to answer that? Although my inner dialogue tends to be laden with sarcasm, this is not. I am a 23 year old female, in kitten heels, fake nails and makeup. I am not a 23 male in a t-shirt and jeans, nor a 56 year old butch dyke named Roxanne. I know I am generalizing greatly here, but the odds that I install windows are slim to none. The fact is that he asked me that question to dictate his authority over me, the situation and my knowledge of "his" industry.

After his condescending remark, I resort to my background in professionalism and digress. I continue our conversation by prequalifing him with questions like "who do you currently purchase from," "what does you volume look like," "which products do you currently stock," etc. He answers my questions and proceeds to look at the brochure that I had provided two weeks prior. I sit patiently while he peruses the brochure. Realizing the absurdity of me sitting there while he reads literature to himself, a task which could have been completed at any time within the last two weeks, I clear my throat and begin, "Let me show you some of our new products that aren't in our catalog." To which he interrupts me with, "Oh yeah, I have them right here."

Again I question my role in waiting over an hour and sitting in his office in the first place. He hands me the piece I previously left for him, not without the sly remark, "Here, why don't you show me what this is for..." Asshole.

I begin, "this is used when the window...." only to be interrupted with the answer. That's correct Steve. Wow, it must be really difficult to be such a dick all the time like yourself. How do you do it? Are there some classes I can take or just it just come naturally? Maybe you can teach me how to be a dick and I can teach you how to put on fake eyelashes, read fashion magazines and talk like a valley girl since "like, I am so like totally good at doing like all those like things and like know nothing about any like other stuff." After receiving the answer to his obviously rhetorical question, I continue with the second selling point of the product, which he obviously already knows everything about. He then adds, "oh, but that's just what the GUYS back at the office told you though, right?" Oh, my God. I am about to freak out like I did earlier today. 10 deep breaths......1...2...3....

Okay, the obvious insult is that since I am female, I MUST have been educated by big, strong, intelligent men as to the subject matter which I am relaying. I mean that is the ONLY feasible answer to his question. There is no way that I was able to read through our brochure, and ask questions, and research other window manufacturers websites in order to better educate myself. That is just absurd. Come now. Even though I did obtain a B.A., and made Dean's list more than once at a highly acclaimed university, there is no plausible explanation that I know about my product, other than what was told to me, by men at the office, nonetheless.

If I could ask Steve anything it would have to be, well after the anxiety and anger subsides that is, "how else do we learn about things, completely foreign and out of our realm of understanding, other than someone teaching it to us?" Isn't that why we go to school in the first place, to learn from someone who has a deeper understanding on an issue which we have none? Yes, Steve, the "guys" back at the office told me that "contractors use this product as an upgraded version to square cutting the flat." Are you happy now? I know nothing. I am merely a shell to bear children, shake my boobies, brush my hair and smile.

Moving on. After Steve has already managed to belittle, berate and completely dismiss me in his mind, he finds it in his heart of hearts to give me a second chance, a chance to segregate myself from all the other women that have burned him so badly in his pathetic existence. "Well," he starts, "you can't be that bad." Geez, really Steve? I mean you only met me fifteen minutes ago. Are you sure you already want to give me the benefit of the doubt like that? "You do drive a red truck," he continues. As if him and I using a similar mode of transportation as him HAS ANY BEARING ON MY CHARACTER, MORAL UPBRINGING OR GOODNESS. "Wait," he stops himself. Uh oh. I can only guess what is coming next. "Is that even your truck, or is it the company truck?" Think Wanton Hussy. Think. This is the deal breaker. Either you lie and save face and say it is your truck so that he musters one shred of amicability towards you, or you tell him the truth and ruin any chance of him ever seeing you as anything more than a nagging vagina. Oh, what to do, what to do.

Fuck it. What do I have to lose? "It's the company truck." BOOM, CRASH, BANG, SIZZLE. Flames lick at every word as it leaves my perfectly lipglossed mouth. "Whore." I can hear him thinking. At this point, I am wasting his time and he is mine. I quickly attempt to dilute the situation and proceed to make my exit, with the promise of pricing to be faxed to him. I will not be visiting Steve anytime in the near future.

Once in the car, dumbfounded by the audacity of the situation, I jot down the phrases that resonate through my head like a racist remark, a crude joke or a hostile breakup. "Wait, you've never installed a window have you," "oh, you mean what the guys back at the office told you," "you drive a red truck so you can't be that bad, right?" Right.

Hot, angry, alligator size tears of frustration stream down my cheeks. I can't stop them. I'm not crying per say. There is no sobbing or shortness of words, no difficulty swallowing, just the tears. Just the realization that some people are assholes for no good reason and we have to cohabitate with them, on this very small earth. The realization that people are not innately good or kind, but evil, vindictive and cruel. Not only cruel, but crude as well.

Case in point, I continue on with my day, as this was only my second stop of many. My odds of the day getting much better were in my favor, as at this point I couldn't see them getting much worse. At the next location, I am well received and able to give my "pitch" without being interrupted. However, upon an employee educating another employee as to what I sell, the one employee responds, "She's cute. I'll take one of her." A compliment you would think. I should be thankful that men look at me in this way. Incorrect. When it is 11:00 a.m. on a Thursday, and I am wearing a flowy skirt past my knees, a collared shirt and sweater vest, and minimal makeup, this is not the reaction I seek from men. Also, do you not see that this is not a compliment in my appearance, but a dismissal of myself as anything more than an item for sale, similar to a product in our brochure? How do I react to this? "Only items in the brochure are for sale." Quick thinking. Putting him in his place. Bringing the conversation back to the product. Asserting my professionalism, despite my sex and age.

The rest of my day remained quite uneventful. Despite the morning cup o' misogyny and brunch eye fuck, I was just another girl out in the world, trying to make a buck and catch a break.

"I think I am an 'optimism junkie."

You know those moments when you really can't think of any reason to be in a ridiculously good mood. I'm am having one of those moments. It's like for those few hours when everything is in balance and you have so many things to look forward to and nothing in the near future that you dread. No regret on your plate, no guilt on your shoulders, no skeletons in the closet. Everything is glorious.

Some may call it "sainthood" to have no skeletons in the closet, others, "a low moral obligation." I call it my reality. Driving home I just realized how fortunate I am to be where I am, doing what I'm doing, letting the cards fall as they may. No predictions, few precautions, some apprehensions.

I know this moods is only temporary, as I am a perpetual worrier. Sometimes I will have such an overwhelming sense of anxiety over nothing, that I will forget what I am worrying about, and then get more anxious trying to remember what it was that I was so worried about in the first place.

I don't think people put enough emphasis on the fact that they really do hold the key to whether the glass is half empty or half full. I know that some people suffer from depression and that it is an uncontrollable disease. But even then, there are activities, hobbies, opportunities that people can participate in, in order to maximize their mood.

I think I am an "optimism junkie." Really, this can't be good. Maybe it's because my parents and I are on the up, after a very long period of down. Maybe it's because this week and next week are four day weeks due to the holiday weekend. Maybe it's because I am going to Palm Springs with the Wanton Hussy Posse this weekend. Maybe it's none of those things and it's just because I can't find a good reason to not be grinning like an idiot. Whatever it is, I don't want it to end. But then again, if we never had bad, frustrating, fowl events in our lives, we wouldn't have the same sense of relief when opportunities of content present themselves.

I can't help it. I am the product of a self-fulfilling relationship, in which everyone wins. Or loses, depending on how you cut it. I am beginning to think that I need an "inner dialogue." My weakness as an individual stems from my lack of a filter for my thoughts. Not one of those cowardly people that "tell it like it is" who are really just mean spirited and mask it with their ability to be "honest." But, one of those naive, slightly pathetic people who will tell almost anyone, almost anything. I have not been "burned in a relationship" in any sense of the word, and therefore have no reason to not completely bare my soul to the world.

In fact I have been burned in the past when it came to catty fellow female athletes, but I just chalked that up to jealousy. I'm doing it again. Baring my feelings with no haste. Blogs are dangerous. They are like letters to anyone sans the repercussions of friendship. Without the fear of rejection or humiliation. Blogs are like the little things that no one either cares to hear, or needs to hear, only they are over a loud speaker, without you there. I am debating even posting this. But since I am so proud of my ability to speak without reservations, here goes...

I am Tart's Best Friend.

Poem to Tart.

We have been best of friends since we were four,
We met when I came up to your door.
We have a box we call our "Vault,"
Please never join a group like a cult.

In our "Vault" are many pictures and notes,
I like to drink Root Beer Floats.
We make fun of boys who wrote us love letters,
They are all in our past and have made us so much better.

We have grown up so fast and still feel young,
A funny word that rhymes with "young" is "dung."
Even though we're still basically the same,
We'll never forget the times when we used to play the "Bank Game."

We are going to get married and be each others Maid-of-Honors,
The only thing that rhymes with "Honor" is my cousin named "Connor."
If you don't get me a stripper for my Bachorlette party you're fired,
Make sure that he knows that clothing is NOT required.

We've had other acquaintances that have tried to be our exclusive friends,
We both got tired of them and kicked them to the bend.
They could never match what we have so diligently worked on,
Fun Fact: "Step by Step" by the New Kids on the Block is still one of my favorite songs.

We have so much fun together,
Reading, watching Food Network and drinking Margaritas from a blender.
If one day, it ever may be that we are apart,
You must always know that I love my Tart.

Is it ever possible to know EVERYTHING about an individual?

Case in Point: Upon the realization that I am quite fond of my new blogging capabilities, I offered an invitation to Ex-Beau #? to read my blog. To which I received the response, "I already know everything there is about you. More than even Tart and your Mother know."

Let me back up. I know that Ex-Beau#? is slightly arrogant, stubborn and somewhat of a Know-It-All. Also, that he will never read this, which is probably a good thing, as now I am given the opportunity of free speech regarding the topic. But still, does he have a point?

Now the evidence: Granted this particular Ex-Beau #? was lucky enough to date the Wanton Hussy for over two years, whereas I have known Tart for 19 years, and my mother for 23, he STILL feels that he knows everything there is to know about me and it would thereby be a waste of time to read any thoughts I may relay, as he already knows what I would say.

True, that people tend to fair pretty consistently in behavior, when experienced over an extended period of time. But, aside from day to day episodes which one can not predict to happen to another individual, do we ever get to a point where we know all there is to know about human being? Where nothing they could say or do would not be outside of our normal perceived frame of reference for their actions? Where we wouldn't even need to read about their position on a subject, their ideas of the future or the frustrations of the present, because we have already viewed them in a similar situation and therefore have a familiar notion as to their feelings, and therefore, the outcome? God, I'm good.

And furthermore, why would we invest time into another person, only to know that eventually, or in Ex-Beau #?'s opinion, within two years, we are capable of not being surprised. I am still in awe of the growth and maturation Tart has made since we were 4. Surprised, not really.

I just realized what it is! Oh, I am so my own psychologist. It's not that I need him to read my blog. It's that I had to dive into the fathoms of "what makes Wanton Hussy a Wanton Hussy" and figure out if I really don't have anything more to offer after a two year relationship. Not that Ex-Beau #? sucked the life out of me, but really dissect the notion that someone could predict what I would do or say after just two years, outside of a surprising bout with arson, morbid obesity or prostitution.

To which I respond, "ERRONEOUS!!" Of course I have more to offer another individual after two years, after 19 years and after 23 years. I know my actions keep my mom on her nicely pedicured toes everyday. Which goes to show, if Ex-Beau #? didn't underestimate my delightfully Wanton nature and Hussy appearance, maybe he would have had that other chance he wanted?

But, being a product of a dual-income, working mother household, I know that I DO have more to offer. And that if someone doesn't occasionally become overwhelmed with my cuteness, intelligence and profitability, then maybe they aren't smart enough for me and it is time to move on anyways. Aren't self-affirmations fun?

BOO!!! -- Betcha didn't some that one comin'.

At least I'm not too arrogant to admit it when...

I "had" a date tonight that never called. Translation: I was blatantly blown off. "What an idiot...," she exclaimed, breathlessly, and quite, jovially, while shaking her tired head, shrugging her shoulders and not really caring, but obviously a little burned by the anti-climatic events which preceded. I'm not too arrogant to admit that, surprise, surprise, this is not the first time a Wanton Hussy, such as myself, has been previously approved of, to only be later rejected of. Enter gasping breath here. Let me recap.

Exhibit A: Reason behind a one "Sucker for Tattoos" blog is lucky enough to have me enter his establishment, during my successful stint at outside sales. Tattooitis gives a Miss Wanton Hussy a cellular phone number, in case a Miss Wanton Hussy is "in need of his glass-glazing services." No seriously, that's not a innuendo. Too tired to enter innuendo here. On Tuesday, August 23, at approximately O' Eleven Hundred Hours, a Miss Wanton Hussy phones Tattooitis "regarding work related information" and is consequently and explicitly asked to a meal to proceed on the night of Friday, August 25. This meal was to be preceded by a phone call on the afternoon of Thursday, August 24 or morning of Friday, August 25. This phone call, to a Miss Wanton Hussy, never took place, as supported by the overwhelming evidence as I, Miss Wanton Hussy, am sitting comfortably braless, in the clothes I wore to work today, post nap, in glasses, with a Large mug of Gun Powder Green Tea, from a Tea Ball, or in my opinion, the "right" way to drink Green Tea. Thereby, consequently, not devouring delicious, authentic Italian food, as I had erroneously predicted to be taking place now, 21 Hundred hours, Friday August 25.

Can't say I'm not surprised. Tragic, really, that nothing in this narrow-minded, upside down, bonkers of a world, really surprises me anymore. I am perfectly okay with the outcome of the evening. I am glad that "Mr. I have a lot of Tattoos and provide the perfect blend of compliments and inquisition to keep you intrigued," at least did me the favor of, selectively and personally, excusing himself from my short, finite life, rather then the inevitable and awkward ending provided by either party. The only thing I am missing tonight is awkward silences, humiliating "Ass-Out hugs," round-about, yet vaguely egotistical, vapid conversation, complete with nauseating thoughts laden with insecurity. Essentially ending in a memorable, but, regrettable first kiss, probably beginning with teeth clicking, mouth missing or an equally embarrassing first kiss quality.

So, thank you. Thank you for caring. Thank you for not calling. Thank you for sparing me the forever lost cell phone minutes and never gained sense of dignity. Us Wanton Hussies may be a dime a dozen, but by-gone-it, at least we have our low standards to keep us together.

I Hate Anonymity.

I hate anonymity. Nothing makes me more mad than people acting differently because they feel they will not, or can not, be held responsible for their actions. Like when I was jogging on the beach and a teenage girl on a bike barked at me, just to impress her equally mature friend. I pretended like I didn't even know what was going on, but what I really wanted to do was chase after her like a crazy, catch her and scream, "I HAVE A PHOBIA OF BARKS!" or something equally traumatizing.

Other such cases of negative anonymity include, but are not exclusive to; "the finger," the explicitives, the barking, the hoots and the hollers. Although, males feel that the hoots and hollers are enjoyed, such is not the case. Instead, try an approach, like "Hey do you live around here?" Back to my point, people act in societally inappropriate manners when they know they will not be called out.

It is also true in the opposite sense. Like the person that mailed me my driver's license when it fell out of my pocket, one Hussy filled eveing. Although I was extremely grateful to the thoughtfulness of the individual, the act was not without a P.R. attempt on that person's behalf. For they strategically included a note complete with the "do-gooders" phone number. Obviously, the individual was hoping for a whole-hearted thank you. But, I did not feel that a random act of kindness, like mailing back an I.D., deserved a personal phone call from a complete stranger. Rather, this individual should have gained enough personal satisfaction from doing a "random act of kindness" and not have included their phone number and an obvious note stating, "I found your I.D."

What I do appreciate is people who do good deeds sans acknowledgement. Those are the true philanthropists. The ones that do good and hope no one finds out, because it is then that their actions can be misinterpreted for proving one's kindness and good intentions. For instance, the company I work for is in the process of researching how to donate to Habitat for Humanity, and have, thus far, not advertised this as a selling point of the company.

Still, we are all guilty of a little positive P.R., myself included. More so in the obvious of manners, like on dates, to bosses, to friends parents, etc. If we are void of the moments in the day to indulge in the vapid act of boasting of one's accomplishments, what's the point of doing them? No one is completely selfless. I don't care what you say. Even Mother Teresa and Gandhi were not without their ulterior motives. They might not be as obvious as a beauty pageants act of voluntarism, but they exist nonetheless. Call me cynical. Call me a hussy. Just don't call me green.

My Weak Attempt to Speed Date and the Realization Thereof...

Being the Type A extroverted personality that I am, I like to plan ahead. You would be amazed out how far in my life I have a schedule for. I know that nothing is set in stone and that the only thing you can "predict is the unpredictable," but still I maintain vague plans and set goals. With that, I know that someday I would like to get married, "settle down (cringe)" and find me a man, in no particular order. So what did I do today? I googled "speed dating orange county." What were the results? I am not invited to any speed dating events, as I am not the minimum age of 25, but the ripe age of 23 years young.

Feeling dejected, I attempt to figure out why an ambitious, talented, capable 23 year old female would not be included in the appropriate age demographic of a speed dating environment. Why is 23 out of the traditional mindset of those that typically speed date? Before I could even finish my omnipotent, omnipresent internal dialogue, I had reached my conclusion.

Think about it, you "son of a motherless goat." You went to UCI. You watch CSI. You aren't invited because 23 year olds are not intended to be dating people that they could potentially be interested in long term. Oh!!! I forget sometimes that 23 year olds are not meant to marry, settle, question or doubt their identity. 23 year olds are meant to travel, explore, have adventures and develop their own sense of self, in order to meet the suitor that compliments them best. Obviously, the creators of the speed dating are "hip to the groove" of what is appropriate for my age demographic, whereas, I often find myself randomly, tapdancing on the "June Cleaver" mentality, as so many generations have possessed before me. You know it, or your mom knew it, or your grandmother, if you're really progressive. The whole "find 'em, keep 'em, serve 'em, never let 'em go" song and dance. Knowing the gagging ridiculousness of this archaic, primordial justification of gender relations, why do I continue to have such a hard time accepting that it is that which is unpredictable, which is the exact motivation behind human nature to hold out for the one that is best suited?

Case in point, I had sushi tonight with a friend who is 20, married, is "taking time off from college" to move to Portland with her new husband so he can pursue Law School. Cringe. Not for me, great for her, to which I am so happy. What is it about the ambivalence behind relationships that drives the level-headed, happily single men and women of the completely fulfilling, professional lifestyle, to unjustifiable thoughts of doubt and fear? Leaving me wondering if I possess too high of standards and will die a single, stubborn, shriveled old woman, surrounded by cats, T.V. dinners, and saggy tattoos. To which I say, "better that, than sans the premeditated stories of lost loves, ship wrecks and late night skinny dipping sessions I WILL experience." But honestly, when are we to throw in the towel and lower the standards we have prided ourselves on, in order to succumb to the timeline of fertility? 25? 28? 32? 45? When's too late for love and when are we being premature for that which we are capable of? And what are we capable of and by whose standards do we judge this capability? Hold on. Yeah, I just fainted from hyperventilation.

Do not fret my pet. Wanton Hussy is not straying from the lifestyle of a single, independent lady just yet. Just taking it all in. One overpriced meal, bad kiss, awkward rejection at a time. Or that thing that gets me up in the morning. Each unknown promise of a new day. Does this make any sense, have I hit a new low, or do I really just like hearing myself think outloud? Either way, I'm unstoppable.

I am a Woman of Simple Pleasures.

In no particular order.

• Charles Shaw Cabernet (only because I am 23 and can't afford the good stuff yet.)
• Getting flowers. Particularly orange roses.
• Sushi.
• The Labyrinth.
• Led Zeppelin.
• Bagels and coffee.
• Large Sugar free Hazelnut Lattes with Non-fat milk.
• Mint ice cream, chocolate mint candy, White Chocolate peppermint truffles from Sees.
• Good beer. Anything darker than a blonde.
• Chevy Chase.
• Knockoff purses.
• Palm Springs, San Diego, West Hollywood, Whistler, Ensenada; being out of my element in general.
• Body surfing.
• Texas Hold' Em.
• Men wearing GOOD cologne.
• Pictures with Tart from when we were five.
• Compliments. Given.
• Food Network.
• Trader Joes Pomegranate White Tea with Splenda. Try it.
• Watching sports, drinking beer and eating chips. Don't get me started. Don't even get me started.

Why "Sometimes I Like to Build a Tent"?

When I was younger, during the summers, my parents would run the air conditioner. The main vent for this air conditioner was located in the dining room downstairs. In order to remain cool during the blistering 85 degree Orange County, CA summers, my sister, Tart and I would build a tent out of sheets, using the dining room chairs for reinforcement. This tent was perfectly engineered to maximize air flow, structural strength and "good memories" efficiency.

Fast forward fifteen years. Although I no longer use my Smurf, New Kids on the Block and Little Mermaid sheets, I have managed to recess back to my kidish ways of summer. My apartment has no air conditioning and is considerably cooler in the West facing dining/living room/kitchen than in my South facing room. Last week on Sunday, Tart and I were having a modern day sleep over ie. we moved my queen size mattress into the dining/living room/ kitchen and strategically positioned it in front of the T.V.

My laziness and lack of caring where I sleep led me to consequently sleep on the mattress, on the floor, in the middle of the room, not in my bedroom, for the next six nights. I was asked to move the mattress by "the elusive roommate" on Saturday in order to sweep/mop our tile floor. Post cleaning of the floor, the mattress resumed it's location and Triscuit eating, movie watching and cat napping resumed.

I have realized that in addition to enjoying various activities, like the occasional tent building, I gain great happiness from those events and activities which people think they would enjoy, yet would never take the effort involved in making those events a reality.

For instance, a queen size mattress in the middle of the floor, 10 yards away from it's original resting place. Another notable event I occasionally partake in is that of a glass of red wine in the bathtub. Amazing. Very cliche. Very "Mulholland Drive" meets "Sleeping with the Enemy." Others include fashion magazines and a Miller Lite, riding beach cruisers on the boardwalk, watching every episode of a television marathon like Project Runway, to name a few.

I am a woman of simple pleasures. That gives me an idea.

I am the smartest woman alive.

Documented below is my thought process while performing my thirty minutes of cardio on the elliptical this morning. Like to hear it, here it goes.

"Man, I drank A LOT of beer last night. And I ate peanuts and a bite of that burrito at the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim game. Then I ate nachos and pizza at the Yardhouse. I would probably look so smokin' if I didn't party as much as I do. But, I LOVE beer and pizza. What to do? What to do? Well, here is what I know. When I was dating that guy from San Diego, I didn't party for a month straight (which is a long time in Wanton Hussy weeks). During that month, I ate super healthy worked out, didn't party and went to the beach and body surfed every weekend. Hmmm... But I was not having nearly as much fun on the weekends as I do when I go out with my friends. So, do I work out and not party and look super good OR do I work out, eat super good and go out with my friends and enjoy the fruits of my efforts ie. beer and pizza."

"Here's what else I know. I already get enough attention from guys when I go out based on my current state of appearance, personality, lack of volume control, etc. I might get more attention if I dropped a few lbs. but what for. I wouldn't be going out as much because I wouldn't be drinking in order to lose the weight and then within the not going out as much I would be removing myself from situations in which I would gain the much coveted, highly sought, under appreciated male attention."

"In conclusion, I must continue to go out, and include myself in situations revolving around beer and pizza or I will not receive the attention which I enjoy so much. I am forced to continue my lifestyle (which on a sidenote, I would not trade for the world) or else I will lose touch with the male libido, my friends antics and my own level of personal happiness."

"Furthermore, I would not be interested in the guys who would only date those girls that religiously exercise and panic about calories. They would not be interested in me, because that is not me, and I would not be interested in them because they are shallow. I am interested in the guy that appreciates the girl that can put back a few beers while watching a game, eat a few chips while 'graciously losing' at poker and gorge herself on pizza at 2:00 a.m., because let's be honest, you are only 23 once. So, those guys wouldn't be interested in me, or I in them, and that's okay."

I should really pursue that goal of a motivational speaker and take my speeches on the road. Town to town. Spreading the gospel. Or maybe I will just tell my friends my theory. Over beer and pizza of course.

Why am I such a sucker for tattoos....

If you have tattoos please stay away from me. I have a fetish. No a weakness. Please stay away from me as I have tattooitis - a disease of the mind that makes a "good girl" go gah-gah for "bad boys." Funny part is that I have tattoos myself and know that tattoos do not make the person, but the person makes the tattoos. In layman's turns, tattoos don't mean shit about the individual who rocks them.

If I know this, then why oh why do I just become so enamored with guys with tattoos? Is it because I know my parents would not approve of them and I secretly, unconsciously do things with the desire to seek my parents' disapproval in order to state my independence? Or is it because I view men with tattoos as a challenge or exciting because of their image? Or is it because I am a female, and as we know, all females secretly like to change people and "help" them, even if they don't ask for it or seek it, like a child who takes care of a reluctant bird with a broken wing?

Whatever the reason, ink that has been needled into the first few layers of the epidermis, 1/16 of the way down, makes me woozy and a floozy and want to drink a little boozy.

Rants of a Fitness Enthusiast...

I like to exercise. I like to feel good in my clothes and get those endorphins running and just know that I am living a healthy lifestyle. What I don't like are the socially unacceptable activities, frowned upon in other environments, which have found their way to be the norm at my local 24 hour fitness.

First of all, cell phones. I was amazed at how long a girl was talking on her cell phone while jogging on the tread mill last night. I couldn't help but think, "Wow, you must be in amazing shape in order to talk and jog at the same time. I can barely speed walk and carry on a conversation." I digress. This was not a act of random jog-talk, as I can account numerous fellow gym-goers who feel that they are so stinkin' important that the world cannot be put on hold for one hour while they work out. I'm pretty sure that even the president puts the phone on hold for select activities. But as I am not a politically charged person, I won't "go there."

Either way, people talking on their cell phones, no not even that, people who BRING their cell phones into the gym are on my permanent shit list. I'm not kidding. This is probably my biggest pet peeve of all time. If you can talk and do whatever you are doing at the same time = you are not working hard enough and might as well just leave the gym because you accomplished nothing in the amount of time you were at the gym and you might as well go home and stuff your face with twinkies. There.

Another issue which must be addressed is that of the legality behind allowing an obviously anorexia nervosa stricken individual to continue on her downward spiral of self-deprecating behavior. Can the manger of the gym intervene or call in a nutritionalist or anything? I mean really. The girl that I have in mind must weigh under 100 lbs. and uses her own body weight as a means of strength training as anything more may make her faint. Then again, the manager of Target can't tell a morbidly obese individual to "put down the Reeses and step away from the Snickers." And seeing as how morbid obesity is much more of an epidemic in the states than anorexia nervosa, I guess my little 90 lb. friend will just have to keep on truckin'.

Other pet peeves include: matching apparel top to bottom, girls with long hair not in a pony tail, sitting on a machine and talking, using a machine for five minutes when I am obviously waiting for it, and everyone's favorite, cutting in line for machines.

Oh, the gym. Why do you frustrate me so?

Social Psychology Experiment #1

So, I'll be honest, I was a psychology major in college. And a damn good one at that. Why a "psych" major, you may ask? I was interested in why we act the way we do. Simple. Innocent. Naive. However, what I took away from a large tuition, early mornings of procrastination and late nights of debauchery was the ability to better understand social interaction, more explicitly, awkward social interactions and situations including myself and others, which is a given.

Let me clarify, I don't know how to read women and I don't think I ever will. I know that their actions are based mostly on jealousy, low self-esteem and poor choices in makeup. I, myself, included. But boys are a different story. Let me digress.

A few mornings ago, Tart and I enjoyed breakfast at a local cafe. During our conversation of the interaction between fathers and their babies, I noticed a cute waiter/busser within earshot. Being the quick thinking hussy that I am, I smoothly integrated a male intriguing subject into our conversation regarding fathers and their offspring.

What could intrigue a male subject when it comes to fathers and babies, without scarying the subject into the thought of marriage, babies and commitment? Answer: An episode of Family Guy in which Stewie is left with his father and the interaction is documented in the most hilarious of manners. Particularly, when Stewie is rendered incapacitated because his diaper is too full of excrement. Hilarious.

How did the subject react to overhearing the delightful conversation, two attractive looking females, hold over Family Guy? By politely interrupting with quotations and anecdotes from other notable Family Guy episodes.

Theory: Proven. People are predictable. Or men are at least, I will test my "people are predictable" hypothesis in future post. For men, the formula consists of bring up subject matter in which you think they would be interested, ie. Family Guy, sports, fishing, guitars, surfing, etc, and they will react in an appropriate manner. God, it feels good to be right. Or arrogant. Either way, it feels good.