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V vs. Visiting Boys

So I’m leaving today to visit the boyfriend out in California. Here’s what sucks about traveling to visit a boy …

I have to bring my whole damn bathroom with me.

When you go visit a girlfriend they have eight different kinds of lotion: 24-hour hydration, firming lotion, gradual self-tanning lotion, scented lotion, unscented lotion, etc. They have blowdryers and backup blowdryers. And curling irons, straightening irons and body wash with extra loofahs for guests.

Girls have shampoo AND conditioner – not shampoo/condition/bodywash in one.  Hairspray and damage-control serum.  Girls have different soaps, washes, exfoliators and lotions for face and body.

Boys?

Boys have … soap.

The End.

(image found here)

To read more by V visit her personal blog *uncorked.

On being your own worst enemy.

There are a lot of things I consider myself to be very good at doing.  I understand this probably comes off as conceited, but usually when I try something, I’m good at it.  Or at least not totally crappy at whatever it may be.  But there has always been one thing that I’ve never been able to really excel at, and it’s the one thing that I think has held me back in my professional life. And probably my personal life too.

I cannot self-promote.

I have won negotiating competitions in law school.  I can sell just about any idea to anyone at any time.  I’m extremely persuasive when I want to be.  The other night I went to a networking event for women at a local business school, a really good one.  I met some amazingly successful women and made some great connections for business and for personal endeavors.  At this event, however, I came to the conclusion in one of our roundtable discussions that I am a loser and would fail out of business school.  I could go in and negotiate on behalf of any person at that table after knowing them for five minutes.  I could give a speech honoring their accomplishments and gush over their success, but when asked about my own successes in life I clam up.

Part of this is the fact that I never saw myself has extraordinary in any way.  When people tell me I’m unique or different and rare I always wonder who they hang out with, because my friends are all … better.  They’re smarter, funnier, prettier, and I’m okay with that.  But there was a statistic about how individuals stand to lose $500,000 by the time they reach 60 years old if they don’t negotiate their first salary.

Holy. Crap.  That’s a lot of money.

And I did not negotiate my first salary after law school.  As an attorney, I know better.  As a relatively intelligent person, I know better.  So why didn’t I?

Because I still feel like a dumb kid playing dress up in a suit.

But I intend to work on this.  And I will succeed.  I guess if there is a moral to this little story it is to not be afraid to see value in yourself, and to go for what you want.  And if you’re not getting what you want, to be secure in yourself and walk away.  There have been some changes in my life recently, and I no longer look at upcoming change and immediately have a panic attack.  I know deep down that I am good enough and worthy of the things that have come my way, and those which will come my way.  But it is those things that I still need to chase down which will really determine my path.

Picture courtesy of Blogtrepreneur.

To read more by V, visit *uncorked.

Misunderstood.

I have no idea how to have an adult relationship.  I don’t mean adult as in sexual, I’m pretty familiar with those.  Coming from an almost thirty year old woman, that probably sounds a little crazy.  My initial thoughts were that I’m sure I can figure it out as I go along.  I’m pretty good at most things I try.  But hey, for fun, let’s throw in the fact that my boyfriend lives 2,500 miles away.

Yeah.  Because, you know, I love a challenge and all.

After over nine months of texting, emailing, chatting, talking on the phone, talking in person, IM’ing we finally had a moment of well … misunderstanding.  Really our first.  So much of this came from circumstance and both of us having really terrible weeks at work and with other commitments.  But our communication has been off all week too, and then today, kind of came to a head in a series of highly misunderstood emails about something as stupid as a horoscope.

Really, V?  A horoscope?  Yes.

Obviously it wasn’t the real reason for the misunderstanding, but was just the catalyst to the actual breakdown.  Do I feel weird writing about this right now?  Yes.  I’m by nature a very private person (of course I understand the irony of this statement and the fact that I am a blogger).  But really, when I’m in a funk or something is really bothering me, I tend to just close myself off from the world and deal with it.  I figure it out.  It gets better and I move on.  I have never had someone genuinely interested in knowing what was wrong, or truly care to try and make it all better.  And if they couldn’t make it better, to do everything in their power to make me laugh and smile.  I do have that now.  But it’s hard to know when to open up and talk it through versus when to just say “You know what, hon, I’m having a crappy day.  Let’s talk tomorrow.”

Does distance make it worse?  Absolutely.  It’s so much harder to judge a mood, or a tone, and on top of everything else you’re dealing with to have to deal with not being able to just go hug the person you want to see more than anyone. 

The person you want to see more than you want to be alone.

That was a very difficult revelation for me since I have dealt with things on my own for so long.  Forever, really.

And then I cried.  A boy hasn’t made me cry since I was 17.  And then I realized just how vulnerable I am when it comes to this person, and then cried a little more when I realized how okay I am with that.

I may be in trouble over this one, folks.

Photo courtesy of Sangent.

To read more by V, visit her blog at *uncorked.

I went to Jared … once

I am extremely attracted to shiny things.

They don’t have to be expensive things, though it never hurts.  I am a complete sucker for a car that just comes out of the car wash, disco balls, coins, silverware, anything really.  If it sparkles, it will undoubtedly get an “ohh” or an “ahhh” from me.  There was this crystal saddle that served as a disco ball at a honky tonk in Texas where I went to law school.

That saddle glistened and sparkled when reflecting the light. I could stare at it for hours.

One time I remember seeing a couple two-stepping on the dance floor.  They were the perfect little Texas couple.  She had big, but still stylish, blonde hair, wore a cute denim mini skirt and cowboy boots.   He wore Wranglers that were maybe just a bit too tight and this look of pure love and adoration on his face.  Then I was temporarily blinded when her engagement ring caught the light from the saddle.

From that point on, I wanted a shiny, sparkly, potentially seizure-inducing ring of my very own.  It had nothing to do with wanting to be engaged or married.  Really, those were the last things on my mind.  I graduated from law school, moved back to Chicago, took and passed the bar and got myself a job.

And then I went to Jared.  A phrase we all know too well because of some clever marketing techniques.  Bravo, Jared.  Bravo.

I bought myself a right hand ring.  With my first official lawyer paycheck.  My entire first paycheck.

Stupid?  Maybe.  A waste of money?  Probably.  I didn’t even wear it that often, but I loved it.  It was always a little reminder that I had accomplished something.  Something that … well, a hell of a lot of people actually accomplish.  But still.

I was proud of myself.

So who cares about this story now?  Over four years later?  I do.  Because today I realized that I lost it and it made me really pretty sad.  Leaving Mexico a few weeks ago I put all of my jewelry in a little black pouch and in my purse to carry-on the plane with me.  I know for a fact that it was in my purse.  I have been holding out hope that maybe for some reason I left it up in the suburbs when I was visiting my parents.  No such luck.  The little pouch is gone.  Inside that pouch was some of my favorite jewelry, mostly replaceable but still pieces I loved, and my ring.  It wasn’t the same as the one pictured above, but it was very close.

I know it’s not the end of the world.  And I know I’ll be able to buy myself another one sometime, but I’m a little upset about it today.  So tonight I do not go to Jared.  No, tonight I go to Discount Liquor (it has the brightest neon lights) and buy some vodka.  And toast myself for being able to buy it for myself in the first place.  Cheers.

Photo is the property of Jared®

To read more by V, visit *uncorked.

That time all my dreams were crushed by reality (well, one of many times)

What little girl didn’t want to be a ballerina?

What slightly overweight and almost 30 year old woman wants to be a ballerina?  This one.  Right here.

A few weeks ago, before Christmas, I went to see The Nutcracker ballet.  Years and years ago I was in The Nutcracker on Ice, you might remember me, I was one of the little children in the beginning skating around and picking up presents, smiling like a happy idiot.  I wore a purple velvet dress with white stockings.  No?  You missed my long-standing gig that lasted for one night in the early 1990s at the Rosemont Theater?  Okay, I’ll forgive you.  It was glorious, let me tell you (she says while silently thanking god that YouTube did not exist back then, as she has thanked god so many times before for the same thing).

But that’s not the point.  The point is that when I saw the ballet most recently I discovered this secret longing to be a beautiful ballerina, fluttering about the stage.  Graceful.  Serene.

Beautiful.

Then I came to the sad conclusion that I will never be a ballerina.  Instead, I’m a no-talent, ungraceful, overweight, 29-year-old figure skating has-been.  Well, never-really-was.

So of course I did what anyone in my irrationally depressed and drunken position would do.  I drank a bottle of vodka and Googled pictures of horribly mangled feet and anorexic ballerinas to feel better about my own life.  It worked.  I felt much better about my newly pedicured feet and the fact that those ballerinas probably couldn’t eat things like mac ‘n cheese bites or french fries while downing alcohol like I did before (and after) the performance.

But I still wanted the tutu.  Then my New Year’s Eve plans were hatched out of a mutual desire with a friend to drink a lot of wine and wear tiaras.  New Year’s Eve then resulted in my almost 30-year old chubby self prancing around my living room in a pink tutu and pink plastic tiara while eating funfetti cupcakes, watching Disney movies and drinking my face off.

This is my reality.

It’s not terrible.  Actually kind of fun, in a depressing way.

But it beats nasty toes and anorexia any day.

To read more by V visit her site here.

Well, I find me funny…

Do you ever have those moments where you completely just crack yourself up? And no one is around to share with, but you laugh anyway? Just stop what you’re doing and laugh hysterically? To the point where your dogs would straight-jacket you if they could?

I have this little storage stool thing I got from IKEA. It is probably the only thing I can say I’ve completely put together on my own in my entire life. Which is why it also requires constant maintenance and upkeep.  And is a jerk.

The other day I noticed one side of the stool was coming apart from the rest of it and the towels I store in there were spilling out the side. So I grabbed my tool box. Okay, not a tool box so much as a small pink case with a few tools inside it. But no, I haven’t bedazzled it. Yet. So I fixed it and went to go put the little tool box away when I remembered one of my kitchen cabinets has been loose for … well, for forever. So I figured I could probably fix that with a screwdriver too.

And it worked.

Then I became a woman on a mission. I fixed two more cabinets, a closet door handle and tightened up some dresser handles.  Then as I was running around looking for something else to fix I had an inner dialogue which caused me to stop and uncontrollably laugh.

V: What are you doing?
V: Fixing stuff.
V: You mean running around screwing stuff?
V: Yep, running around screwing everything in sight!
V: Whore.

More uncontrollable laughter. And this really isn’t nearly as funny as it seemed at the time. My apologies.

I’m still giggling over it.

Read more from V here.

Tiny victories: Take them where you can get them

This may come as a shock to you, but I am not a gracious winner. I am also an incredibly sore loser. Imagine my excitement (and relief) when I won a bet over the weekend.

What was the bet, V? I’m glad you asked.

Back over the summer the blogboyfriend asked me to be a part of his Fantasy Football league with all of his friends. I was mildly hesitant because, while I certainly know my football, being in a league with all guys who take it very seriously, and that I’ve never met, was a little intimidating. And entering into this league meant that he was stuck with me (or I was stuck with him) through the whole season, which before the Vegas trip, was a risky gamble of its own.

My team is in shambles. His team is in shambles. Our teams both started out with a lot of promise and had some good players, but pretty much everyone is hurt and I’ve been on a five-game losing streak. At the start of last week, we were in last and second-to-last place in the league. While it is bad enough being the only female in the league, being the only female and in last place makes it so much worse. All of a sudden I felt like that dumb girl who wears the slutty half-jersey to the games and doesn’t understand the difference between a quarter and an inning. I felt about one loss away from having to giggle and say “I like the Patriots because Tom Brady has a cute butt.

But then something magical happened. This week, Week 9, we played each other. We decided there should be a bet of some sort since we really had nothing within the league to play for anymore. So we went back and forth with all the usual ideas, most of which were sexual in nature. Then we realized that since we’re both pretty uninhibited, and both definitely hornballs, it had to be something embarrassing.

We had to play for pride.

And with a suggestion from a friend, it hit me. The perfect wager.  If I won, he would have to wear a pink t-shirt every Sunday for the rest of the season that says “My girl kicked my ass at Fantasy Football.” Then I received a text from an unknown number, one of his friends, and that she was accepting the bet on his behalf because it was perfect. Then she sent his demands. If he won, I would have to wear a blue and orange shirt that said “My man kicked my ass at Fantasy Football” and on the back “And he has a big penis.” I agreed to his terms except for the blue and orange thing – that was never going to happen (sorry Chicago, I bleed green and gold).

So the deal was made (with just a blue t-shirt if he won). Then I thoroughly kicked his butt in Fantasy Football.

A pink t-shirt has been ordered, friends. It will be delivered to his house hopefully this week. To make sure he gets the shirt and doesn’t claim it was never delivered, I paid extra for tracking the package and delivery confirmation.

And even if my fantasy team comes in last place in the league, this was good enough for me. And at least I picked a manly font for the shirt, right?

It’s November, so I can decorate for Christmas, right??

There are a lot of reasons to get ridiculously excited about the holidays.  The holidays for me begin with my birthday, which was October 24th.  A week later is Halloween, and while I turned 29 this year and fully realize that it is probably the last year I am able to dress up like a slutty Strawberry Shortcake, I’m glad it’s over.  Because it was cold and I was not wearing nearly enough clothing.  And I wanted a weapon.  Everyone else in my group had a costume which required a sword, or nun-chucks or something violent.  I had a pink bonnet.

But that’s beside the point of this little story here.  After Halloween comes Election Day, and while I was just intimidated at the polling place this year by a little old lady handing out fliers for the County Assessor’s race, I did my civic duty and cast my vote for more Illinois politicians who will inevitably end up in jail or being an epic disappointment.  Think I’m jaded?  It’s Illinois, people.  Really.

Then finally Thanksgiving rolls around and I can bust out the family sweatpants – yes, we have family sweatpants for all major holidays.  Don’t be jealous because my family is that much cooler than your family.  Thanksgiving dinner always results in interesting dinner conversation while my grandmother sits there with her mouth open trying to figure out where she went wrong, and who the hell are these people?  Are we really related?  But it’s on the drive back from Thanksgiving Dinner when I start listening to Christmas music, which of course makes me happy.  Decorations go up the following day.  And then the holiday party invitations start rolling in. Here’s a brief breakdown of what my holiday party schedule generally looks like:

  1. The Office Party – Thankfully, I have a small office and we only do a dinner out somewhere.  But I’ve gone as a date to a few office holiday parties over the years (was never asked by the same person twice, oddly enough).  You know what is not appropriate at these parties?  Getting drunk on open bar cocktails, straddling Santa and practicing your striptease aerobics moves on the giant candy cane decorations.  Just take my word for it.
  2. The Ugly Sweater Party – This evite gets a “NO.”  I like to look pretty and wear sequins and be sparkly for the holidays.  It’s the only appropriate time to do so.
  3. My Holiday Party – Cocktails, music, good friends and good cheer.  And maybe this year no one will knock down my Christmas tree.  And maybe, just maybe I won’t wake up on my dining table with a string of lights wrapped around my leg (shining brightly!) and holding my tree topper in my hand with bits of garland in my hair.
  4. Christmas Eve & Christmas Day – Family.  I don’t even pretend to be Catholic anymore and have stopped attending midnight mass altogether.  Christmas Eve has become a nice dinner out with a lot of wine, followed by eating a lot of cookies and playing drinking games with my parents and siblings to the movie Bad Santa.  Need I remind you of holiday sweatpants?  Christmas Day involves more drinking but includes presents.  WIN!
  5. New Years Eve – This changes yearly.  I’ve done the big hotel parties, the bar parties, the house parties, the lay on the couch because I’m sick parties, the random yacht club parties (where tragically my BlackBerry went for a swim in the lake last year), and every year I say I’m doing nothing.  This year, it is looking like a night at home, maybe with a few close friends and a lot of liquor.  I’m spending too much money the following week in Mexico, so I’m going to take it easy.  I hope.

‘Tis the season, people.  Join in the fun and let’s get this party started!

To read more by V, visit *uncorked.

Surprises…not always that bad, actually.

I was always the kid who snuck downstairs on Christmas morning to peek at her presents. My parents used to have to hide our gifts at the neighbor’s house to keep me from finding them.  I hate surprises. Always have and figured I always would.  But I may be starting to come around a bit.

Surprises to me have always been like change.  I don’t like changes either.  This may or may not come as a shock to you, but I’ve always been a little bit of a “worst case scenario” person.  If something bad could happen, I instantly figure it will happen.   So why the sudden change in my attitude towards surprises and change?  Well, some little things have been going on that have kind of brought them on.

This past weekend I celebrated my 29th birthday with some new friends in Vegas.  And while I was thousands of miles from home, some old friends managed to surprise me as well.  After I checked into my room, took a short nap while waiting for my new friends to get to the hotel I received the first of my surprises … a dozen long-stemmed calla lilies (my absolute favorite flowers).  The note attached said “I know you hate surprises.“  After settling in and spending some time with my new friends, we went to dinner.  When I got back to my room to change my shoes before going out, I walked in to find a bucket of champagne, two glasses, a balloon and a card. I opened the card to find it was from a friend back home wishing me a “Happy Birthday!”

I was so touched by the thoughtfulness of this gesture I actually had to sit down for a minute.  Because of the time difference, I didn’t want to call my friend and possibly wake her up.  Then, as I turned around in the desk chair I noticed another bucket of champagne, two more glasses and another card sitting on the coffee table. It was from another friend back home.  How these two amazing people, both two of my favorite people in the entire world, had the same idea just about knocked me over.  I knew Q would still be awake because she’s a bit of a night owl, so I instantly texted her to thank her and sent A an email. I have the best friends in the world.

I knew there were more surprises in store for me throughout the weekend since I had “date night” the following night.  But being in a situation with new people, and maybe a new someone special, getting those two gifts from back home just put me at ease and helped make my night.  For date night, I never had any idea where I was being taken or what we were doing.  It drove me crazy. How would I know what to wear?  Would I be overdressed?  Underdressed?  Yes, these are generally the most important questions I have in life.   Anyway

There were three more surprises during my weekend which are a little more personal and I can’t just give everything away.  Yes, I am a tease. All in all, it was a hell of a start to my 29th year when I had all but given up on my 20s and was ready to skip ahead to my 30s.  I can’t say I won’t always try and find out a surprise, or that I won’t bug someone within seconds of actually telling me what is going on, but I have to admit that I’m starting to like surprises.

And that is the biggest surprise of them all.

To read more by V visit *uncorked.

Always had a thing for the bad boys …

I realize that a lot of you will not understand the reference in my title. It is an obscure reference to a 1991 Jean-Claude Van Damme movie.

Basically, in the movie Double Impact, JCVD plays twins – Chad and Alex. Chad is the preppy twin who wears pink polo shirts and khaki shorts and is the “nice” guy. Alex is the leather jacket and wife-beater wearing brother with the slicked back hair. Growing up, I always wanted Alex. My sister preferred the Chads of the world. So we’ve never had to fight over the same guy, clearly. Except we both did date one guy once. Not at the same time, and no, it wasn’t an issue.

So what is the point of this all? Good question. Back off, I’m getting to it.

Yesterday I was watching The Ugly Truth, you know, that moderately entertaining movie where Gerard Butler coaches Katherine Heigl to be the perfect girlfriend and then they shockingly fall in love. He had one line in there:

You have to be two people. The saint and the sinner. The librarian and the stripper.

And I thought. Okay, I get it. But this kind of goes both ways, right? At least for me it does.

I want Chad to feel safe and protected, do my laundry, draw me a bath, etc. I’m guessing a part of this is because I’m a control freak and think I could probably walk all over Chad and have less chance of getting hurt. But then a part of me, a bigger part actually, wants Alex to throw me up against a wall, pin my arms up and knock me off of that power trip a bit.

Look at the picture up there … Chad is pretty vanilla. Alex is a little more chocolate chip cookie dough meets fudge brownie with a little peanut butter cup. But you kind of need vanilla in there too, for the background ice cream.

I know I’d get bored with Chad in about a week. I know that Alex would probably break my heart or possibly kill me. Thus, the dilemma.  I want the Chad and the Alex.

Maybe I should start lingering around a bipolar clinic.

Note: No, there was really no point to this post other than I wanted to reference Jean-Claude Van Damme in a blog post and Double Impact was the first thing I thought of when I heard those words come out of Gerard Butler’s insatiably sexy mouth. Is that weird? I don’t care.

Read more by V at *uncorked.

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