Peter Pan & The Lost Boys

Attn: Men (and I use this term loosely) of Generation Y… Millennials… Echo Boomers… or whatever it is you’re calling yourselves these days besides bro… GROW UP! Seriously.

I’m starting to notice a pattern within my own generation. No one is interested in growing up… especially the dudes. “You know what I mean bro?!” There are a few of us who have managed to escape most of the negative characteristics of our generation, but let’s face it, even those of us who “have our $h!t together” are still a little irked about society’s insistence that we grow up and conform to the “norm.” What is the “norm” anyway? Millennials are a generation of free thinkers full of new ideas, and a complete and total inability to play by the rules and/or be on time… even if our life depends on it. Basically, we’re awesome! Well, the women are anyway. Just kidding, we come with our own set of quirks that we can address another time.

The guys though… they could use a little help. ASAP! Please understand, I know plenty of successful, employed, respectable MEN that are part of Gen Y. However, I’m noticing an increasingly frightening trend… it’s like all the sudden a posse of slacker dudes have invaded my city… my state… my country… my universe. Yes people, it’s that bad. I’ve decided to refer to the afore mentioned guys as The Lost Boys. The Lost Boys think life is a party, beer is one of the 4 food groups, and they refuse to get a real job. Sounds like college right? Wrong! We’re talking about guys 25-30 years old. Ridiculous right?! It’s no wonder we’re getting married and having children later in life. The Lost Boys are still throwing rocks at us like we’re on the playground. They’re afraid of commitment, disrespectful, and honesty is a totally foreign concept. Chivalry is in fact dead amongst The Lost Boys. It seems to me that in every social circle, The Lost Boys have their very own Peter Pan. The one they aspire to be some day. Here’s the deal though, Peter Pan is just a dude in tights who refuses to GROW UP! He’s the BOY who’s always up for a party and can’t hold down a steady job because it interferes with is social life. He still manages to get by somehow on his talent, his good looks, his sense of humor, or just pure old fashioned luck. He makes being an immature slacker look glamorous, because after all, life is a party right?! Much to my dismay, all of The Lost Boys aspire to be just like him. Ugh. It’s time for The Lost Boys to grow up and get a real job. And no, unless you have a record deal or are paid regularly in cash (not beer) for your gigs, being in a band does not count as a real job! Being a part-time bartender does not count as a real job… try working at least 5 days a week and then you can call it a real job! Being a “club promoter” does not count as a real job unless you’re being paid in cash (not beer and free cover)! Sitting on the couch in your underwear watching infomercials does not count as a real job… even if mommy and daddy are still taking care of your lazy butt! This might require you to roll out of bed before noon. Don’t worry, you’ll live. People have been getting up before noon for years and no one has died from it yet. In fact, they generally prosper. Don’t get me wrong, if I could sleep until noon every day I would too. Sadly, there is no such thing as a little money fairy named Tinkerbell. So, get up off the couch, get dressed in CLEAN clothes that MATCH, and GET A FREAKIN’ JOB! You will never see an ad that says, “Single white female looking for Lost Boy to support.” We’re not your momma, or your sugar momma for that matter. You see, as millennial women, we are totally capable of taking care of and providing for ourselves. We just want to know that you are able to take care of yourself and are capable of providing for us. You don’t actually have to do it, we just want to know that you could. Yeah, yeah, yeah, we know, you all have this dream and you’re afraid getting a real job means you’re giving up on the dream. False. It just means you’re able to afford a car, a roof over your head, and something in your fridge besides beer. You might even make enough to consider taking us out on a real date. (Note: A real date does not in any way include going to the bar with your buddies in tow, being forced to eat off the dollar menu at Jack in the Box, or “chillin” at the apartment.) Keep working towards your dream if you really believe in it, but don’t use it as an excuse to be a deadbeat. To all the “bros” of Gen Y out there, a least make an effort to pretend that you aspire to be something more than one of The Lost Boys forever, and give up the dream of being Peter Pan already… it’s not gonna happen!

Go Out and Get Shellaced!

It sounds naughty right? Wrong! SHELLAC is the greatest thing since sliced bread… if you’re a woman… or a man who appreciates the opportunity to admire your woman’s well manicured hands! Yesterday, I turned 28 (Truthfully, I turned 30 but I’m lying about it to anyone who asks and no, I don’t even feel bad about it.), and in honor of my special day I treated myself to a relaxing mani and pedi! I had heard a rumor that there was a magical new way to have glamorous nails without destroying them in the process. Sure, good old fashioned nail polish is always an option, but unless you plan to sit around and not touch or do anything what is the point?! My nail polish ALWAYS chips within the first day or two… ALWAYS! I expected it to be difficult to explain what I wanted since there always seems to be a bit of a language barrier at the salon, but the moment I mentioned it, they knew exactly what I was talking about… Shellac! Basically, it’s a gel they paint on just like regular polish… BUT, it is no ordinary polish. It stays on without chipping for nearly 2 whole weeks! That’s like a lifetime in nail polish years! The beautiful thing about Shella is that it doesn’t damage your nails like solar or acrylic, and it comes off with regular old nail polish remover. It cost about $10 more than a regular manicure, and is worth every single penny! I opted to let my freak flag fly, and got my toes painted black. On my nails however, I opted for a sexy, sassy, red in honor of Valentine’s Day! Not gonna lie, it’s HOT! ;-) Don't believe me? Check out the photo below. The one and only draw back to Shellac is that since it’s relatively new technology, most salons only offer it in a few colors. Still, it beats the white trash chipped nail polish look any day. So ladies, GO OUT AND GET SHELLACED! You’ll dig it, I promise!

INTERVENTION: My Life is a Country Song

Ugh. I have come to a terribly unfortunate realization. My life has become a country song. Upsetting… on multiple levels. Admitting you have a problem is the first step right? I’ll start at the beginning. First, I found myself looking up lyrics to songs I'd heard on the radio wondering how they could possibly have known how to so eloquently express my feelings. Here I am thinking I’m the only person in the world who has ever suffered a broken heart of this magnitude. False. Apparently every song writer in Nashville has met the same guy. The guy who is careless with your heart, won’t communicate, wouldn’t know a good thing if it slapped him in the face, and is still in love with his ex. You catch yourself thinking, “Oh wouldn’t it be great if he could just hear this song and know this is exactly how I’m feeling!” Problem #1: He’d have to care in the first place to put two and two together. Problem #2: He’d have to listen to country music, and the only thing he dislikes more than country music is me. Still, I didn’t realize that my new little habit was evidence of a problem. I was talking about “that guy” with my sister when she interrupted to tell me there is no need to finish the story because she’s pretty sure there’s a Taylor Swift song about it and she already knows the ending. Ouch. She meant well… I think. Then, this afternoon on my way back from Austin, I realized I’m in need of a full on intervention. I was singing in the car… a concert worthy performance… not unusual. Here’s the part that’s hard to confess… I was singing My Strongest Weakness by Wynonna… a classic I can’t go on without him, how will I ever love again, oh this hurts so much country tune. I immediately knew I was in T-R-O-U-B-L-E (there‘s a country song about that too). My life simply cannot go on in country song mode. I need to shift gears quickly! So now, I’m considering new genres… rap, rock, reggae… I think I’ll try to avoid the blues… bottom line, as Tanya might say, “I’m down to my last teardrop,“ and I’m quitting country music cold turkey.

Punxsutawney Phil: Ingenious Meteorologist or Grantor of False Hope?

It’s Groundhog Day. Great. I’m like a human popsicle right now, but it’s okay… good ol’ Phil did not see his shadow today and that means Spring is just around the corner! Right. How the heck did Phil manage to make it out of his snow covered hole?! On the off chance he was really able to tunnel his way out, who in their right mind was willing to stand around in this record breaking cold weather waiting on Phil to emerge from his cozy hole and predict the weather?! Phil has been around a REALLY long time… according to The Official Website of the Punxsutawney Ground Hog Club (http://www.groundhog.org/), he’s been around for 125 years to be exact. I am too lazy to research the average lifespan of a groundhog, but I’m certain it is less than 125 years… especially for obese groundhogs. Phil is fat. I realize it’s not very PC to state the obvious, but this is one well fed groundhog.

It’s no wonder that our nation’s position as leader of the free world is being questioned. We use a seemingly invincible obese groundhog to predict our weather.

The Sparkly Happy Sunshine vs. The Gloomy Dark Grey Cloud

What do you write about when all of your thoughts seem too personal to share? Admittedly, I’m having a hard time thinking of something entertaining and amusing to write about today. I’m sad, and those of you reading my blog certainly aren’t interested in reading about the things that have made me sad. You have enough of your own sadness. It seems there’s more than enough to go around for everyone. I’m a sunny, spunky, sparkly person trapped in a sad time right now, and I don’t like it. I try to keep busy, think happy thoughts, and keep my situation in perspective. I pray about it, I ignore it, and sometimes I even flip out about it. Still, I’m sad and my little grey cloud doesn’t seem to be going anywhere soon. So today, in an effort to will away my sadness, I’m going to share with you a list of things that make me happy:

God
Family
Friends
Music… all kinds!
Art
Photography
Long walks on the beach… haha just kidding! I couldn’t resist!
Ice Cream… duh!
Escaping into a good book or movie
Adventures
Flowers
Exploring and trying new things
iPhones (It would be a flat out lie if I tried to deny how happy this little tidbit of technology makes me!)
Road trips
Funky shoes & jewelry
Comfy jeans
Flip Flops
Hoodie sweatshirts
Fluffy pillows
Peace
Dreaming
Singing in the car!
Rainy days
Vintage treasures
Giving gifts
Loving others
Spa days… specifically pedicures & massages
Home

The list goes on forever, but the party never ends! Bonus points if you get the musical reference. Anyway, on sad days like today, it’s good to focus on the happy blessings that life has to offer. In the big scheme of things, the happy always outweighs the sad!

The Possum in the Closet

My recent house hunting adventures reminded me of a story from my past that simply cannot go untold. Several years ago, one of my best friends, Lindsey, and I had just graduated college and landed our first real jobs at Southwest Airlines. We thought we were a big damn deal. We were not. We worked for almost nothing just so that we could have the honor of saying we worked for one of the best companies in America. The benefits were legit, but the pay was not! Still, every day was a fun day at SWA, and we were high on life… ready to go out and conquer the world. Obviously, we were silly and naive. After getting a few months of steady post college paychecks under our belt, we decided that perhaps having a roommate would create a little additional disposable income for the two of us. Because we were extremely bright college graduates (insert belly laugh here) it only made sense to live together and somewhere close to work. SWA headquarters is across the street from Dallas Love Field Airport. The kindest adjective I can think of to describe the neighborhood is SKETCHY! Suitable apartments in the immediate area were few and far between so we opted to rent a house. What an adventure! Our first foray into house hunting! So very grown-up! We had no idea what we were doing and no business doing it without a gun or a bodyguard in that neighborhood. The very first house we visited ended up as the setting for one of our most hysterical and EPIC stories of all time. After work one afternoon we rushed to the car and set out to view the house that we were just sure would be our new home in a few a short weeks. Based on the pictures and description online, it was a jewel… a hidden treasure in the barrio! Back then we still used MapQuest to navigate our way around the big city. As we pulled onto the street of our afore mentioned jewel of a home we were absolutely certain we’d made a wrong turn. How could our hidden treasure be on a street of homes with garbage pilled high in the yards and old cars up on blocks?! After double checking, we realized we were indeed on the correct street. Still, the red flags didn’t register… odd given that we were extremely bright college graduates (insert belly laugh here… again). We pulled up to the house (sans realtor… yet another red flag), walked up to the door, put in the code to the key lock box that the “realtor” had just given us over the phone, and sauntered into our dream home… or so we thought. We both wondered around imagining what it would look like with a little bit of paint and all of our charming home accessories. Then we got down to business and started looking for all those things our parents had reminded us were important… plenty of cabinet space, updated appliances, and most importantly an abundance of closet space. Closet #1, just right. Closet #2, kinda small, but okay. Closet #3, a possum… not okay! At this point Lindsey was still in the other room mentally filling it with all her most prized possessions. I screamed, “There’s something in the closet!” and ran to the other room. Lindsey felt sure I was being dramatic and had just imagined it. So, because we were extremely bright college graduates, we went back and decided to inspect the closet a little closer. We opened the door again, and sure enough, there sat a very angry possum… very angry… not the cute kind like in that book Possum Magic… this one was very very angry.

We slammed the door and took off running. We couldn’t get out of that house fast enough! Then, when we got outside we were so flustered we couldn’t get the key back in the lock box. While struggling with the lock box, we noticed something else we had been oblivious to when we pulled up… a whole gang of men standing around drinking beer and leering at us in the middle of the afternoon. Finally, we got the key in the lock box, our butts back in the car, and our doors locked. It seemed like it took an eternity to escape! THERE WAS A POSSUM IN THE CLOSET!!! How does that even happen?! And what kind of realtor just gives out the key lock box code over the phone to a random person?! Obviously, it’s the kind of realtor that is too afraid to venture back in there a second time. Needless to say, it didn’t take long for us to decide that a commute to work wasn’t so terrible after all and perhaps a swanky apartment in Plano was more our style. Now, I’m a bit older, and I’ve accepted that I’m not nearly as bright as I once thought, and I’ve come to learn that a college degree is certainly no substitute for good old fashioned common sense. I hope that this time around I’ll be more aware of the red flags, and thankful that I can afford to live in a possum free environment these days.

Boredom *INSERT DRAMATIC SIGH* Overwhelms Me!!!

What's a girl to do when the only activity of any interest is dwelling on your own elevated level of boredom?! Last night I did the following: ate dinner, filled out a home loan application, ate a snack, exercised, canceled out the calories I burned by eating another snack, thought about how badly I need to go to the grocery store so that my pantry will be filled with yummy snacks and not weird random snacks that make it clear that I haven't been to the grocery store since they invented sliced bread, watched TV, drank a glass of water all the while wishing it was a delicious diet root beer, checked Facebook, read for a while, played Words with Friends, and finally flopped back on the couch and gazed at the ceiling for, shall we say, an extended period of time.

Ugh. It's been a while since I had to entertain myself night after painfully boring night. You're probably thinking I should get a hobby. Never fear, I do indeed have a hobby... several of them actually. The problem is that all of my hobbies are labor intensive and it's so much easier to just stare at the ceiling hoping that a meteor crashes through my living room window and spices up my night a bit. Boredom forces you to think about unlikely delusional scenarios like that....