the great thong incident of 2008

Thongs. The word alone sort of skeeves me out. It reminds me of strippers and wedgies and fills my mind with images of girls in jeans that are too tight who unapologetically walk around exposing their underwear to the world. Nonetheless, I frown upon pantie lines even more and have learned to accept thongs as a necessary evil.

Back in October I was in the middle of a traveling stint between Chicago, Buffalo, NYC and back to Chicago. I refuse to travel with a suitcase that needs to be checked and so I was forced to find somewhere to do laundry along the way. A guy friend of mine with a washer/dryer at his disposal offered the solution. I washed every article of clothing I had with me and I was on my way.

[Fast forward one month]

I was out at the local bar in Buffalo after the latest Sabres victory over the Penguins. After a few beers I went to the bathroom and received a text from the aforementioned guy friend that said, "I am wearing the thong you left at my place." I brushed it off and fired a text back that said, "What?! I am assuming this is meant for someone else."

When I returned to my drinking buddies, I told them about this text and immediately I was pulled aside and informed that I left a thong in the dryer and for the past month the infamous underwear has been floating around the greater Buffalo area (or at least among my group of friends).

I was drunk, I was heated and there's no stopping me at this point. So naturally, I stormed across the bar, pushed the thong-thief and politely said, "What?! You think you're cool sh*t for showing people a thong that belongs to a girl you're NOT hooking up with?!"

His response was confusion and shock and I told him to look at his cell phone for the text that set this whole thing off. Although the text did come from his phone, the author was actually another girl at the bar, who had also been exposed to the thong.

Embarrassed, he retreated to a seat at the bar and several minutes later sent me a shot. To add to his humiliation, I told the bartender to send it back.

This story should end here. I mean how could this possibly get any worse? But it wouldn't be a good story without even more drama.

That night I brought my sister out to the bar and she got involved in trying to resolve the thong incident. During her investigation the story only got better.

The dryer where the thong was discovered was in a shared washer/dryer belonging to my friend and his neighbor in the condo above him. The neighbor, a 20-something year old with a two year old child, had been doing laundry, and discovered the thong that clearly did not belong to her. In response she placed the thong on my friend's doorknob to return the mystery underwear.

Several hours later, stumbling home from the bar, my friend saw the thong hanging on his door waiting for him. His drunken, freshman-like thought process led him to the following conclusion: my neighbor totally wants to hook up with me. It is only natural that the thong bandit then attempted to break into his neighbor's condo, thong in hand, to cash in on the invitation.

What ensued next was screaming, a threat to call the police, and severe embarrassment. Now imagine everyone at our local hang out witnessing this entire thing unfold.

Lesson learned: you should have just mailed me my f-ing thong!

10 days

[ring]

"It's now or never. We're doing this!" I said.

"I don't know. I'm nervous," she replied.

"I just clicked 'Purchase.' Now we're locked in. No excuses," I responded.

Pretty soon now we'll wake up in Nicaragua.

listen lisa

Tonight is my last night (or as far as I know) in NY for work, although I have a sinking feeling I'll be back here. Not going to lie, it's been bad speckled with awesome.

Listen Lisa -

You were the speckle. We were forced together whether we wanted to or not - destined to travel across the country each week together. You gave me perspective. You made me embrace, "Bitches get things done!"

For the first time in so long I spoke without pre-thinking it. That felt awesome. You reminded me of someone I knew so long ago.

I spilled everything to you because I just couldn't help it, and I thank you for not making me feel embarrassed, or shy, or ashamed. I thank you more for keeping it between me and you without me ever needing to ask you to.

We laughed because there was nothing else to do. You had my back and I had yours.

We've gotten lost, found our way, and became the experts. We car danced.

I worry that we'll fade apart and pray that we won't.

So listen Lisa, thank you for breaking up the awful with awesome. Let's laugh again, donkey.

Shake, shake, shake, shake, a-shake it,
mn

suspended

I used to dread the time I spent traveling. I felt as if life was moving without me while I was suspended in transit hovering thousands of miles above the earth. I wasn't making an impression on the world and I was completely cut off from everything. I couldn't help but wonder what was happening below me and wishing I was apart of it.

Now it's that suspension that I crave - for my cell phone not to ring, to not receive an email, to not be interrupted. The time I spend on a weekly basis flying between Chicago and New York is comparative to a sigh. It's an exhale from everyone and everything.

Give me a cramped airplane seat and my iPod. Give me a single serving friend in the aisle seat to my left.

[sigh]

loser

My working theory is that we're all losers desperately trying to hide it. We could be losers because of a hobby, or because of an off-center sense of humor, or because of our history, or because of natural social awkwardness.

We all try and hide our loserness. Desperately attempting to be cooler than next guy. And we're lucky in life we can find a handful of people who won't mind the loser. So here it is.

(Finally a chance to list!)

I am a loser because:

1. I secretly love databases - they make sense when there is none.
2. I pretend not to care when really I'm a romantic.
3. My favorite food will always be chicken fingers.
4. I know how to knit - no excuse for this one.
5. I learned to play the guitar in my church's rock band. Rockin' it for Jesus!
6. My mother suffers from manic depression and my step-father was an alcoholic who over-dosed on drugs.
7. There's nothing better than the smell of gasoline.
8. I've cried to my share of Lifetime movies.
9. I wish I grew up to be a rockstar. I sing in my livingroom and pretend it sounds good.
10. I believe in the power of soundtracks and often think my iPod is the backdrop to my own personal movie.
11. Shoes are my guilty pleasure.
12. My father doesn't recognize me as his daughter.
13. I dance alone in my livingroom on a regular basis.
14. I always wish I was something more.

the wallets

It's a given that women in IT are sparse, and in being one of the few, I occasionally find myself mixed in with a group I call the Wallets.

At around 9pm last night I found myself at a dimly lit round table at The Old Homestead Steak House in Manhattan with 10 senior managers and senior executives - all of which were men. From a distance the scene may have looked like a semi-official business dinner as we engaged in serious conversation and they continuously consulted their Blackberrys.

As the only female and by far the lowest ranking member of the group, I was clearly an outsider catching a glimpse in. I think the natural reaction to being placed in such a situation would be severe discomfort and a tendency to retreat from conversation. But something I discovered along the way is how very little the men I was sitting with have changed from the nerds I knew in school. Conversation topics have transitioned from computer specs and cartoons to project bids and stock portfolios. But what hasn't changed is the underlying context of these conversations. It's status. It's knowing whose penis is bigger than the next guy's. It's proving to the rest of the room that you're better, richer, smarter, whatever.

My role in the boy's club is an easy one - to remind them of the insecure nerd they really are and to knock them down a notch. The fact that I'm a girl gives me a safety net.

After dinner and a few bottles of wine, a nightclub seemed like the most appropriate destination. Table and bottle service of course. Here's to you boys!

the jig is up

It's those moments when you have the perfect crowd-stopping, silence-invoking thing to say mapped out in your mind when the words become trapped in a net somewhere in the back of your throat. It's when you have an entire speech formulated that is just the right mixture of powerful and strong without becoming too emotional that somehow becomes frozen at the sight of your target.

I find myself brewing over these words, precisely choosing each one knowing full well that I won't ever say them. I'll spend my morning commute, my daily shower, my nights meticulously editing and revising. Even five minutes after writing this, I'll come up with something better. This is what I'll never have the courage to say.

You humiliated me. You humiliated me with such ease and comfort it almost seemed routine. I pretend to be fine but that's all I am doing - pretending. I'm not even sure if I am pretending for your sake or mine anymore.

To say that I hate you would be too easy. I am disappointed in you and what you turned out to be, but even worse I am disappointed in myself for choosing to ignore it for so long. I got lost in what you could be so much so that I became blind to what you are.

I became that girl who ignores the obvious when it is staring her in the face. You made me that girl and I allowed you to.

I cannot change you or what you have done. I can only change the open door I've held for you. I will no longer waste another night on you. I won't wait for your calls or search for meaning when there is none. And perhaps you won't even notice but at the very least I'll know that I deserve more than what little you have to offer. At the very least soon I'll be fine and soon I won't even remember you.

The jig is up. I'm onto you.

tAnkAh, mexico

The seven of us arrived in Mexico pale, clueless, and in severe need of a drink. We had a skeletal game plan in mind: get ourselves to Mexico, drive two hours in a foreign country to a beach house none of us had seen, load up on food and drinks somewhere along the way, park it on the beach, make it out alive.

This adventure was one that I happened to stumble into during a last minute trip home to Buffalo. Over several rounds of drinks the plan unfolded. Less than a week later I solidified my drunken promise and purchased an airline ticket and incredibly enough it all went off flawlessly. My only complaint would be that it ended too quickly.

During this time, I was forced to leave everything behind whether I wanted to or not. There was no Internet and no cell phone reception and I am endlessly thankful for that.

I spent this trip with a group of people who put me back in touch with where I come from, who celebrate the Buffalo long A, who are not above eating hot dogs meal after meal. They reminded me that a work deadline is not life or death and in the larger picture there are infinitely more important things.

We kept ourselves busy alternating between the beach, the private pool, grilling, snorkeling in a cenote, seeing the Mayan ruins at Tulum, drinking, and of course laughing until it hurt.

numb

I am exhausted. I am exhausted from my job. I am even more exhausted from complaining about it. I am frustrated.

I can't remember the last time I had an entire, full day off. I have dreams (more like nightmares) about legacy systems, databases, and deadlines. I had my first panic attack since grad school.

I am tired of trying when trying has gotten me nowhere.

The exhaustion has led to apathy and apathy has unfolded a numbed, detached version of myself.

I do not like myself much these days.

Tomorrow will be better. I need to get back to who I used to be.

another year older

Ever since my sister and I stumbled into Friar Tuck, a dive bar located on the corner of my street, on her birthday last December I've had only one goal in mind for my birthday:
a shot of Jaegar from an inflatable sheep's butt.

Mission accomplished.

Since my birthday happened to fall on a Tuesday this year, I didn't have anything lined up and it had almost slipped my mind, mainly because of the long hours and countless weekends I had been working. In all honesty, sleep would have been a much appreciated birthday present. But then again, who has time for sleep these days?

It seems like the best days tend to be the ones completely unplanned and unexpected, and my birthday happened to fall perfectly into this.

Birthday highlights include:

Cubs game with the work crew

The long anticipated shot from a sheep's butt









The perfect Sunday fun day outfit compliments of my sister and F.

Miner's Lung

According to the legend of The Bro, the bro arises each morning to a half-naked girl in his bed and has one demand - A Miner's Lung immediately. And if that morning's half-naked girl doesn't know how to whip up one of these bad boys, the bro will not be happy, and no one wants to see the bro unhappy.

Miner's Lung:
1 Guinness Beer
3 shots of vodka

On occasion, the bro has been known to ask for a double.

We first stumbled upon the Miner's Lung several weeks ago at Poag Mahone's - an Irish bar conveniently located just down the street from the office. Over a round or eight, the description of the Miner's Lung on the menu became repulsively intriguing and eventually made its way into the bro folklore that developed around the office.

This past Friday was Cordin's last day on the project and it was only appropriate that we sent him off in true bro fashion - a round of Miner's Lungs. Things got blurry from that point on.

Miner's Lung virgins:














First glorious sip:














Miner's Lung Conquered:















I feel refreshed just thinking about it.

nyc

I think New York City is one of those places that can be strikingly different each time you visit it, and I have yet to disprove this theory wrong. NYC is beautiful and ugly; black, white and all kinds of shades of gray. I love it and I hate it. It's everything in the world all squashed and mashed together into a giant children's finger painting. This past weekend I found a new New York City.

Lesson learned on this visit: it's important to pack casual-wear on business trips. Otherwise you'll have to resort to the gift shop next to the hotel to supply your weekend-wear (see photo to the right). Playing the role of Tammy tourist, I got to visit: the Empire State building, see Avenue Q on Broadway, St. Patrick's Cathedral, the Brooklyn Bridge, SoHo, Chinatown, and (to appease my sister) Serendipity. Other highlights included the best meal of my life compliments of Mary and the Aqua Grill and Asian invasion night with Naerim.

But aside from the typical tourist attractions, you're bound to stumble upon a secret little nook. And the one we happened to find was Joe's Shanghai on Pell St. in Chinatown. It's noisy, confusing, has community-style seating and is cash only. Ask for the dumplings.

who invited the nerd?

Right now I'm currently shipped out in Valhalla, NY for work. If you're not familiar with this area of upstate New York, don't worry, you're not missing much. Think trees, winding roads, and truckers firmly set in the belief that sleeves are in fact optional.

I've been sent out here to interact more closely with our business clients and to represent my team back in Chicago. It's a task that's both flattering and over-whelming.

During this time I've tried to bring my A game - that's right, business pants with creases so sharp I just might take an eye out.

On Wednesday my business professional facade came tumbling down around me. During a system demonstration in front of about 10 clients, I single handedly managed to launch a client's cream and broccoli soup across the room (to seep into the carpeting), and disconnect everyone's Internet connection - Did I mention this all happened simultaneously?

Ummm... my bad?

cut on a diagonal

Whenever my step-father made me a sandwich he would cut it on a diagonal and said that this meant it was made with love. My step-father and I didn't exchange 'I love you's' very often unless it was in sandwich form, and we didn't need to.

I wish more things in life were cut on a diagonal - strange and special and secret and filled with all kinds of meaning.

stella

This morning I woke up disheveled, disoriented and fully clothed on the hard wood floor of my living room. I was covered in granola bar wrappers. No pillow. No blanket.

Stumbling through my morning routine I gradually began to piece together the night. I had a total of 4 Stellas at Elephant and Castle, a quantity I could easily crush for breakfast on any given day. But last night was unlike any other encounter I've had with beer, or the 'death juice' as it will now be referred to. Granted I only had 5 chicken wings for dinner last night, I've been a faithful drinker since I was about 16 years old.

After leaving the bar I took the brown line through downtown and headed north toward home. Thank God for phone records. Without fail, I can usually dig into my cell phone and find calls or texts that refresh the blurred events of the night before.

Me: Night. don't forget you still stole my backpack.
C: You mean my traveling back pack :)
Me: OMG! I was just dreaming on the brown line. I don't know where I am.
C: Haha, dreaming of [censored]'s tender touch?
Me: Oh god. Just fell asleep for the second time. C I don't know if im going to make it off the loop. Wake me up again in 30.
C: Wake up N. (angry cow)

It was that last text that eventually woke me up to find I had missed my El stop but fortunately I managed to stagger off the train a mere two stops after my intended destination. So I peeled my forehead from the grease smear I had created on the train's window, and from there I continued my hazy journey home on foot. Along the way I decided it would be a good idea to stop into Walgreen's for the bare necessities:

• 6 packages of Ramen noodles
• 2 Cup-o-Noodles
• 2 boxes of granola bars
• a gallon jug of iced tea

My Dear Stella,

You were a bad girl last night. You took me down. You took me down hard. let's play nice again soon.

I love you more than I can say,
mn

hairy legs

One day while on a plane traveling between New York and Chicago I read about 50ks in 30 Days in one of those airline magazines that about a thousand other people have flipped through and all the cross word puzzles have been disappointingly completed, or at least amateurishly attempted. It's a writing challenge to write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days. The theory is that writing is all about quantity rather than pure quality. That it takes quantity to strip down to the quality.

This challenge got me thinking how wonderfully painful and exhausting it would be to disappear into a bubble for 30 days and crank out word after word. To live fueled on bottles of wine and next to no sleep. To sacrifice personal hygiene, friends and family for the perfect sentence.

But alas I have to live life to write about life. I have to live through the hairy legs and morning breath of personal relationships in order to truly experience them. After all, life isn't about perfect skin and silicon breasts, well maybe it is in places like LA, but not here where I live.

No, I need to know the hairy legs, the dirty fingernails, the eye crust, the pubic hair on the toilet seat of life. Because without all that, the good wouldn't be nearly so good.

That and the money thing. I need money to live.

sippin' on gin and juice (with my laptop)

I'm not sure I should be allowed to write when I'm drunk. At the time it seems like a perfectly logical idea. I believe that the very best writers kill themselves and that the great ones all have a healthy drinking problem. Usually a few drinks into the evening, I've convinced myself that I could very easily saddle up at the bar and flawlessly integrate with this second echelon of literary masters.

But what always seems to result from my drunken moments is something that should have been written by some sappy, teary-eyed teenager, most likely because I'm horribly self-aware much like a sappy, teary-eyed teenager.

Nonetheless here is my latest drunken rambling I wrote while unpacking one of my few remaining boxes:

As I rifle through boxes, whose contents I had long forgotten (some of which haven’t been touched in over a year since leaving New York), I’m faced with a divestiture that I’ve struggled with since I was eight years old. Wrapped in yellowing newspapers and pushed into the far corners of my mind, I am faced with photographs that haunt me.

In one hand I hold my father… someone I have looked up to as a superhero of sorts, a David in a sea of Goliaths. He was always on the outskirts of my life, living an existence that did not include me, but endlessly intrigued me. Can the irony be any greater than that I have now found myself in the same occupation that stole him from me? Growing up he was a mythological character who slipped in and out of my life as he traveled the world from one intrinsically important meeting to another, and I was just a dust speck on his radar, hopelessly wide-eyed and waiting for the slightest sign of acknowledgment that he just might recognize me not only as his daughter, but as his. It was from him that I inherited my unmanageable hair and ability to win a crowd over on wit alone.

In the other hand I hold a photograph of my step-father, a term that feels so plastic at times that I wish I could invent a new word just for him. Immediately when I think of him I don’t remember his struggles with alcoholism or the fact that he died from a drug overdose. What I remember is every Sunday morning since I was eight years old. Promptly at 6am he woke me (and just me) to get suited up to go skiing. I’m truly convinced that it was on the ski lifts, in its eerie silence, that someone spoke directly to me as a person, and not just as a kid. The lift ride was long enough to delve into the latest heartbreaks, teenage gossip, and life tragedies, but short enough to be punctuated with adrenaline and a sense of accomplishment, all of which I shared with him (and just him). Sundays were our secret bond that I still crave to this day. It was through him that I learned I was greater than a high school diploma and that I just might be someone worth listening to.

It is between these two men in which I am torn, only one of whom is still alive. So the choice should be obvious, and yet my heart still can’t let go even fours years after his death.

If I could reinvent the dictionary you would be “dad.”

the move: hello wellington

A team of four movers arrived at 10am this morning to relocate me from one apartment to another. The crew consisted of Oscar, the quiet European, a Mexican version of Abraham Lincoln and Edwardo, who coincidently enough moved me into Hawthorne exactly one year earlier. It took this stealthy crew a mere two hours to get me from point A to point B.

As the mountains of boxes stacked up in the new apartment I began to panic that it just might not all fit, and considered just throwing out entire boxes rather than going through the pain of unpacking them. But I've found that hands down, unpacking is far easier than packing.

In the seven hours I've been in the new place I've managed to unpack all but 3 boxes, and could probably get to those if I had just a sliver of motivation left. But overall it's beginning to take shape and I can't help but feel the excitement of just being here.

The building itself features delightfully tacky floral printed carpeting in the hallways and a wall of fun house mirrors in the lobby. The decorative molding throughout the apartment itself makes me deliriously giddy with its sophisticated charm, and I can't help but wonder if my apartment suspects that it's better suited for someone far more cosmopolitan than a product of blue-collar America. New apartment, do you know that I come from a home that had brown shag carpeting and mismatched furniture?

And finally, the feature that sold me on this place: the roof top deck.



I promise to be good to you and love you for at least a year (as required by my legally binding lease). We'll regroup and evaluate our relationship this time next year.

PS - Thank you unsecured network "linksys" for your excellent signal strength and disregard for passwords.

the move: in limbo

Encased in a mountain of boxes and surrounded by bare walls, I find myself with the last of my unpacked items. Given all the junk we seem to accumulate through the years, I think that the last items we pack probably say the most about us, as the thought of going without them for even just a day is an unbearable burden.

My remaining unpacked items: a bottle of wine, a cork screw, my laptop, and the clothes on my back.

I think that says I'm a computer nerd with a drinking problem. Yep, sounds about right.

the move: goodbye hawthorne

As much as I hate moving, the thought of my rent going up $100 a month is just unthinkable on principle alone. So I've decided to pack up shop and move just a few blocks away to an apartment that's smaller, cheaper, but most importantly has a rooftop deck, a hot commodity in the city.

As my move date approaches this weekend, I can't help but feel slightly nostalgic. 596 W. Hawthorne Pl. was my first real adult home that belonged solely to me. So what if the dishwasher didn't work, the bathroom tiles looked like they were about to fall off at any second, the windows occasionally fell inward given just the right gust of wind, and the shower had two temperatures: scalding hot or ice cold. The squeaky floor boards, non-functioning fireplace, and kitchen cabinets and closet doors that refused to stay closed were mine.

Apartment 102 was my refuge after work, my hideout on the weekends. It was where I spent my first Thanksgiving and Christmas away from Buffalo, and witnessed my first and second Chicago Gay Pride Parade from my bedroom window. I can now flawlessly tell any cab driver in Chicago, "Broadway and Hawthorne," without the slightest drunken slur. I've capped off many evenings dancing around this living room and getting just a little too friendly with the marble lion statues on either side of the main entrance. My mornings will no longer be greeted by Nick, the 50-something Eastern European maintenance man, who without fail met me with, "Good morning beautiful girl," even on my not-so-beautiful days. Nick, you stole my heart.

As silly as it seems, it saddens me to say goodbye. You've been a front row audience to my first year on my own. Although far from perfect, you were constant.

Thank you for letting me prove to myself that I can in fact make it on my own. I will miss you. Strange that I only realize this now that I'm leaving you.

dante

It was a typical Saturday afternoon. I was just sitting around my apartment feeling slightly bored but relieved to not be working or thinking for just a minute. Interrupting the silence, my cell phone began to ring and the call came up as 'Private.'

Since my mother's cell phone number is blocked and is displayed as a private number, I didn't think a whole lot of it and answered expecting to hear the shrill sound of my mother on the other end. I couldn't have been more wrong. Instead I was greeted by Dante, a 22 year old African American young gent, looking for his brotha who owes him money.

Politely, I respond that I don't know what he's talking about and tell him that I am no longer in Syracuse. I have since moved to Chicago.

Dante, always the opportunity-seeker, takes this as a way in. As we progress through conversation Dante inquires what I look like by asking, "Yo... so wut chu look like?"

Just to egg him on, I decide to ask him what he thinks I look like.

Dante's response: "THICK. You know... a nice ass and some big ol' titties."

Once confirming my obvious thickness, Dante was hooked, and I began to feel slightly uncomfortable with the direction that this conversation was headed. After Dante suggested that we make things a little "more interesting," I told him that it was still daylight in Chicago, and such things needed to wait for nighttime.

Just before shaking Dante loose and getting him off the phone, he asked, "So you got a picta phone? Can I send you some pictas?"

The obvious answer was, "Yes." (In all honesty you would have been disappointed if I said anything else.)

What happened next cannot be posted here. Use your imagination. Dante wasn't joking around.

fro yo?

As indicated in one of my previous entries, I have an inexplicable fascination with the bro. I think it's because I genuinely wonder if they realize how insanely ridiculous they are, and at any given moment I'm waiting for the hidden cameras to pop out or at the very least for someone to yell, "psyche!"

About 2 weeks ago I was going for a run, and fine I'll admit it... I had my booty shorts on. But to counter the booty shorts, I had my iPod on, a clear indication not to talk to me. During the second half of my run, as I headed north on the lake toward my apartment, I had a bro encounter that I can't help but document.

Feeling slightly winded and wondering if hailing a cab the rest of the way home would result in a loss of street cred, I found myself running shoulder to shoulder with a bro. He was shirtless and freshly waxed (adhering to bro rule number 1), and proceeded to ramble off a list of nearby gyms. I deciphered this to be the bro way of asking me if I worked out at these locations, and curtly said no to each one. It was probably my severe disinterest and annoyance with this guy that kept him intrigued... after all, the bro doesn't like being ignored. He then introduced himself in typical bro fashion... a fist pound.

The bro proceeded his attempt to impress me by telling me about his days as a personal trainer and repeatedly commenting, "You look really fit." (The bro is no longer employed as a trainer and now earns his bank selling flowers wholesale through his family's business.)

During a light jog that gradually turned into a sprint to lose this guy, I began to worry that the bro just might follow me all the way to my apartment. Nearing the end of my course and after declining a ride on his scooter, the bro then asked, "So can I take you for a low fat fro yo sometime?" It was at that moment, politeness took a backseat to my laughter and once able to speak again, I replied, "I cannot believe you actually just called it that right now. That's the most ridiculous thing anyone has ever asked me."

Probably feeling rejected and hopefully embarrassed, the bro then made a U-turn, but not without first giving me a fist pound good-bye.

a nose ring in corporate america

A question that almost everyone asks me at some point is, “So what's the deal with that? (gesturing to my nose ring).”

Working in corporate America, I can’t say I’ve seen a single other nose ring, let alone any other facial piercing, on a non-Indian woman. In fact I’ve been told that when describing me, people will say, “You know… the girl with the [nose tap].”

I wish that when asked about my nose ring I could dive into the time I spent traveling through Southeast Asia and some spiritual ceremony I went through, resulting in the small diamond stud that plays such a large part of who I am.

Although not nearly as interesting, this small piece of jewelry does hold a large part of my self-identity. Replace Southeast Asia with the blue collar town of Buffalo, NY and add the girl who never quite felt like she ever fit in.

The weekend after I graduated from a strict all-girls Catholic high school that banned all visible piercings, I immediately walked off the graduation stage, and armed with my best friend and my best friend's mother, walked into a tattoo/piercing shop. It was around 11am on a Saturday and my only intention at the time was to go there with Meagan while she got her first tattoo, and never really considered doing anything myself.

At the time Meagan was 2 months shy of 18, and in NY it was still illegal for anyone under 18 to get a tattoo, even with parental consent. So rather than waste the trip, Meagan's mom had her rose tattoo that had severely faded during the 20 years she had it, retouched and transformed into a dragonfly. To this day when I catch a glimpse of it across the top of her right breast, I smile, as if we're members of some secret club.

I can't even remember what my thought process was at the time, but at some point I decided that I didn't care what my father would say, and I pointed to a blue stud and proclaimed, "I want that on the left side of my nose." Suddenly, I found the petite Native American woman at the tattoo/piercing parlor bent over me, and in about 20 seconds I was pierced. Later, when my father did eventually see it, he told me it looked like I had a white-head on the side of my nose and asked if I wanted him to pop it. Occasionally he still asks.

Two months after getting my nose pierced, I wound up at a house party with my then boyfriend. After a few dozen shots too many, and praying to the porcelain god, the next morning my nose ring was gone and the piercing had healed. When Meagan's 18th birthday finally rolled around, we hit the nearest tattoo parlor where she got her first tattoo (a blue heart with wings on her lower right side) and I got my nose pierced for the second time.

When first interviewing post-graduation, I felt dyed hair and piercings just might be frowned upon, so I reverted back to my natural dark brown hair color and removed my nose ring. Once hired, I continued with the more conservative look and even sported neatly pressed button-down shirts and creased pants. For months I dressed in what felt to me like clown clothes. I felt uncomfortable, unattractive, and a million miles from being myself.

After about 8 months I decided that I just couldn't do it anymore, and didn't care what the consequences were. When I looked in the mirror I didn't recognize myself and felt incomplete. One night out of curiosity, I decided to see if my nose piercing had closed and was almost nervous to find out that it hadn't. Once it was back in, there was no going back. Wearing it on the weekends or after work simply wasn't an option. I found myself needing it in order to feel and look like myself.

The irony in my nose ring is that I absolutely hate my profile, and hate my nose in particular. To the extreme that I can't help but feel horribly unattractive when people sit at a 90 degree angle from me. It's my crooked nose and my big forehead that somehow become comfortable and sometimes even beautiful (but only sometimes) when I have my nose ring. Without it, I found myself constantly touching my left nostril and incredibly self-conscious.

Everyone asks if it hurt or how I blow my nose or if I have a lot of boogers. Just for the record, the answers are:

1. Not really. It was sore for about a week but the actual pain only lasted for a few seconds.
2. Same way I always have.
3. The inside of my nose ring does tend to accumulate some "crusties" but I'm not gonna lie, I enjoy a good nose pick from time to time, so I think of it as a win-win.

in the land of cordin

who i spend 90% of my day talking to..

Cordin: but whoever thought button fly was a good idea for men should be fired

Cordin: i just want to fire people i think

Cordin: the city of cordin, you will have no pigeons being fed, no buses blocking intersections and no button fly jeans

Cordin: also in this beautiful land one can find an endless flow of parfaits

an ahh haa moment

"When I was single, I decided I wouldn't marry a man unless I could be proud if we had a son who turned out exactly like him." - Maggie Mason

I'm not sure marriage could have been put more perfectly into perspective than with that statement. As timing would have it, about 2 weeks ago when I was at home in New York, my friend Michelle and I found ourselves at a table for two with a bottle of wine in a dimly lit restaurant. Michelle is one of those friends whose friendship I'm able to step right back into regardless of the number of months that have gone by.

As we polished off the bottle of wine and I was secretly thinking we should have ordered another, our conversation inevitably led to discussing our latest dating adventures. It was at this point Michelle told me of her 'revelation.' After walking in limbo for far too long wondering, "Exactly what is this?" she had an 'ahh haa' moment of her very own. In her revelation she realized that life would in fact go on with or without a guy. That she's doing just fine on her own. And really what's the worse that would happen if a guy rejected you?

It sounds obvious enough but so many girls (and yes I can speak from personal experience on this) get hung up on being with a guy that it doesn't even matter who that guy is. They truly believe that their heart will never heal... that they'll remain alone forever, and that there isn't anything else in life that could possibly be worse than how they feel at that given moment.

While I too have been guilty of these sentiments, it is 'ahh haa moments' like the one Michelle had that realigns my perspective.

the bro

The bro can typically be found prowling in such places as, spring break destinations (Cabo and Daytona Beach rank high in the list), dance clubs, and most commonly at the gym getting his swell on. I have been fortunate enough in life to work in close proximity to one such bro, and have been inspired to write a how-to-guide on achieving bro’dom of your very own.

• Undershirts: The foundation of bro’dom relies on a bare, waxed chest. So first things first... if you own any undershirts throw them away immediately. The bro can never be seen with an undershirt on, and is much more likely to be seen with no shirt on at all.
• Body hair: Rid yourself of any body hair. The one exception to this rule is the subtle yet masculine 5 o’clock shadow, as the bro can be spotted with this look often.
• Self-tanner: You may think this bronze look comes from a tanning bed, but this is a common non-bro misconception. You can only pull off that perfect tan by using a bro-approved spray-on tan. You may wonder, what's bro-approved? The answer to this is, any spray-on tan that a half naked girl applies to you while telling you how good your 6 pack looks.
• Cuff links: No bro ensemble is complete without the professional and high class touch of cuff links in all social situations. The bro can be seen anywhere from the office to a sporting event with the perfect cuff links to compliment all settings. Extra bro points if they match the pinstripes in your pants.
• Axe Body Spray: It is vital for every bro to smell good at all times and for everyone in the room to know it. Douse yourself in bro-approved Axe body spray, because all bros know that the commercials don't lie.
• Cologne: The only bro approved cologne is one you cannot pronounce correctly. Common bro brands are colognes such as Acqua Di Gio and L'Eau d'Issey. This scent, accompanied by your bro body spray, will get the attention of any girl.
  
• Gold chain: The only way to accompany your bare, tanned chest is with a gold chain. Because without a chain your undone buttons would just look ridiculous.
• Casual wear: When going casual it is acceptable for a bro to wear a vneck, if and only if, this vneck is accompanied by a suit coat.

**Special shout out to two anonymous co-authors for their thoughts and contributions to 'the bro.' Couldn't have done it without you.

a night at the turtle races

The hardest part about my job is simply trying to explain what it is I do as a consultant. Basically, if you want to work insanely long hours, have no life outside of work, and party like a rock star, consulting is the industry for you.

Today is day 13 out of a 20 day work stretch - crack the whip and forget what a weekend is! The only thing that makes this experience remotely tolerable is the amount of excessive drinking we do as a firm, and last night was no different.

After a full work day and a mandatory firm happy hour, a group of us from work ventured to the north side of Chicago for a little known recreational activity - turtle racing at Big Joe's. It looks like your typical dive bar in an obscure neighborhood... that is until they busted out the turtles!

Here's how it works... for every drink you buy, you receive a few raffle tickets. With each round of turtle racing they pull 6 tickets out of a hat. If your number gets called, you get assigned a turtle. If your turtle wins the race, you get free stuff. Simple enough.

Perhaps it was the fact that I had started drinking at 5 that day or maybe it was round after round of refreshing pitchers of Miller Lite, but I found this activity particularly entertaining.

In the end we drank, watched some turtles, and I beat out my co-workers with a winning bet on lucky turtle number 5.

big time executive

A reality that I think everyone has to face is the fact that they’re never going to be considered an adult in their parents’ eyes. We could live to be 90 years old and as long as our parents are still kicking around, we will always be the child. In the seven years I have lived away from home and on my own, I have thought of myself as an independent adult more and more frequently. It’s a self-identity that I had almost taken for granted until I returned home this past weekend and came face-to-face with my mother.

I had convinced my manager to allow me to work remotely from my mother’s house on both Friday and Monday so that I could have a long weekend home. Each Monday at work my team, which consists of about 15 people, attends a team meeting to update each other on progress, issues, whatever. Since I was at home I dialed into the meeting and was placed on speaker phone while the rest of my team gathered in a conference room.

I had decided to use the house phone for the meeting in order to save minutes on my cell phone and warned my 13 year old sister to stay off the line. About 10 minutes before the end of the hour long meeting, my mother unexpectedly comes home early from work and decides to make a phone call. The following is what transpired:

Random team members: [insert business jargon here]

My mother: HELLLOOO???? [pause] HELLOOOOO??? [pause] HELLLOOOOO???

Meanwhile I’m bolting from room to room looking for the source of my mother’s call and eventually find her in her bedroom. Just as I’m running into the room, arms flailing to signal for her to stop, as if in slow motion she says:

My mother: HANNA GET OFF THE PHONE!

Panicked with embarrassment, I immediately end the call both from my mother’s phone and the phone I was using.

Afterward the obvious question to my mother was, “Why would you pick up the phone, hear people talking and continue to say hello over and over?!”

My mother: I heard MEN’s voices on the line! I thought your sister was talking to MEN!

Me: How could you possibly mistake the voices of 50 year old men for 13 year old boys?!

My mother: Well you know kids these days. They go through puberty early and have those deep voices.

Me: Mom you are SO embarrassing!

My mother: Well excuse me big time executive. But we don’t make conference calls around here.

It only took 30 seconds on a conference call for my mother to remind me that I will never really be an adult in front of her; meanwhile, my mother’s legacy lives on at work, as she is suddenly the most popular person in the office without ever having set foot in it.

home

Ever since leaving home over a year ago, the concept of home has become more of an idea than an actual place. This upcoming weekend I’ll be venturing back there to greet head on the family drama, the friendships I’ve never really left behind, and the landscape that intrinsically holds my own self-identity.

It couldn’t have come at a more perfect time.

Let's go BUFF-A-LO!

the blow off

We were supposed to meet at 8pm on Memorial Day. Although I hadn’t heard from him all day, I had hoped that with each passing hour I’d get a call, a text, a smoke signal… something. I was naïve enough to still shower and get dressed but for some reason I held off putting makeup on. I somehow knew the blow off was coming and subconsciously decided that without the effort of makeup, just a sliver of dignity remained.

At 8:15 the shoes came off and I poured myself a second glass of wine. I tried calling the only friend I had told about the pseudo-date, but it was only fitting she didn’t answer. I fought every urge to call or text him and instead thought about what I would tell a friend in the same situation. I imagine I would tell her not to bother texting or calling and the next time she saw him to pretend as if she didn’t even care or remember, to laugh a little too loud at other people’s jokes, to dress just slightly inappropriately. Then inevitably when his next call or text comes, don’t respond.

My best advice tends to be the advice I give to other people. The hard part is following it for myself.

In the end I can only hope he's dead in a ditch somewhere. But you know, no hard feelings or anything.

marriage

Recently I’ve been bombarded with the modern dilemma of career versus marriage. It seems as if almost every girl I’ve friended on Facebook since kindergarten has updated her relationship status to either “engaged” or “married” within the past 12 months and inevitably I wonder if it’s just me? Am I alone in thinking that that 25 is just too young for marriage?

At this point in my life I feel as if I’m just getting started. I’ve finally jumped through the hoops of school, moved across the country, and started a career. While I’ll admit there are a few too many Saturday nights greeted with an empty bed, I can’t say that I would be ready for marriage right now or even within the foreseeable future. After all, a large part of me still feels very much like a kid, and that’s something I’m not quite ready to let go of.

So what’s the rush? I wonder if girls my age are more concerned with satisfying some internal or societal goal. Too often I’ve heard girls say, “I want to be married by the time I’m X years old.” And I think… are you getting married simply because you have hit that age and end up marrying whomever you are with at that point in your life? And where does this magical age come from?

A few weeks ago, a 22 year old recent college grad that has sort of latched onto me at work, confided to me that the thought of getting married after 30 was unthinkable. I jokingly told her, “Well I can’t even find a boyfriend and I’m older than you are, so you shouldn’t worry.” And then, as if to drive the dagger in, she replied, “Yeah and you’re way older than I am!”

[insert jaw drop]

I attributed that comment to her naturally anxious personality and let her get away with that one.

the turtleneck

I suppose I was bound to come across it at some point in my life. I knew it existed out there like some mythological creature, but in my 25 years I had yet to actually come eye to eye with an uncircumcised penis, and it was an encounter for which I was severely unprepared. A few months ago I briefly dated a guy whose one major flaw was his foreskin.

My initial reaction was that it reminded me of something that should be attached to a dog. My father used to have an overly playful 80 lbs. French Bouvier, named Ego, who was infamous for his appearances on the leather couch in the living room. My step-mother claimed it was the pliability of the couch or perhaps leather just is one of those things that does it for both canine and man. But without fail, every time Ego would pounce onto that couch, it was in your best interests to flee the area. Within seconds, Ego’s enthusiasm would slowly emerge into a bright red, wet erection reminiscent of a tube of lipstick sliding upwards. And if you weren’t quick enough, it would be headed straight toward you.

I had somehow managed to suppress the memory of Ego’s lipstick - that is until I encountered the Turtleneck for the first time. It would be a disservice to those out there who have yet to encounter firsthand a turtleneck of their own if I skimp out on the details. The best way to describe this creature is as a cascading, flesh waterfall - the skin literally falling and draping a good inch beyond the tip.

The term “turtleneck” resulted from the guy’s over-attempt at humor, when post-relations he proclaimed on multiple occasions, “Welp time to put my turtleneck back on,” as he yanked forward his penis flesh in an almost painful manner.

Needless to say, after a few encounters with the turtleneck, it didn’t matter how many bottles of wine the evening was filled with… the turtleneck was not something worth trying on again.

speed dating

Generally the thought of speed dating brings to mind a scene from some romantic comedy and might potentially sound like a good idea in theory. However, it is not something that actual real people participate in, or at least not anyone that I know.

About a week ago my friend Victoria approached me with the idea of giving speed dating a try. She and I both moved to Chicago about a year ago, and she figured it would be a good way to meet people beyond our cubicle walls at work.

About an hour before go-time, I was dead set on backing out and continuing my weekend love affair with my couch, but since I had already paid the $32 fee, my cheapness kicked in and I figured I would at least go for my free drink. So I crushed a glass of wine for some liquid bravery and made my way over to the bar.

Immediately I scanned the room for any potential hotties, and couldn’t help but feel like a total tool.

The way it works is the women are assigned a table and given a number. Every 5 minutes a whistle is blown and the guys rotate. Fortunately I had the foresight to jot down some notes, mainly because I knew I would get at least one or two good stories from this experience. On your “scorecard” you circle a yes or no next to the guy’s number. If both parties circled yes, the organizers will email the other person’s contact information.

So I got my free drink and made my way over to my table. I was lucky number 9. Bring on the plethora of men to add to my man-harem. That night’s lineup featured:

Vladimir – Vladimir is a part-time dish washer new to the US from Bulgaria. When not washing dishes, Vladimir fosters his entrepreneurship spirit by running his own vending machine business.

[whistle!]

Joe – Joe is a recently retired, former military operative in his mid 50’s. Rather than drinking a beer, Joe preferred his Styrofoam cup of Dunkin Donuts coffee, which only fueled his jarring and abrasive personality. Immediately he sat down, snapped his fingers at me and spewed, “Ok let’s do this. Where ya from? What do ya do? Ya like a guy who can boss you around a little?”

[please God, blow the whistle already!]

Peter – Peter was the quintessential dbag of the group. Offensive behavior included:

• Stating that he’s from “Cali.”
• A beaded necklace that was so tight I wondered if I should wear protective goggles in the event it popped off.
• Excessive muscles that could only be the result of steroids and a steady supply of protein bars.
• Current occupation: male stripper
• Walking away from Victoria’s 5 minute date 3 minutes early

[whistle!]

Jeff – I actually noticed Jeff at the bar before we even started. He was the creepy old man attempting to hide his raging boner as he stared me down. I pretended not to notice and prayed his 5 minutes would be as painless as possible. He’s the type of guy who is a regular to the Viagra Triangle scene in Chicago, looking for that perfect 21-26 year old he can brag to all his old men friends about. He was extremely forward, pulled his chair in close to me and touched my knee. About 75% of the conversation centered on where I went to college (Syracuse University) and it’s inferiority to his alma mater (Georgetown) that he probably graduated from 15 years before I was even born.

[whistle… Jeff was actually asked to leave and move onto the next person. Apparently he just couldn’t pull himself or his erection away from me.]

Danny – Danny is a petite and reserved gentleman who works as a nurse in a nearby hospital. He complained that although he works with a lot of women, they’re all in their 60’s and not dating material. The interaction with Danny was extremely awkward, most likely due to the fact that neither one of us could avoid thinking about the obvious… Danny’s vagina.

[if I had a whistle on me I would have blown it myself]

Lesson learned: if you’re going to participate in speed dating only do it with the intention of creating socially awkward comments for pure amusement purposes only.

the difference between alone and lonely

This is the point in my life where for the first time in several years I am truly alone. I no longer have a longterm live-in boyfriend, I have no roommates, and I'm in a city where I have no safety net friends. While I have made the occasional bar-hopping friends from work that I might know me on a superficial level as the sassy, quick-witted New Yorker, what I truly long for are my Buffalonians. These are the people I've known since high school. The people who I don't feel the need to entertain. But most importantly these are the people that I know I could call at 3am just after the scene of some vicious crime and with no questions asked help me drag the body across the floor. I have yet to find anything close to that in Chicago and I suppose it does take time, but my heart hurts just thinking that it might never come.

What this time has shown me is the huge difference between simply being alone and what it feels like to be truly lonely. There are times when I do savor being alone, like after a particularly hectic day at work or when I want to dance around my living room with my music as loud as possible. But most of the time I'm reminded that there will be no standard phone calls at 7pm on a Friday night from the people that you know you have plans with regardless of ever actually having made them. I'm no longer a member of a standard group and with that I've somehow lost who I am as an individual. Although that sounds almost contradictory, it's the people we associate ourselves with that genuinely makes us who we are. It is through these relationships that we emerge as the listener, the comedian, the romantic...

So when will I be able to move from being lonely to content in just being alone?

the bar

For almost as long as I can remember a central presence in my life has been housed in one bar or another. I’ve been a regular bar frequenter since I was eight years old. I can still remember getting off the school bus in my catholic school girls’ uniform and rather than playing with friends outside or watching TV, I would clutch the almost too heavy door and slip into my step-father’s dark and smoke-filled bar in South Buffalo. Immediately, I would be transported from the mid-afternoon’s sunlight and sucked into near darkness and coolness that’s only really comparable to that of a cave. As my eyes adjusted to the change in light I would begin to make out the shadowy figures slumped over the bar.

At this point in the day there would only be a handful. They each had varying stories… one was a textbook alcoholic, one was hiding out from his family after his recent job loss, one was living in a nearby halfway house spending what little money he had on the cheapest draft beer, one was my step-father’s old high school buddy dried up from his excessive drug use during the 70’s, and then there was me.

My older sister didn’t share in the adventure and secret world that the bar held for me. She somehow knew it was inappropriate for an eight and ten year old to be there. But for me, I couldn’t have been more thrilled to spend the afternoon at the bar. The fact that there was the faint scent of urine, the occasional passed out drunk, and ash trays over flowing with cigarette butts made it all that more appealing to me. No one paid me much notice and that’s the way I liked it. I wanted to pretend as if I too were a regular… as if I belonged to a private club of social outcasts with tragic life stories that the best American novels are based on.

As I sipped my Cokes at the bar, dangling my feet above the floor, I would mimic their slumped posture and reflect on my own life tragedies thus far… the way the kids in my class would remind me everyday that my name rhymes with “Barfa,” the embarrassment of being held back a year in kindergarten when I moved from Texas to NY, and having an older sister far more beautiful than I would ever be. With these social outcasts, I was at home.

Eventually my step-father was busted for selling cocaine out the basement of the bar and not even his brother, a city Sheriff, could save him. He lost the bar and it was replaced with new ownership that stole from it everything I loved. My fellow pariahs were replaced with happy hour specials and girls in tight clothes. There was now a dance floor and neon lights where the jukebox once stood.

And worst of all, Houlihan’s was now known as Finn McCool’s.

one valentine with a side of mayo please

Brace yourself, you're about to encounter pure poetic genius:

The Other White Topping
Author: M.C. Awesome

I hope this present finds you surprised and a bit confused

So let me clear this up and explain how this gift is used

You can spread it on a sandwich, a BLT or some bread

Just apply to the bun with a knife… then spread

Miracle Whip and Hellmann’s are the brands atop the chart

If you ever see me shopping, you’ll find both in my cart

Reach for the Whip if looking for a lighter, smoother feel

Or ball up and grab the Hellmann’s for a pastier, manly meal

I hope these tips help as you indulge in this treat

And I hope you add extra on the next burger you eat

So on this VDay while at home, playing with your games

Think of me - spoon in hand - while enjoying your mayonnaise

the song slaughterer

We all know this guy... you're rocking out, enjoying a kick ass song when the person you're with insists on rocking it just a little too hard. [Insert air guitar/drums here.]

You can no longer hear the words of the song and instead are bombarded with the crackling, toned-deaf vocal accompaniment of your musically-challenged companion.

The song is forever ruined.

Buddy, do us all a favor and tone it down.

my medicine

There are a few very select people that I can remember the precise moment I met them as if it happened yesterday. I can instantaneously go back to that moment and relive it just as realistically as if it were the first time.

Meagan is one of these few people and I’m infinitely grateful for the day she plopped down next to me on a bus. Disheveled and out of breath, she had an enormous sense of relief spread across her face as she found the only available seat, which happened to be next to me. Rather than the awkward shift away from one another and avoidance of eye contact, she immediately dove into conversation about her latest boy troubles and I felt inclined to verbal vomit into my own. Little did I realize she would change my life completely from that moment on.

The day I knew that in Meagan resided the most genuine friendship of my life was also on a day when I wasn’t quite sure I had it in me to face another day. At 17 the most shattering moment of my inexperienced life was the day I was dumped in pursuit by my then boyfriend to “experience other people.” Nothing could have been more crushing and my bed was the only place I could find solace. I was determined to never leave the comfort of my twin bed I had slept in since I was 3 years old and I wasn’t about to change my mind even if it meant living out my remaining days on my floral sheets in complete isolation.

It was that day when Meagan appeared in my room, dead-set on not taking no for an answer. Before I could even go down my poorly formed list of excuses, she forced me out of bed and into clothes. Before I knew it, we were in my step-father’s Jeep Cherokee littered with miscellaneous trash and probably even a few bottles of liquor. Although it was early spring and the weather was still closer to winter than summer, we began an aimless drive. Annoyed and wishing I was still in bed, we set course for no where with the windows down and the heat full force. I hopped on the I-90 toward downtown in the middle of the afternoon and she excitedly popped in a mixed tape made just for the occasion. I fought the urge to car-dance for a song or two but we both knew that given the right combination of 90’s music, I would eventually cave and dance my upper-body as if my torso and arms had never moved before. That day I realized that a boy was no reason to feel destroyed… that life would in fact go on, and there’s no better remedy than a best friend and the greatest hits of the 90’s to cure anything life can throw at you.

To this day that combination has been my medicine to just about everything.

sorry

We were standing on your porch huddled in the cold.
I said it felt like Buffalo.
You assumed I meant that I was home.
I chose to let you.

feelers

"Feelers" is a term my best friend from high school came up with to describe that feeling you get about someone where your stomach drops just thinking about them. I've only had feelers once before and wasn't sure it would happen again.

Lately, my otherwise natural smoothness has been compromised and what's resulted is a horribly awkward, and sweaty-palmed version of myself. My first attempt at saying "hi" resulted in some strange high-pitched noise escaping my throat. I played it off as a cough and immediately fled the elevator.

the mouth breather

I never thought I’d find myself in a dating situation with someone embodying the very trait that irks me to such severity, I find myself repulsed.

Mouth breathing is a habit that forces me to shudder at my very core. There’s nothing more that I would like to do than to confront every slack-jawed individual I come across, and slap some sense into them. Or at the very least slap their mucus-laden sinuses free so they’ll engage in intra-nostril oxygen exchange. When I see a mouth breather, I can’t help but become fixated on their mouth, watching each inhale and exhale, envisioning the massive number of microscopic germs reproducing and festering like a cesspool. I study the white crust that has formed at the corners of their mouth and wonder how long they can stand to have it form there, all the while secretly wanting to take one of those tools masons use when building a brick wall to firmly scrape and remove the cement that has encrusted their mouth.

Given my preexisting discrimination against mouth-breathers, it would be a no-brainer to assume I would never date one and I never had any intention of proving that assumption wrong. I began dating a guy who by all other accounts has his act together (at least in terms of most 20-something year olds), but the one trait that I just cannot look beyond is his mouth-breathing. At first I gave him the benefit of the doubt; he was just getting over a cold and I thought, “well maybe this is just the residual stuffy-nose.” I figured eventually, it would wear off and he would resume breathing normally. As the weeks have progressed, there is little sign that his mouth-breathing is just a temporary phenomenon. Instead, I catch myself staring at his mouth, examining each breath, almost as if I can see them like in a cartoon where the smelly kid is radiating stink lines. Each breath becomes like one of those silent elevator farts that everyone who is trapped in the confined space seems to notice, but no one is about to call anyone out on it. Instead, everyone holds their breath and braces for the doors to open.