Winter is here and I’m not ready

Once again, a new season is upon us and I’m woefully unprepared. Despite the fashion world flagrantly displaying itself before my dazzled eyes on a daily basis, I have yet to purchase the items essential to my survival this winter.

For example, how can I properly winter without:

A Belted Camel Coat Brimming With Groovy 70s Vibes

I’m still stewing over the fact that this Helmut Lang coat was on sale at Rue La La and all I needed to do was shell out $500 (regular price $1,295) and it could have been mine. My mouse actually hovered over the “Add to Cart” button for a good 30 seconds before I came back to my senses and realized I had to buy stupid things like electricity and Christmas gifts for my loved ones. Damn them.

Screen Shot 2018-12-28 at 1.57.35 PM — Sorry for the blurry image. It’s how it looks through my tears. (Photo credit: Pinterest, Rue La La.)

Louis Vuitton Sunglasses That Rock So Hard I Want To Cry

Look at them. WHY AREN’T THEY ON MY FACE RIGHT NOW? The only thing that keeps me from buying them (other than the $665 price tag) is the sad realization that while they look good on the lithe model with the perfectly symmetrical features, most sunglasses are too wide for my undersized face. But that’ll be cold comfort when the winter sun blinds me in my unprotected eyeballs.

Yes, I took a picture of a magazine ad. The Party Square sunglasses, $665 at Louis Vuitton

Cropped Cable Knit Sweater For Those Ab-Showing Winter Days

You know what I love about winter? How you can wear something as unsexy-sounding as a cable knit sweater but still rock some abs. Plus, for extra warmth the sleeves are long enough to cover your hands, so does it really matter that you were forced to do crunches in December when every other self-respecting person is eating chocolate chip cookies? But the sweater! It’s cozy, yet seductive in its coziness. And it could be all mine for a mere $420. One could say that’s a lot for what’s basically a half-sweater but I prefer to think of it as half-fabulous, which is kind of my brand.

Screen Shot 2018-12-27 at 6.28.19 PM — This particular sweater from Acne Studios is no longer available, but you can find a similar style from Shopbop for the aforementioned $420. (Photo credit: @sabinasocol on Instagram.)

Gray Over-The-Knee Boots So Buttery Soft They Should Be Served With Warm Biscuits

Have you ever seen a more delicious pair of boots? I maintain that you have not. Gray boots have been on my “Why don’t I have this already?” list for years and I think it’s about time I crossed it off. I’ve always been drawn to gray as my go-to neutral. Gray is a folksy sort of neutral, which suits me down to my Midwestern, corn-fed soul.

Screen Shot 2018-12-28 at 1.01.15 PM — Will my meat-and-potato thighs be up to the challenge? TBD. (Photo credit: The Tieland Boot, $798 at Stuart Weitzman.)

A Chunky Turquoise Ring That Distracts From My Parchment-Like Chapped Hands

Bonus: Lotion That Isn’t a Pleasant-Smelling Lie

I like my jewelry like my chicken soup: chunky. And turquoise is my favorite color/stone and therefore must be on my hand at all times. My dry, patchy, chapped, farmer-man hand. Seriously, can someone get me some lotion? And some chicken soup, while you’re at it.

il_340x270.1220533058_n60d — To those doubters who believe turquoise is only for summer: Behold! (Photo credit: Etsy.)

What are your winter musts? Or do you just burrow under the covers until spring?

Summer is almost here and I’m not ready

One of the downsides of my job as a fashion copywriter is that I’m forced to constantly look at magazines, blogs and do comparison shopping all in the name of research. I know. The horror. But it IS a problem, because then I see every new thing that comes out on the market and 100% of the time it is something that I must have, like yesterday. Did I also mention that I use shopping as therapy and I relate all too well to the cringe-worthy protagonist in Confessions of a Shopaholic?

All that to say that summer is one of my three favorite seasons and it’s coming up fast. And I am woefully low on:

A CUTE ONE-PIECE SWIM SUIT THAT FITS MY WEIRD GOURD-SHAPED BODY

When you’re shaped like a beloved Thanksgiving-themed decorative fruit, shopping is difficult enough without throwing in “Oh hey, one-pieces are back from the Baywatch-shaped hole they’ve been hiding in for the past 20 years.” How did this happen? Why are they back? And how can I get one immediately? IF I can find one that will fit my long skinny upper body and my bulbous lower body, that is.

636548512378365298 — NSFW: Behold, me in all my naked glory.

BODY JEWELRY THAT I CAN ROCK LILITH FAIR-STYLE

Shut up. Body jewelry is back and you’re just going to have to deal with it, society. I remember back in the day, I owned not one, but several belly bracelets. And just because that was twenty years ago when I was dreamily listening to Sarah McLaughlin while drinking Zima in my dorm room does not mean I can’t adorn my still-pretty-alright body with some sparkle. It’s not like I’m some 41-year old woman who still wears crop tops. Oh wait…

MATCHING CROP TOP AND SKIRT SET BECAUSE PINTEREST

Except I’m exactly the kind of 41-year old woman who wears crop tops! And why not? Do I force myself to go to the gym 4 days a week only to not wear crop tops, like some kind of not-crop-top-wearing idiot? Summer was made for crop tops and I love that they are still a thing. Especially since now they have matching crop top-and-skirt sets all over Pinterest that are freaking adorable and I need all of them. But only if I can wear it surrounded by flowers on a cobblestone street with messy yet perfectly done hair while drinking out of a pineapple. Obviously.

tumblr_okvwu2C3VY1qzh0vno1_1280 — Okay, I made up the pineapple but the rest is SPOT ON. (Photo credit: Pinterest, Chanel Bags & Cigarette Drags)

FANCY LUGGAGE SO I CAN FEEL BALLER FOR A FEW MINUTES BEFORE THEY SEAT ME IN COACH

I have always been obsessed with luxe luggage and by “always” I mean since I spotted a fabulous Gucci luggage set in a UK Vogue about six years ago. Gliding through the airport in my just-right traveling outfit, with my perfectly matched luggage is almost as good as the vacation itself.

Except my fantasies of airport chic come from the Mad Men era, before 9/11 turned us all into shoeless animals forced into X-ray machines, all while being groped by the airport equivalent of mall security. To add insult to injury, my neatly packed luggage ends up looking like someone searched it using a giant Kitchen Aid mixer. (Note: Just kidding, TSA. You guys are the best!)

But seriously, I need these ASAP. (Photo credit: Pinterest, Henri Bendel)

WHITE JEANS THAT DON’T LOOK LIKE I’M WEARING A KITCHEN TRASH BAG

Why don’t I already have a pair of white jeans? White jeans are quintessential summer. They look so fresh and breezy, yet when I squeeze myself into a pair, one or both of the following things happen:

As with most denim, they fit super-snug in the butt and thighs, yet gap in the waistband. (See above, re: gourd-shaped body.)
They are basically made of white tissue paper and show literally every bump, even ones I didn’t know were there. Oh, I got razor burn this morning? Good to know. Thanks, white devil.

GIRD YOUR LOINS, CREDIT CARD. IT’S ABOUT TO GET WEIRD.

Sadly, this is only a small part of my list but I didn’t want to overburden you all with too many fabulous things. Because then you’d know what it’s like to be in my head and I wouldn’t do that to you.

You know what else I need? SLIDES. They’re flip-flop’s fancy out-of-town cousin! *(Photo credit: Urban Outfitters Striped Bow Pool Slide, $24)*

P.S. Let me know in the comments what lovely things are on your summer must-have list! I promise I won’t steal your ideas.

P.P.S I will totally steal your ideas.

The Fun Continues: His ’n Her Heart Attacks!

This has been an interesting six weeks, folks. You may remember that at the end of September my dad had a heart attack. Not to be outdone, a few weeks later my mom had her own heart attack. Because in case you haven’t heard, society, women can do anything men can do.

We_Can_Do_It! — “Um… this isn’t what I had in mind.”

Yes, both my parents had heart attacks within a few weeks of each other. After approximately 150 years of marriage, my parents do everything together and that includes His ’n Her heart attacks. Now that’s romance.

The medicine-pushers (or “doctors,” if you’re a non-believer in conspiracy theories) think her heart attack was brought on by stress. A lot of women don’t have pain with heart attacks and she probably would have never known she even had one. But she was in the hospital for bronchitis when it happened, which was… lucky, I guess?

"Thanks, bronchitis!" — “Thanks, bronchitis!”

After I heard the news, I rushed in to see Mom only to find her sitting up in the hospital bed eating lunch and lecturing Dad to take his cough medicine. (Dad had bronchitis at the same time, because of course he did.)

Let me tell you, people do not have heart attacks in real life like they do on TV. There was no dramatic chest-clutching or yelling at dead relatives in the sky. But there was Jell-O, so that’s something. What is it with hospitals and Jell-O, anyway? Are they being blackmailed by Bill Cosby?

640px-BillCosby — “There’s always room for Jell-O. Or else.”

The doctors declared Mom good to go and released her the next day. And, just this morning, Dad had the second stent put in to fix his other blocked artery and was sitting up and eating (Jell-O obviously, eh, Bill?) a couple hours later.

So the Heart Attack Twins are doing well. Hopefully they will follow doctor’s orders and take it easy. Next time, let’s try doing less heart attacky activities. Flying over the Bermuda Triangle, perhaps? Or how about standing in the front row of a black cat parade?

"Yeah. Like you could get us to participate in a parade." — “That doesn’t even make sense. Cats HATE parades.”

Ends, beginnings & throat-punching

Well, you guys, a lot has happened since I last posted. The first and most important (to me, anyway) is my decision to discontinue grad school.

I feel many things as a result of this decision: disappointment, guilt, anger, frustration… but the overarching emotion is relief. When I say I had no free time between work and grad school, I literally mean I had literally zero minutes free to myself. Literally.

It was awful, stressful and—ultimately—not worth it.

As much as I enjoyed the classes and material, the work involved was just too much with my already stressful job. Although writing about bras and panties may seem like a cakewalk (I assume this is a sidewalk made of cake, yes?) think of it this way: I work in the marketing department for one of the biggest brands in the world. For those who don’t know/care what marketing is, let me sum it up in one sentence. My department is responsible for making sure ladies keep buying the aforementioned bras and panties. Millions of dollars are spent enticing ladies to spend their dollars on our sexy wares.

"I suddenly feel the desire to buy ALL THE LINGERIE." — My job. Don’t mock my man-hands.

In short, it’s stressful as hell.

So. Yeah. Grad school had to go bye-bye.

But, as someone who always has to be doing something (ADD, anyone?) I had to figure out what my next goal should be. So I’ve decided to focus on my freelance writing career. Again.

skeptical_dog1-180hprn — NO ONE ASKED YOU, DOG.

This means (for me) pitching ideas to magazines and online publications, as well as finallyyyyyy finishing my book.

The problem with this plan is that while grad school was super-stressful, at least it had established deadlines. Because, believe it or not, I am not the best at self-motivation.

I apologize for your broken jaw, as I’m sure the velocity at which your jaw hit the floor after reading that statement was quite jarring.

So I need y’all to motivate me. Just constantly be like, “How’s your book coming?” and “So, have you been published yet?” or “I’ve been looking for your book on Kindle. What do you do all day, anyway?”

I’m not going to sugarcoat it: you may get punched in the throat. But you will motivate me to stop watching reruns of The Simpsons and write. So really, everyone wins.

"Get ready to win!" — “Get ready to win!”

I was attacked!*

Well, I had quite the harrowing experience today. Or something that could have been harrowing, had it actually happened. So I guess it wasn’t really an “experience” in the traditional sense. Basically nothing happened today. But if you didn’t want to read about a non-event written in an overly dramatic fashion, then you came to the wrong place, my friend.

Okay, here’s what happened.

I was enjoying the beautiful morning on my front porch, because apparently I am eighty years old. I had a full cup of coffee in my hand and a nice fat book on my lap and was all set to enjoy both.

I looked across the cul-de-sac to see my cat Emo trotting at a brisk pace toward me. I greeted her cordially; pleased she took a break from her fight club or breakdancing competition or whatever she does when she’s out and about.

I'm guessing cat cosplay. — I’m guessing cat cosplay.

She came up on the front porch and that’s when I realized she was making weird meowy noises and her tail was all puffed out.

It was at this point that something made me look over and I froze. Standing in my driveway, appearing like some sort of mythical creature from hell, was a giant German Shepard. Well, probably a normal-sized German Shepard but I was extremely startled, so he may have appeared larger to me.

“Uh,” I said. “Whatcha doing there, buddy?” Possibly the stupidest thing I’ve ever said to a dog. The dog was not impressed, baring his teeth and growling.

Let me just pause here and emphasize that I love dogs, especially big dogs. I like a dog to have some girth, you know? However, as he continued to growl and show me his large white pointy teeth, I had a feeling that this dog and I would not be strolling through farmer’s markets anytime soon.

THIS COULD'VE BEEN US. — THIS COULD’VE BEEN US, DOG.

Luckily, he decided I wasn’t worth attacking and ran off. Or maybe disappeared in a puff of smoke, I didn’t really pay attention. I immediately called the dog warden since I didn’t want another unsuspecting porch-sitter to suffer the same fate. Because I am a good neighbor.

But as soon as I relaxed with Emo on my lap the Hound of Calico Court appeared again, moving a little too close for comfort. I stood up quickly and carried Emo in the house.

I want to pause here again to note that Emo is our outside cat and hasn’t been inside in a while. Sabian, her kitten, is now 2 years old and quite the little princess. I set Emo down and peered out the window to keep watch for the dog. Emo looked confused that she was inside but wandered down the hall, probably to see if we redecorated since she was there last.

"You somehow made this room MORE boring." — “Wow, guys, you somehow made this room MORE boring.”

I couldn’t see where the dog was, so I poked my head out the front door. His enormous head popped up and he started toward me, so I let out a very un-brave squeal and slammed the door shut. Looking out the window, I saw him poke his nose around where I had been sitting; my coffee, book and iPhone still outside, abandoned like the less-attractive extras in a disaster movie.

I then remembered in the midst of the chaos that Sabian hadn’t seen her mother in quite a while and was probably not going to be receptive to a pop-in. I walked in the kitchen just in time to witness Sabian giving Emo what I can only describe as an “Oh, I don’t THINK so” look. Here, this cat meme can show you what I mean:

Sabian hissed when she saw her mama, at which point Emo decided she’d rather deal with the Dog of Satan than her ungrateful daughter.

Thankfully, whoever owned (served?) the demon dog came home and presumably put him back in the Lucifer Suite. Get it? They call it that because that’s where Lucifer stays when he’s in town for… the Hell Festival?

Mind you, this all happened in the span of maybe five minutes, if that. My coffee was still hot when I sat back down. Luckily, Emo and I enjoyed the rest of our morning with no other mythical creatures appearing.

Except for our next-door neighbors, the Vampire Family. But that’s a story for another day.

NO, NOT THAT KIND OF VAMPIRE. — No. Not that kind of vampire.

*Almost

My annoying sidekicks: Depression & Anxiety

The challenge, sometimes, of being a humor writer is that life is rarely hold-your-ribs funny. And sometimes even when things are going okay, your mind goes on the fritz, kind of like a temperamental refrigerator. Except instead of spoiled meat and brown vegetables, you have crying fits and suicidal thoughts.

I’ll try to make it funny, I promise. Here’s a picture of a kitten. — I’ll try to make it funny, I promise. Look, kittens!

Like, 80% of the time I feel fine. I’m outgoing, folksy, creative, funny and energetic. Maybe with a little dorky and awkward thrown in.

So it comes as quite an unpleasant surprise when my depression swoops down on me like the anti-Mary Poppins. Instead of a spoonful of sugar I get a headful of crazy. It’s the kind of thing people who have had no history of depression never understand.

I was diagnosed several years ago with depression. I am on medication. A year or so ago my doctor had to up my dosage because my mind started taking me to dark, terrible places that frightened me. I was afraid I would hurt myself. I started having crippling anxiety along with panic attacks.

Sorry. Here’s another kitten... in a box! — Sorry. Here’s another kitten… in a box!

The comedienne Maria Bamford talks about her own anxiety and depression issues, which caused her to drop out of the public eye and put her career on hold. She asked the rhetorical question, “Would anyone tell a cancer patient to just “get over it?’” Depression and anxiety are real illnesses, caused by imbalanced neurotransmitters. That’s right. I know science-y stuff.

I can’t control it any more than I could will myself to mend a broken leg. I take meds because I need them to function on a daily basis. Apparently this is very common amongst us “creative types.” Besides the usual artists and writers, great political leaders such as former Prime Minister Winston Churchill openly wrote about his depression, calling it “the black dog.” (Also check out 50 Famous Artists and Thinkers Who Have Struggled With Depression.)

So the thing that makes my brain the special lil’ guy we all know and love is also the thing that causes it turn against me. Living in my head is basically like being chained to a toddler 24/7. You never know what will set it off.

What is so, so frustrating about this is that it’s still not considered a valid reason to say, call in sick. How do you call in depressed? Literally everyone asks: “What’s wrong?” or “What happened?”

I WAS BORN WITH A CHEMICAL IMBALANCE, THAT’S WHAT HAPPENED. Now can I get back to hiding under my covers until the urge to fling myself out the window goes away? Thanks.

It’s bad enough that I feel “crazy” or “not normal.” The fact that I have to justify how my brain works makes it a million times worse.

Literally a million. I’ve done the math.

Because then on top of the anxiety, the depression, the feeling of unworthiness… I feel guilty. And, not only that, but the general opinion (even from friends and family) is that depression is something to be ashamed of. Or, worse, that it’s not “real.” And then I feel alone on top of the top of… it sucks, is what I’m saying. Would I be embarrassed to call in sick because of bronchitis or something… else?

"You had your appendix removed? Big woop. Check out what they removed from my colon!" — “Why was I out yesterday? Check out what they removed from my colon!”

So why do I feel the need to make up some phantom illness when I feel this way? So it doesn’t affect my job? So people won’t look at me different? Why should I have to worry about this?

So many questions, it's formed into ONE GIANT QUESTION. — So many questions, it’s formed into ONE GIANT QUESTION.

The answer, of course, is that I shouldn’t. And I’ve decided that I won’t. I’m sick of being unable to talk about it. Also, I’m a really bad liar, you guys. Anytime I’ve had to “make up” an illness, it’s always something totally ridiculous.

I mean, look what hiding from mental illness has done to some truly talented people. We laughed at “train wrecks” like Amy Winehouse and Whitney Houston, but it doesn’t seem so funny now, does it? Sorry, that went to a dark place again.

So, no, I can’t “force myself” to feel better. If I make plans but then am hit with depression and/or anxiety, I’m not going to invent illnesses just so I don’t make people uncomfortable.

I’ve come down with oversized cartoon foot disease. — I’ve come down with oversized cartoon foot. But I’m surprisingly okay with it.

If I can deal with my depression, then people can deal with hearing about it. (Just to be clear, I’m not going to Ancient Mariner-er people to death about how the brain works, okay?) Nor will I go on and on about my symptoms, like that one old relative we all have who starts talking about her bowel movements as soon as there’s a lull in the conversation.

No, I will just be the eccentric, creative girl who has a deeper side she dared not reveal to the public… until now. Kind of like a funnier version of Sylvia Plath, only less suicide-y.

I’m back, kind of!

I decided to take a break from grad school for the summer, so I’m all yours until August, when I start back up again.

I’ve really enjoyed my time off so far: soaking up the sun, reading a lot of books, going to the gym (for most people, that’s not “fun,” but I’m kind of a weirdo, in case you haven’t noticed), enjoying a nice glass of wine after work instead of the usual “coffee and a crap-ton of homework.”

My goal before August is to work on my own writing, instead of grad school papers. I’m so sick of APA style, you don’t even know. YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW. References, citations, the whole lot of ‘em. Awful. I’m a creative writer, dammit.

So I’m temporarily back on my blog. I’ve missed you guys! I hope you’ve missed me… ? Tell me this isn’t one of those one-sided relationships. Am I the clingy girlfriend? Is this blog like my way of calling and hanging up when you answer and driving past your house? Is it?

Whatever. I’m totally over it.

Back to Grad School (aka Goodbye, Life!)

Well, this blog thing has been fun, you guys.

Alas, the siren song of grad school has once again lured me into the comfort of its academic bosom. Did I say comfort? I meant “stranglehold.”

Nonetheless, going back to school and also working full time means I have to give up a few things, like sleep and seeing my family. I read through my first week of assignments in preparation, and as a final farewell I invite you into the out-of-control train that was my thought process upon reading it:

“Wow, that’s a lot of reading.”

“This is all for one week?”

“Ugh, I forgot that writing papers means like, research and stuff.”

“Citing references? Ughhhhh.”

“AND use outside resources besides my textbook? What do I look like, a journalist? I’m a creative writer.”

“Well, at least I use APA style at work… the bibliography has to be in APA style, too?! Dammit.”

“WHY DIDN’T I DO GRAD SCHOOL IMMEDIATELY FOLLOWING UNDERGRAD? Past Jessie was the worst person ever.”

“How am I still hungry when I just ate a donut?”

“I really should have gone to the gym today.”

From there my thoughts slowed down in confusion until they screeched to a halt completely. Probably some kind of defense mechanism. My brain, slowly turning to mush on my long sabbatical from school, just had a lot of words to compute. And words are hard. Yes, I’m a writer, why do you ask?

I’d love to tell you that I’ll be back on my break, but I’m afraid that would be like telling your ex-coworker you’re totally going to keep in touch. It probably won’t happen. But I’ll call you, okay? (I’m not going to call you.)

Needed: Functioning Adult for Tax Season

Ah, tax time. It’s the time of year that never fails to remind me I have the organizational skills of a 3-month old golden retriever. You know how most normal, functioning adults have some kind of filing system (I assume)? Probably something involving drawers and files and tabs and labels and other things I don’t own. You want to know what my system is? “Throw Everything In a Box and Promptly Forget About It.”

As you can see, I have extensive box experience.

This usually works for me… except once a year, when the dreaded envelope arrives in the mail, bold type ominously proclaiming, “Federal tax information enclosed.”

Noooooooo! Not my W-2’s! That means I have to drag out The Box and sift through a year’s worth of receipts, bills and other paper miscellanea. It might as well be called Box O’Ambien.

This is a different box. GET OUT OF MY STUFF.

Since my husband handles the tax appointment, a horrifying expedition that literally takes half a work day, the responsibility of getting all those nasty papers together falls to me. As awful as it is, it’s a way lesser evil than sitting in Tax Lady’s house for hours, listening to her conspiracy theories and slowly suffocating from cigarette fumes and dog fur. While doing taxes. That’s what hell is, you know that, right? Okay, maybe not the dog fur part. Because all dogs go to heaven, duh. Everyone knows that.

So I was filling out my 2014-2015 FASFA for grad school (my life is full of fun right now) and realized I needed my 2012 taxes as a reference. To The Box! No taxes. A pile of birthday cards? Check. Grocery receipt from an ice cream run? Check. Empty container with no clues to what it formerly contained (possibly ice cream)? Check plus! This is what I’m talking about, folks. How am I allowed to function in society if this is how I run my life? I’m like a kid who constantly spins around in circles, runs into a wall, then gets up and start spinning again. My entire financial history can be summed up in one word: Derp!

"Where should I file these super-important papers? Derp!" — Me doing taxes. Weeee!

And my husband is worse at this stuff than me, if that’s even possible. How we found each other and what cosmic joke brought our dysfunctional brains together in marriage is something humankind may never know. Instead of balancing each other out, we’re knocking each other down, like a never-ending game of chicken.

My new plan is to place an ad on LinkedIn for a self-loathing, down-on-their-luck and (preferably) desperate accountant-type person to transform our finances into a mecca of organization. I don’t know what that would look like. A really fancy box?

Make this happen, someone.

The Best of the Worst: A Look Back at My 2013

It’s that time of year, folks. Everywhere you look, there’s a list of the Best Such-and-Such of 2013. Well, I thought I’d change things up by making a list of all the mundane non-events in my life this year. So who wants to read the most boring, narcissistic list of 2013? No one? Okay, let’s get to it!

1. I have not finished editing my book

I’ve said for two years now I’ve needed to edit my book. And guess what? I haven’t! In fact, I barely looked at it in 2013. Right now it’s sitting on my flash drive, eating nachos and contributing nothing to the household. Get a job!

2. I haven’t found paid freelance work

I started this blog in order to gain some followers/admirers/people who will throw money at me. So far? I’ve got nothing. Zero. Bupkes. I even pimped out my LinkedIn account, you guys. Pimped. It. Out. Still nada. Of course I haven’t exactly been pitching any ideas to anyone, either. In fact, I haven’t put any effort into it other than bitching about the lack of jobs, really. But shouldn’t that count for something?

3. I started grad school, only to take a break after completing one class

I took one graduate class at Franklin University. (Just a side note that their abbreviation is FU. Ha!) I decided to switch to online classes since driving to campus every week was too much and the next class doesn’t start until February. So, to recap: I took one class from the end of August to mid-September then took a break for about 4 months. Because my thinkin’ parts hurt.

But I did get an A- in my first college class in twelve years, so that’s an accomplishment, anyway. But this post is not about accomplishments, so let’s move on.

4. Still waiting for that thank you, bathroom lady

5. Eric and Jessie Go to the Poconos

You know how sometimes retro things are good? The Poconos is not one of those things. If I had to choose one word to describe the Poconos it would be swingerish. The whole place stank (figuratively and literally) of swingers. Not sexy swingers. Droopy, elderly swingers.

The carpet in our room had clearly not been updated since the 1980’s and smelled like mildew and regret. The round-shaped bed sat on a raised platform and featured a mirror on the ceiling, because of course it did. Oh, and at night, with a flick of a switch the mirror twinkled with tiny lights that (I guess?) were supposed to be stars.

The “romance” extended into the bathroom with a red, heart-shaped Jacuzzi tub. But what really made the bathroom extra special was the utilitarian tile, grade-school-sized toilet (visible from the tub for added sexiness!) and astoundingly unflattering fluorescent lighting.

Oh, but they saved the best for last, those saucy Poconosians! If you (somehow) tired of the dingy bathroom, a magical door led you into a room with a tiny swimming pool that was too small to actually swim in. Not that it’s meant for swimming (insert bawdy wink). Now get in there for some kinky water aerobics, you crazy kids! That’s if you don’t gag on the chlorine smell first. Or become disoriented by the inexplicable Roman bath mural on the wall.

I drank cheap wine in a plastic cup, just like the Romans would! — Drink wine in a plastic cup, just like the Romans!

And when you left the room (although why would you want to, amIright?) the staff was ready to assist you in any way by being rude, abrasive, and downright incompetent. The first night of our romantic getaway we arrived at 8p.m. and the dining room was closed. At 8p.m. But surely there was room service available, for couples who couldn’t bear to leave their Den of Venereal Disease, right?

No. No room service. We asked the staggeringly unhelpful man in a sequin vest what we could do for food, seeing as how we just drove 8 hours only to be turned away by a man in a sequin vest.

He suggested the closest town, which was (he said) 10 minutes away. THIRTY MINUTES later, we were still driving in the middle of nowhere. We ended up going through the drive through at McDonald’s for our first romantic dinner together on our anniversary. And that was probably the best meal we ate while in the Poconos.

The one ray of sunshine in that ill-advised trip was the revelation that if my husband and I could still have fun in a sticky shrine to the seventies, we’re clearly the perfect couple. Or swingers.

Happy New Year, everyone!