Tuesday, September 29, 2009

[really long] story time!

In the place of actually having something interesting to say, I would like to bring you pictures.

And I shall narrate along the way, because my photos are their own story. This is the story of how on a Thursday afternoon, while driving home from a particularly stupid gym excursion, I get a phone call from a friend. And this friend has an idea, and it's going to involve me in a big way. I know this by the way she responds after I answer.

e: Holler!
k: heeeeeeeeey friend.
e: uh oh.
k: [laughter.] I have a proposition for you...
e: Is this going to potentially get me hurt and/or in some kind of trouble with law enforcement?
k: [long period of silence] uh...maybe?
e: what is it.

So this is the part where she launches into the story of how her husband and child are going out of town for the weekend and she wants to paint her living room. Here's the catch: I'm the only other person that knows. No exceptions, the only other person. This translates to, if I'm going down, you're coming with me. So what is my response?

e: What color were you thinking?

Because let's be honest, I didn't have anything else going on. And I like to decorate and design. And I can't do any of that at my house because my house is in fact, my parents house. So I'm 100% in before she even gets to the color choices. Which, by the way, she didn't really have anything set in her mind. So I throw out my default color, "what about an earth-tone green?"

So here's what we were looking at:
Now, I'll be the first to say that I'm a fan of brown. I do, I love it. But this is too much, and definitely the wrong shade. So we went to West Elm (my stipulation of partaking in this weekend, because they were having a sale, and I wanted a bathmat.) and then afterwards, we stopped by Home Depot. And this is the part where I walk through all the color walls and just start throwing shades of green at her. Then we lay them all out, and she chooses three. We get samples, just like the pros do, and we go home to change/test them out.

And maybe have a beer:
As in my life, the beer is the focus, but in the background, you can see our test spots. At this point, we looked at each other and both thought, well now we really have to do something. Because even though we could just call it artsy, three green splotches on your living room wall is not cute.

So we go back to the Home Depot, first making a stop at Sonic, which for some reason was not only challenging, but hilarious. This was the moment we realized that we would be making a second trip to the exact same Home Depot, within three hours, in completely different outfits. (I had been wearing my favorite jeans, and was not willing to sacrifice them to the chances of non-removable paint.) So we tried to come up with a lie, but our byline just grew more outlandish and absurd rather than heading towards the realm of believability.

At the HD, as I like to call it, three distinct events occurred worth mentioning. Event #1: we chose a shade of green paint, and ordered three gallons of it, which, just FYI, is two, too many. Event #2: We met Gregory, the incredibly attractive gentleman that works in the paint department of Home Depot. He helped us choose the shade of white for the fireplace. Did I mention he was attractive? He was. (I also deduced that I could not date said Gregory because my brother's name is Gregory and that would be weird and confusing.) and then finally Event #3: to the high school girl standing behind us in line. Do not give me weird looks when I start dancing to "Eye of the Tiger" because it's your stupid ringtone in the first place. It just so happens that it is also one of my favorite gym songs. So suck on that.

We order a pizza. We drink another beer, and we start to prime.
This is about the time that we learned several different things. Things like: oops is a scary word; we are actually not as lazy as we originally thought; I find myself exceptionally funny; painting and drinking actually can work out.

and so, one more beer, and we moved on to painting:
Kaci did a lot of, ohmigod I cannot believe we're doing this, and Matt is going to freak out. But I had already forced her to commit, so she was pretty much stuck either way. And since we started, we might as well finish. Second most popular phrase of the night then became: watch the carpet! We cannot ruin the carpet!

so we did this:
And if I'm being honest, I'm still amazed at how perfectly we did not ruin the carpet. So we primed, and painted, drank beer and ate pizza. And then we sat around for an hour and a half, watching the paint dry. Now, I am here to disbar a rumor that watching paint dry is boring, because it is my experience now, that the truth is quite the opposite. Most of the conversation is not something I can divulge so freely on the internet, but trust me when I say it was not only interesting, but humorous. I should note that if you wish to achieve similar results, you should probably have one of or both of us around. I think we're key ingredients to success. So we called it a night, admiring our handiwork, and picked it up bright and early the next morning.

And now it was time for some green action:
This is the time, if there ever was one, for me to mention how challenging I find the process of taping to be. It could have been because it was late, or because I was four beers in, but for some reason, I kept taping the wrong parts of the wall. And out of sheer frustration for having to do it twice as many times as Kaci, I grew to hate the taping concept. So if you would like me to help you paint, you have been warned. I will whine for the whole taping procedure. You should also know, as my tennis coaches learned back in the fifth grade, that I like to talk, and talking slows me down. Therefore, my tennis matches were the longest, and I am a slow painter. Entertaining as hell, though.

Kaci, on the other hand, is not. And we finished painting her entire living room in less than two hours. And once again, sat back and watched the paint dry. And even though it was 10:30 in the morning, we had ourselves another beer. And we did a lot of smiling, and used the words "fresh" and "clean" a lot, and patted ourselves on the back. Because let's just be honest here, that living room looked good.

and that fireplace looked good:
and then, the part that we had been dreading since we moved everything in the first place. We had to move all the furniture back. And I had to set her TV back up, and rewire all the speakers into the receiver. (Because for Kaci, I am one-stop tech support for any and all things electrical. Seriously. Her iPod breaks, I get a call. Her phone. Her TV. Her toaster. If it plugs in, she thinks I know how to fix it.)

And once we had it all set back up, she finally seemed at ease about it. No longer was she saying that Matt was going to kill her. And the burden of being the only one to know was lifted, because she was so excited that she was telling her sister and her mom.

Free at last, free at last.

and it was worth of excitement:
You struck comedic gold when you found me.

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

daily writer excerpt; 09.23.09

The Goal:
Study a work of art that inspires you, that speaks to a part of your soul that cannot be seen. Just as in Mary Poppins, when they enter the paintings on the sidewalk, write a passage as you have entered this piece of art.

The night here is a different experience entirely from what the daylight hours have to offer. Sometimes, I find myself ridden with sympathy for the day; how it simply pales in comparison. For the day, albeit bright and lively as he is, only has one overwhelming source of light. At night, in this place, hundreds upon thousands of balls of fire light up the sky, sending swirls of soft, hopeful beams down on our little city. The moon does not harbor the sin of pride as the sun does. She does not shine so bright as to prevent her starry allies from being seen. No, she merely reflects the light she receives, almost as a spotlight for the main character would on a stage. Our world in constant motion. Our world of ever-changing rip-tides and waves cascading over waves of new things to come. The night illuminates not that of which we fear, but instead, the endless possibilities. So I ask you, my friends; let us turn off our artificial, mocking lights, and be led only by the moon and her burning, loving companions.

Monday, September 21, 2009

I might have been a happier person in the 1800's. or if I was Amish.

m: Uh hi, ticketmaster is a fucking joke. 20 extra dollars for what? Processing?
e: Yeah, ticketmaster sucks
m: But then, going to the city to buy tickets isn't very fun either.
e: No, it's pretty much a lose-lose situation. Like my life.

Modern luxuries hate me. This much I know. About a month ago, the cooling fan in my car went out, and I was forced to make a four hour drive from Dallas to Houston, in late afternoon heat, in the middle of summer, in Texas, without air conditioning. Awesome. This of course, happened after a particularly grueling day of work, one in which Pro Tools crashed every hour, on the hour, and I dropped a case of water on my foot.

So $1300 later (because oh that's right, my radiator was leaking, too) my car was back to normal. Two weeks later, my check engine light comes on. So I do what I do. I popped the hood, took a really long look at the box that I only assumed was the engine, and went, "checked. looks fine, gotta go!" and drove for a week with that blaring yellow light, causing less fear, and more annoyance than anything else. (Because you can dim all the other dashboard lights, except that macaroni & cheese yellow symbol. Downgrade.)

Eventually my Dad sees it, asks how long it's been on (Oh a few days...) and we take it to get the computer code read and deciphered. (At this point, I think I should really just invest in one of those computer-reading keypads that they use, might save some time.) Something about a cylinder is misfiring. Of course it is. Number two, I believe? I think I have four. That doesn't seem dire. How many cylinders could I possibly need, really? So they reset the light, and I drive around until it comes back on. And then I keep driving around, because I have places to go, and you are just a stupid little light.

Here's the awesome part. The other day, the light just goes off! As if my car was to say, "okay, you called my bluff, nothing was wrong. And I'm tired of keeping up the pretense." That's right car. I stand strong, YOU back down. Eleanor is the winner, and you are the loser.

See, because at this point, I was so arrogantly operating under the notion that sometimes, things just work out. Sometimes, if you leave something along, it just fixes itself! I say arrogantly, because in my heart of hearts, I know that this will never apply to me. Because the morning that my car healed itself, the speaker in my cell phone stopped working. And then the night that my phone started to work again, my ceiling fan started making this really weird sound like it was about to spin off the wall and decapitate me. And then this morning, when my fan miraculously stopped echoing the sounds of impending doom, my car starts to overheat. again.

So for anyone out there that thinks that I'm just being overdramatic, eff you. The facts are staring you right in the face. Car. Phone. Ceiling Fan. Car. Also, my dryer doesn't dry my jeans all the way, my DVR refuses to record the season premiere of The Mentalist, and My iPod's "shuffle" feature is a freaking joke. Things that man invented to make our lives more convenient and easy are the reasons that somedays, it's all I can do to just get out of bed.

Hate is a strong word, Monday. But I really, really, really don't like you.

Sunday, September 20, 2009

Whiteboard Lyric Sunday

"Why Do You Let Me Stay Here?" - She & Him

off the album "Volume One," and it's the closest I can get to pretending for a few moments that I could be Zooey Deschanel. Love Music. Love Style. Love Her.

meaning well,

Thursday, September 17, 2009

None of this will make any sense.

Dreams are weird. My dreams, the ones that ferment in the subconscious of my brain, are even weirder. I've always been interested in dream analysis, but at the same time, I'm afraid to share some of my dreams, just in case they land me in some kind of intense therapy session.

Last night's dream was a prime specimen for the complete bizarreness that is my mind.

It started out with myself, and my little brother and we were in a large, cold gothic mansion. We were having some kind of heated discussion, though I was a spectator in the dream and couldn't hear what we were talking about. That seems to happen a lot to me. I always see myself from a distance, I'm rarely, actually, me. So he and I are discussing something, and then suddenly, Professor Dumbledore apparates into the room. He gives my little brother a sword, and tells him to do something, and Geof leaves. So now it's just me and Dumbledore, and we're just staring at each other.

Now I'm running, and Draco Malfoy is ahead of me. Deductive reasoning says that I'm chasing him. In my head, or in Dream Eleanor's head, I rationalize that this is a bad plan, because he has a wand and I have no weapons at all. (You know, other than my sharp wit and tumultuous rage...) but for some reason, he's running from me, so I arrogantly assume that I possess something that he is afraid of.

Here's where it gets strange. This whole time, I'm a third party to the action. I am watching myself talk with people, I am watching myself chase down Malfoy, and I am only hearing myself think, though not actually thinking the thoughts in my own head. But the second, and I mean the very instant I catch Malfoy and knock him down to the ground, I am me. Like I time-warped into my own body, and simultaneously become an active party to this dream. Because this is the part where I start trying to hit him. And this is the part, like in so many of my dreams, where I am trying with all my might to punch someone and it's as if I'm giving them a hug. He's laughing, because my blows are not mighty nor impacting, and I'm getting more frustrated, which translates into more pissed off. (Just like in real life.)

But wait! It gets better. Because suddenly, I'm magical, and I have a swiss army knife for a fist, for just a second, and I stab him. And he's dead. And then Dumbledore is there, and I tell him, "it was an accident. I accidently killed him." And he's laughing, like the kind of laugh you have when you're thinking, "Oh you, you wily little girl." And now we're back in the gothic castle.

Dumbledore tells me that I have to kill Voldemort. Again, now that I'm not fighting anyone, I have returned to a third party observer. I can hear my thoughts, but I am not thinking them. And just for the record, if you were to give it a literary term, I would be third-person limited omniscient. I hear myself think, "how am I going to kill Voldemort without a wand?" and then I see myself start to look around. What am I looking for? A spare wand just laying around? I, the narrator of this tale, feel annoyed with Dream Eleanor. Because the room I am in is entirely empty, and this is a magic place. But then, it hits me! Magic! So again, when it's time to actually do something, I snap back into myself, and start saying spells. (Which don't work without a wand in JK Rowlings version, but I seem to have some kind of secret capabilities that not even she could have foreseen.) So I say, "Accio Wand!" and a wand comes flying into my hand. freaking sweet.

Then I say, "Accio Marauder's Map!"
Then I say, "Accio basallik tooth!" (because that's the only way to kill Voldemort, 'member?)

This is the part where the basallik tooth comes flying at me, and I suddenly think that air travel of such a weapon wasn't the smartest thing. Don't worry, I caught it.

I am loving this whole magic thing. I was probably smiling in my sleep. I just started to call random objects to me, like "accio mighty-mend it!" and "accio George Forman grill!" and it worked, and it was awesome.

But then Voldemort shows up, and I have to put away my informercial products and get ready to fight. So we fight. Even in my dream, it was very nondescript, I just know that there was a fight, and then the next vivid image in my head was me stabbing Voldemort in the heart with the giant tooth. And blood is flying everywhere, but this fool is not dying. Again, he's laughing. So I do what's logical, I start to dig around in his chest cavity to freaking rip out his heart. (just one of the many moments I think, if shared with the right person, could land me in some kind of institute.)

So I grab something, and pull it out. And it's a sponge. In the shape of a heart. And the Voldemort I have been stabbing for like, an hour, shuts down. Because he was a robot. And Dream Eleanor says something like, "Son-of-a-bitch." and stabs Robot-Voldemort in his robotic eye.

This is the part where both my brothers come running into the room, waving their swords in triumph. Also, my older brother's friend Leo is there. He, too, has a sword. I am covered in blood, wielding a tooth, and feeling incredibly disheartened.

Geof (little brother) says, "You killed him!"
Greg (older brother) says, "We killed the snakes!"
Leo (random friend of said older brother) says, "Voldemort wasn't a robot in the books."

Everyone looks confused. I'm confused as to why they were killing snakes. But there isn't time. Because at this point, I figure out that robot-Voldemort is a ruse, and that the real one is still out there. Enter, Marauder's map. So I find the dot labelled "Lord Voldemort" and he's walking down our street. (Because the gothic castle, apparently, is also located on Center Ct.) So I run out into the street, tooth in hand, and I see him, throw the tooth in his general direction with supernatural force and precision, and he drops dead.

Dumbledore appears again (fancy him showing up right after all the hard parts were over.) and Greg tells him about the snakes. Geof tells him that he might have killed one of our neighbors on accident, and Dumbledore smiles. Says something along the line of "accidental murders seem to run in the family." and everyone laughs because accidentally killing someone is funny to us.

Now the singing starts. And we retell the tale of how I killed Voldemort, and how Dumbledore is awesome, and how all the snakes are dead, in musical form, complete with a chorus and set changes. Suddenly, our last number starts to sound a lot like "This is For Real" by Motion City Soundtrack, and I think, "hmm, copyright infringement much?"

But don't worry, it was just my alarm.
It's 8:30.
and @KaciDuke has apparently already updated her twitter.

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

I've got mail.

For those of you, my loyal facebook readers, (has anyone else noticed the influx in comments on my facebook statuses? It's exciting business!) you are already aware of my recent letter from the Houston Astros Baseball Club. But I decided that it was a moment worth sharing.

The mail arrived at my house around 1:30 this afternoon, however, the people who come and "maintain" our yards were busy mowing, blowing and spraying stuff around, so I was forced to wait inside until 2:15 to retrieve my mail.

Author's Note: You may think that I was expecting something, but I truly wasn't. I simply A. have a view of the mailbox from my bedroom window, and B. really love mail.

So I strolled out to the mailbox after making sure all the men that had invaded my yard were a safe distance away (as in several yards away) and flipped through as I walked back to the house. At the very bottom of the pile was a letter for me, and I stopped walking. Because look at that letterhead! I'm used to getting junk mail. This did not look like junk mail. I'm used to getting promotional stuff. (We have season tickets.) I am not used to getting promotional stuff addressed to my first and last name, both spelled correctly. (The season tickets are not in my name.) So this is a letter, and it is meant for me.

To be perfectly honest, I stared at the envelope, talking to myself, for a good two minutes. I ran over theories in my head.

+ Someone reported me, and I am being asked never to return to Minute Maid Park.
+ I entered a contest, and won something? It's not unlike me to drink and register.
+ "Maybe it's money?"
+ "Why would it be money?"
+ "Why would it be anything else?"
+ I lost an item of identification and it is being returned.
+ I am being recruited to play third base.
+ I accidentally purchased Hunter Pence's contract, and this is it.
+ I did enter that raffle, but I thought it was just for an autographed bat.
+ I now own Hunter Pence.
+ What the hell am I going to do with him?

So I caved, gingerly opened the envelope, and discovered, on very official looking letterhead, that the HR department had my resume on file, and they were notifying me that it would be kept for six months. I am in the system. Which is good, because I cannot afford Hunter Pence, and the only thing I could think to do with him would be to make him run all my errands, and move furniture around.

Dodged a bullet on that one. I don't have much furniture, so that could get boring.


I also wanted to do a quick tutorial on commenting on my blog for those of you without blogger accounts. (I've been asked, I swear.)

Simply click on the "comment" link at the bottom of the entry you wish to comment on.

Then you can either select "Name/URL" or "Anonymous" and type in your comment into the comment field. You do not have to put a URL, it's optional. If you choose to, it will hyperlink to your name.

Then fill out the verification code and click "okay" or whatever it says.

That's all! Now you have no excuses left, secret readers!

Monday, September 14, 2009

Since they won't return my calls...

Things I would tell celebrities/professional athletes if their security would let me get close enough:

Bronson Arroyo: your hair makes you look like a complete tool.

Heidi Montag: Sometimes, when people say things about you, it's actually not because they're jealous. It's because you really are dumb.

John Mayer: I do not read your twitter.

Lady GaGa: Your clothing makes me laugh, but you also scare me.

Tim Lincecum: You're a pretty good pitcher, but you look like you want to be a greaser from The Outsiders. Stay Gold, Ponyboy.

Daniel Radcliffe: Yes, you're Harry Potter, but you aren't actually Harry Potter.

Bono: Just admit it, you aren't a musician, you're the Blackberry music video guy.

Spencer Pratt: The fact that natural selection hasn't eliminated you baffles me.

Kristen Stewart: It makes me sad for you, that you seem so sad, all the time. Buy something pretty with your Twilight monies, and smile. kthxbye.

Robert Pattinson: Sometimes, it's okay to not say exactly what you're thinking. Especially when what you think is inexplicable.

Hunter Pence: I will pay for 1 month of your WoW subscription for every down and away slider you don't swing at.

Heidi Klum: Are you a cyborg? Because I think you are.

Wednesday, September 9, 2009

"Oh-Nine" Day is lamer than I thought it would be.

Well, today is absolutely desolate. It started out really great, too. I think that is what's making it seem even worse. I woke up, feeling rejuvenated and ready to brave the day. I went downstairs, and there was just enough milk for a complete glass. Then I turn on the television, and "10 Things I Hate About You" is on Encore, which means, no commercials! So I watch about an hour of that (long enough to see my favorite scenes, and get a healthy dose of Heath Leger face) and I'm ready to get going on my day.

This is where I went wrong. The very second I sit down to write out a grocery list as a sub-list to my daily to-accomplish list, I notice my room getting dimmer and dimmer. But I don't cave. I keep my eyes on the prize, finish my list, and decide to get ready to go to the store now, before the weather gets bad. So I throw on some jeans, and a t-shirt, my hair hasn't been brushed in a while but whatever, and I grab my things to leave. At this point, the only way to describe the atmospheric state outside is "calm-before-the-effing-hurricane grey." So I break down, and I turn on a lamp. And the second click of that knob, right as the energy saving bulb kicks on, was the catalyst. The heavens break open, and sheets of water, freaking sheets I tell you, come raining down upon the earth.

You would think that it would just be easier to take a photo of all of this, to accurately depict why I am now blogging rather than accomplishing things, such as hunting and gathering at the local corporate food palace. But here is the kicker to my morning. I grabbed my camera, trekked downstairs, walked outside in the humid, wet outdoors (I, of course, was under the safety of the port-a-cache) and what is this? My camera finally dies a very inconveniently quiet, ill-timed death. This is surprising not because it died. But because my technology usually has a habit of going out with a bang. Something grand, dramatic and nigh unforgettable. But alas, this time, my digital camera went to sleep, never to awake again. I will miss the "beep-beep-beep" of her waking up, the flightiness of her focus (much like her owner, I should add) and the abuse she suffered during many passed-around parties. RIP, camera. It's been a blast.

In other news, I think I set a record for number of horn honks while driving yesterday. I didn't start counting until around seven I think, but if my guestimate is correct, it was in the 12 to 15 range. Why is this? Because people really suck at driving. Bottom line: that's what the problem is. I am good, they are not.

I hate honking my horn. I hate it because my horn is really wimpy in comparison to the rage that I feel when tempted to use it. It's like, I am swearing up a storm, cursing families, vowing sweet revenge on all who have wronged me, and the only way I can make the object of my wrath know that I am indeed talking to him, is this little "meeeep" sound. So I've just said something entirely menacing, and all they hear is "I'm slightly annoyed, but too docile to really do anything about it" which is just frustrating.

So I don't tend to use my horn. But when I do, when I feel like the situation is just too out of control to just drive defensively, I break out the extended-horn honk. That's where I hold down the button for about fifteen seconds, to let anyone and everyone around me know that the little red Acura, while small in stature, is absolutely going to ram in to you if you don't get the hell out of her way. This, as I go flying past them, is always accompanied by a pointed glare, and several choice words about either taking away their license, or life, whichever seems more satisfying. So yesterday, there were 12 to 15 extended-horn honks. And I must say, some of my strings of insults got pretty interesting and creative towards the end there. (I may be angry, but I also don't like to keep using the same lines over and over again. I have integrity.)

I guess maybe the rain is God's way of saying, "stay off the road today, Elle, or you might just actually break one of those stone-tablet rules and then I'll have to smite you." And that's not on today's to-do list, so there's that. I guess maybe I could finish some applications, or read? But more than likely, I will end up watching Season 5 of The Office on DVD in my pajamas. And I don't even really feel bad about that.

Wednesday, September 2, 2009

09.02.2009 looks like an IP address.

All right, I've had this blog for about ten months, and readers are finally starting to creep out of the woodwork. (And I just lost about 90% of them by making a termite analogy when referring to them. Good one, e.) Nevertheless, it is an exciting thing to think that people find what I say either interesting or worthwhile, but it also about quadruples the pressure. I write something, I read it, and I think, "hmm, is that just me being weird again?" To be honest, even with the entries that have made it past the 'do or do not click the publish button' phase, the answer has been, "yes. yes it is." Yet, a lot of times, weird can be construed as funny. I just hope that my tendency to overreact, over-think and hyper-analyze can remain in the realm of humorous, before completely passing into the dimension of "friggin' neurotic."

In other news, I seem to have found a rhythm to my essentially-unemployed morning routine. I get up when my alarm goes off (in an attempt to pretend, even for a moment, that I have a reason to get up) and trek downstairs to make some breakfast.

Author's Note: the phrase, "make some breakfast" means something very different to me than it would to anyone else. I really don't like breakfast. There isn't a breakfast food that I can get excited about, and I hate having to eat that early in the morning. So when I say 'I'm gonna go make me some breakfast!' what I mean is, "I'm going to grab a Special K cereal bar and drink some chocolate milk." Breakfast of Champions, sure, if you consider my life to be particularly heroic and/or exciting. So to recap: I hate breakfast. My favorite meal of the day is lunch, and dinner is only exciting when there's something particularly interesting to eat. Why lunch? Because for lunch, you get to eat sandwiches! My favorite food? Freaking sandwiches.

So I take my breakfast, and I go upstairs with Dexter (my MacBook Pro laptop, for those of you out of loop,) and we watch an episode of Degrassi on MTV while I make my first lap around the world wide web. Now, generally, after that enthralling half-hour, I'm usually awake enough to feel guilty about my lack of initiative.

Yet lately, MTV has been playing episodes of MADE, and well, I love that show. Especially since, for the past week or so, all the episodes have been about tomboy girls getting girlyfied via becoming a model, or a prom queen, or whatever. I find myself completely endeared to these poor, awkward girls. Why? Because I absolutely used to be one of them, only maybe with a fraction more of a clue. (A very small fraction, and only because I had better friends than they did. Kudos to my high school friends.) So I say, forget the shower, forget the errands, and absolutely hell no to going to the gym right now. I want to see how these kids survive. Plus, they always cry, and I find it fascinating to see what makes other people cry. Like, there was the girl that cried cause she had to wear a bikini to the beach, or the one that cried cause she had to drop out of a three-on-three basketball tournament (which I totes get, by the way.)

But the best part of these shows is watching the first dates. Because that seems to be a requirement for every single one of these non-girly ladies, is to be forced on an awkward, videotaped date. One that you can't even be sure if your boy agreed to because he likes you, or because he wanted to be on television. So they go somewhere hella lame, and MTV likes to emphasize the awkwardness by editing lots of silent moments in. Then there's me, sitting in my chair, holding my breath every time she opens her mouth, waiting in eager anticipation of the moment when it either clicks or ends. And when they interview the girls after, and they're just beside themselves with first date bliss, I'm saying things like, "good for you, girl!" or I'm clapping, or worse, I'm tearing up at how excited and happy they are. Why? Because I've been there, I know what they're feeling, and I don't wish it upon anyone, really. But when the moments are good, they're great, and every tomboy lady should be cheering for her sisters. We're a rare breed, and we're incredibly misunderstood. Can I get an AMEN!

So when that's all said and done, and the credits are rolling, I feel two things. 1. better about myself because I didn't need an MTV reality show to fix my life, and 2. useless, because it's 11 o'clock and I haven't accomplished even showering. So essentially, when you mix those two feelings together, I feel pretty much the same as I did before the episode started. Except now maybe I'm a little hungry.