Greatest TWSS Opportunity EVER

This moment officially replaces the infamous (if only in my head) "I didn't even see it coming!" That's What She Said opportunity as my favorite and possibly the greatest ever. I was watching Dirty Jobs, where the job in question was to plug an abandoned mine shaft hole. The material used to plug the hole was a foam mixture. Mike and company mix the foam and pour it all over what looks like a huge trash bag, and the guy in charge of the operation says, "We have to let it harden before we put it in the hole."

Mike Rowe may not have uttered those famous four words in response (too easy perhaps?) but the Michael Scott in me was practically screaming them out.

Discovery Channel and TLC are Sexin' Things Up!

Remember the days when you could tune in to either the Discovery Channel or TLC and, without fail, catch a mind-numbing documentary about wildebeests humping? No matter what time of the day or night, you were sure to see those damn wildebeests mating or, on a day when the programming directors wished to spice things up a bit, a close-up of an insect doing...something. Thank GOD those days are over, am I right? Both channels have really stepped up their programming game in the past decade, broadcasting shows that are not only interesting, educational and funny, but also feature extremely good-looking male hosts. Tonight I wish to shine the spotlight on two such hosts: Curtis Stone and Mike Rowe.

I discovered who Curtis Stone was back in 2006 while idly channel surfing one day after classes. I landed on "Take Home Chef," a show he used to host on TLC, and couldn't bring myself to change the channel. His good looks and Aussie accent sucked me right in and I was hooked. I watched that show faithfully until its last episode. Curtis turned out to be instrumental in getting me to actually give a crap about cooking; up until then, I hated it. But by watching "Take Home Chef," I saw that cooking was actually interesting and could be--gasp--fun. And I was tired of eating Hot Pockets all the time. A surprising bonus was that even though I was watching it for the sole purpose of ogling Curtis, I found myself actually learning things about cooking I didn't know before. For example, did you know that the sharpness (or lack thereof) of your knife determines how much your eyes will tear while chopping onions? Oh, you did? Piss off, then. My point is that I didn't know that, and learning such tidbits of information I think made me a more competent cook. (Although I think a few friends and c0-workers would beg to differ; in fact, I can just hear the laughter now.)

Discovery Channel's "Dirty Jobs" is proof that I will watch a man shovel poop for an hour, provided the man is attractive. Enter the very manly and rugged Mike Rowe, who, in addition to shoveling poop, chums for sharks, collects trash and does a myriad of other disgusting tasks that allow the show to live up to its name. And yes, I am trying very very hard not to make a pun using the words "dirty," "job" or "dirty job." It's killing me. Anyway, Mike Rowe is the only man who can make shit look good. The dirty jobs he performs also happen to be very labor-intensive (Must. Not. Make. Pun.) and his body shows it. I LOVE his arms and chest. LOVE them. Every time I watch an episode my thoughts wander to what I would do if--well, I'll stop there before things get all X-rated up in here. Let's just say that I have a dirty job Mike can do if he's ever interested. (Yep, see, I knew I wouldn't be able to get through this post without making some sort of pun. Man, I feel better!)

I've noticed a theme appear from watching these men do their thing on television: I start out watching the shows just to gawk at the hot hosts, but I end up actually learning something in the process. So here's to Curtis Stone and Mike Rowe: Curtis, thanks to you, I now know that if I ever decide to cook a whole lobster, I should put it in a freezer first so the experience of taking a swim in a boiling pot of water won't be quite so traumatic. Mike, if I am ever faced with having to sex an alligator, I know from watching your show that I need to stick my finger up its ass to feel for a penis or lack thereof. Honestly, I'm not sure if I'll ever actually need to use this information, but if anything, it's a good conversation-starter at parties. So thanks guys! You make learning look good.

Meet My New BFF, Tiffany

As a woman goes through life, there are many milestones and "firsts" she is bound to encounter: her first love; her first kiss; the first time she has sex; the first time she has good sex; getting married; having kids; and ultimately experiencing these milestones all over again via her kids and grandkids. (Well, except for the sex part. That would be a little weird. And highly inappropriate.) However, there is one event that I think is valid enough to be included among these many "firsts," but always seems to be left out. That milestone? Her first piece of jewelry from Tiffany & Co.

Now, I'm sure there are people out there who would beg to differ. After all, buying a piece of jewelry isn't the same as, say, having a kid. And I'm not saying that the two are comparable at all. But when a woman receives a piece of jewelry from Tiffany's, whether she purchased it herself or received it as a gift, it's a special moment. Why? Well, quite simply put, it's unique. It's timeless. It's historic (the company was established in 1837!). Tiffany & Co. has solidified its reputation as an icon in our society, its name synonymous with sophistication, class, quality, and glamour. So when a woman unwraps that little blue box, she's not just getting a piece of jewelry. She's getting something that she can one day pass down to her daughters. She's getting a little piece of history. She's getting something that's iconic. And when this happens for the first time, I can guarantee you that as long as she lives, she will be able to recall every single detail about the event: where she was, who it was from, the occasion, etc.

My first (and, to date, only) Tiffany's piece was the result of an impulse buy last summer. My friend Jenna was in town, we went to the mall, and wound up in Tiffany's, gazing at and trying on different pieces. I ended up walking out with a silver ring that was part of its 1837 collection:

Probably not the smartest purchase I ever made, but I don't regret making it. It was so thrilling to see the saleswoman box it up in that signature blue box and give to me to take home. As silly as this sounds, I felt grown-up. To me, that ring represented crossing the threshold into adulthood.

My friend Meagan recently experienced her first Tiffany's moment. She and her husband visited New York City, where she purchased a yellow citrine solitaire necklace from the flagship store. Aside from being just a teensy bit jealous that she got to visit the NYC store, I once again felt that little thrill when I got her text message that read, "I bought a necklace at Tiffany's!" I knew the excitement she was experiencing; I had experienced it myself a year prior.

Below is the necklace, and I think you'll agree with me that it's gorgeous. But, of course, I wasn't expecting anything less; Meagan has excellent taste, and hello, it's Tiffany!

The first time is always special, am I right? Here's to the beginning of our Tiffany's collections. :-)

Going the Distance

Disclaimer: Before you read any further, I feel that I should warn you: this post contains bathroom humor, specifically bathroom humor about pooping. I'm sorry. Wait--fuck that. I make no apologies. I like bathroom humor, okay? It might be considered juvenile and unrefined, but I bust a gut whenever I hear a good poop story or a well-placed fart. My point? If you do not find what goes down in the restroom funny, DO NOT READ THIS POST. You can't say I didn't warn you...

* * *

A couple of weeks ago, I joined a boxing gym. I joined for several reasons: 1) I thought it would be a good stress-reliever after work; 2) hitting things sounded like fun; 3) I wanted to get fit and overall be a healthier person; and 4) I also needed/wanted to lose weight and see results, like, immediately (patience is not my strong suit) and this seemed like the best way to do it. I participate in a class Monday through Wednesday after work every week, where I cheerfully get my ass handed to me by the friendly staff at Punch Boxing for Fitness.

Now sometimes when I participate in an intense workout, my stomach tends to cramp. I asked a girlfriend of mine who teaches spin class if this ever happened to her, which it had, and her advice was to just power through. The last few times I felt my stomach cramp during a workout, I did just that and didn't dwell on it too much, and it went away almost immediately. So when it started cramping during rounds on the heavy bag earlier tonight, I tried not to think too much about it and just power through.

Before I go any further, I should back up to earlier in the day, when I had lunch. My lunch was comprised of a Subway sandwich and an Italian salad a co-worker of mine brought in from her Thanksgiving leftovers. Both were delicious, but the salad didn't sit too well with me, and I was making trips to the bathroom for the rest of the day to, ahem, pass it. As I was getting ready to go to the gym after work, I once again felt the need to, um, go, but I shrugged it off; the urge wasn't that strong, and I figured it could wait until I got home, as I didn't want to be late for class.

Now flash forward to the class, to Round 2 on the heavy bag. My stomach starts to cramp, but I try to ignore it and continue punching, jabbing and concentrating on my footwork. After three minutes, Round 2 is over, and we have a one minute break. The pain intensifies--along with the urge to poop. By the time Round 3 is over, I can no longer ignore the pain or the fact that I'm a butt-clench away from taking a massive dump in my pants. I stare longingly at the bathrooms; I just KNOW that if I were able to relieve myself, the stomach cramping would lessen considerably and I would be able to continue with the class more comfortably. But, alas, that is not an option.

Getting ready to box is somewhat of a process; you have to wrap your hands and put on your gloves, all of which takes about five minutes, and it takes about that same amount of time to de-glove and unwrap. Given that and the fact that the class is small, there is absolutely no way on this sweet earth that I would be able to take my shit off, use the facilities and get my shit back on without the trainer noticing and calling me out. And what would I say when I got called out? There's not a chance in hell I'd 'fess up in the middle of class that I had to use the restroom right then and there because I had to drop a deuce; the only thing I would be able to do is act all cryptic and just insist over and over again that I need to go, which would probably lead the trainer (who is a dude) to believe that it was feminine problems, which is even worse. Bottom line: I'm up shit creek without a paddle. Pun intended.

Round 4 starts, and I'm starting to worry that if the stomach cramping doesn't subside, I could very well poop my pants. I'm concocting up all these worst-case scenarios, thinking that if any of them actually happened, I would never be able to return to that gym with my head held high. There's just no way I could come back from that. I'm a 26 year-old woman in full charge of her faculties. There's no excuse for making number two in my drawers. It would be absolutely mortifying.

So there I am, trying my hardest to concentrate on the workout and not on the nightmares playing out in my head, when suddenly, I know what I have to do. I have no choice really. I have to channel Rocky Balboa and just go the distance: get through class and not, under any circumstances, shit my pants. I have to power through. After all, I'm sure Rocky had to crap at some point during his fight with Apollo Creed, but was he worrying about pooping his pants in front of Mick, Adrian and everybody else? Hell no he wasn't. He had a job to do. A fight to finish. Basic human functions like using the restroom could wait just a fucking minute. And if Rocky could do it while getting pounded on by Apollo, surely I could last through a few more rounds on a measly heavy bag.

And that is exactly what I did. I powered through, and the stomach cramping did eventually subside, along with its brother, the urge to crap. I made it through the class sans any embarrassing incidents. I went the distance.

My Favorite Bay Area Hang-Outs

Every once in awhile, when I'm bored, I create a mental list of my favorite hang-out spots around the Bay Area, just in case Glamour or Cosmopolitan realizes how cool I am and are just dying to know. (Yes, I realize this makes me delusional, but play along, k?) But now that I have this blog, I thought it would be fun to share the list with you guys (and any Glamour and Cosmopolitan writers who happen to stop by). So without further ado, I present SVB's List of Favorite Bay Area Hangouts (and by Bay Area, I mean the Tampa Bay area, not the San Francisco Bay area):

Nola Cafe

301 W. Platt Street #C

Tampa, FL 33606-2292

http://www.nolacafe.com/index.htm

Nola Cafe is Tampa's little slice of New Orleans, serving up classic Louisana fare like Po Boy sandwiches and jambalaya. It's a little family-owned joint, cozy, and the perfect spot to bring a favorite book, grab a cup of coffee and relax for an hour or two. While all of the food I've eaten there has been delicious, my favorite things to order are the beignets. Due to a horrifically bad date with a weirdo who plays drums there occasionally, I've avoided the place like the plague. Those beignets are a callin' my name, though, and I have a feeling that my evasion is about to come to an end.

Sally O'Neal's Pizza Hotline

1319 S. Howard Ave.

Tampa, FL 33606-3124

http://www.sallyonealspizza.com/

When my friend Ali announced that she was officially too good for The Hut after discovering Sally O'Neal's Pizza, I thought she was just making shit up. I'm sorry, but the name Sally O'Neal sounds fake, so I didn't believe that it was a real pizza joint until we went there--and I experienced for myself the most amazing pizza I've ever put in my mouth. Oh. My. GOD. There is seriously nothing like it! It's freshly-baked, the cheese is all good and melty, the ingredients are fresh--my mouth is watering just thinking about it. I am now, along with Ali, too good for The Hut. And Domino's. And Papa John's. And Hungry Howies.

La Creperia Cafe

1729 E. 7th Ave.

Tampa, FL 33605-3805

http://www.lacreperiacafe.com/

My friend John told me about this super-cute cafe, which is located smack dab in the heart of Ybor City (which is neat in and of itself: cigar shops, restaurants, boutiques, bars and night clubs dot Seventh Avenue. Very artsy and historic). If you couldn't tell from its name, La Creperia specializes in, you guessed it, crepes. It has every sort of crepe you could ever dream of, certainly the biggest selection I've ever seen, but what makes it stand out is that there's a Hispanic twist on some of the selections. I visited it for the first time a few weeks ago and fell in love.

L'Eden Restaurant

500 N. Tampa St.

Tampa, FL 33602

http://www.ledentampa.com/

This French restaurant in downtown Tampa is one of my favorite places in which to indulge in a leisurely Saturday breakfast. The owners, as well as the staff, are French, and make you feel right at home. Everything, from the crepes to the cappuccino, is delicious.

Five Guys Burgers and Fries

http://www.fiveguys.com/home.aspx

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know this is a chain restaurant, but gat-dayum does it make one hell of a burger. If you haven't tried it, a) shame on you and b) do so immediately--it's the single greatest food item you will ever put in your mouth. When it comes to Five Guys, I always swallow. And you will too.

Square One Burgers

3701 Henderson Blvd.

Tampa, FL 33609

http://www.square1burgers.com/

This is another great little burger joint and somewhat of a juxtaposition: it's casual dining gift-wrapped in a modern, trendy setting. In addition to a string of specialty burgers, you also have the option of making your own creation, but every time I go, I order the same thing: the specialty veggie burger. I'm not a vegetarian, but this is one tasty meat-free patty. It's obvious they're made fresh--you can see the bits of corn and peas. Read: this is not a Boca Burger or anything mass-produced. This is what a Boca Burger wants to be when it grows up.

These are just a few of my favorite haunts in Tampa. If you ever hit one of those places up and I'm there, say hi. If you're that drum-playing weirdo, though, keep on steppin'.

Birthday and Halloween Fun Or That One Time I Got the Plague

For me, October has always been somewhat of a magical month. Growing up, I would be so excited when it finally rolled around: my parents would dust off their Halloween decorations, my friends and I would excitedly talk about and plan our costumes, the air would finally get a little cooler, and everything just seemed to have a little extra sparkle. Halloween was one of those holidays where it seemed like anything could happen, and I always looked forward to the fun and mischief it would bring. Add to that the fact that my birthday is on the 30th (where not just candy but candy and presents were a sure-fire guarantee) and you probably have some idea of just how excited I was.

As an adult, I still look forward to my birthday, Halloween and October in general, but each year it seems like a little more of that magic I felt as a kid gets lost amidst the forty-hour work weeks, bills and other adult responsibilities that take up more and more of my attention. So this year, I decided to do something about it and reclaim the magic. And what better place to do that than at the most magical place on Earth? That's right--I'm talkin' 'bout Walt friggin' Disney World.

The night I saw the commercial about getting free admission to Disney on one's birthday, I just about tripped over my own two feet to get to the computer and register. Since then, I'd been waiting for October 30, 2009 to roll around with child-like anticipation, and when it finally came, my friend Kathy met me at my apartment and we set off together for the Magic Kingdom. I had high expectations. I hadn't been to Disney since my parents took me when I was four, so I was expecting wonder and awe. I was expecting to be transported to a place where fantasies were a reality, where people pooped sparkles and upchucked rainbows because everything was just that magical and marvelous. And it did not disappoint. We saw Pluto, Pinocchio and the Disney Princesses, walked through Cinderella's castle, spun ourselves dizzy on the teacups, and toured the planet on It's a Small World. We had a map and we had a plan, and we weren't leaving until we soaked up as much Disney magic as 11a.m.-9p.m. would allow for. And then somewhere between Tomorrowland and one o' clock that afternoon, the body aches and overall sense of feeling assy hit me--hard. Kathy noticed it when we took a break to eat lunch and she noticed I only ate half of my vegetarian wrap.

"You're not hungry?" she asked.
"I'm not feeling too well, actually," I replied. I then told her about the aches and ended with my resolve to just be a soldier and power through--after all, we were at Disney, and I wasn't planning on wasting my free ticket or her paid-for ticket just because I was feeling less than stellar. I mean, who knows when I'd get to go again? She seemed fine with that, so after lunch we continued on our journey around the park and ended the evening by watching the night parade.

By the time the night parade was over and we started on the trek back to my car, I was pretty much done for--the body aches had intensified, leaving me feeling like an old woman with sore joints, and they were joined by a mild fever and a bit of congestion. All I wanted to do was get home and pass out in bed. Kathy agreed to drive us back, and as soon as we hit the parking lot, I was fantasizing about reclining the seat back as far as it would go and passing out. Unfortunately, my stomach must have been fantasizing about emptying its contents, because, without warning, I projectile vomited--and it was not rainbows. I felt an odd mixture of physical relief, mortification, awkwardness and awe. I was mortified because I was in a public place, and I knew of at least two people who were trying to leave who got a front-row view of the show; awkwardness because I just threw up for the first time in front of Kathy, which brought us to a whole new level in our friendship; and awe because of how much distance my stomach gravy cleared from my mouth to its final resting spot on the asphalt.

Poor Kathy, though. Other than her kids, she doesn't do well when people get sick, and I didn't get enough of a chance to warn her. At the first "throw up" sound I made she exclaimed, "Are you gonna get sick?!" and then scrambled off to find some napkins when I started heaving. At the end she was just about as breathless as I was when she asked, "Are you okay?" her eyes a mixture of fear and bewilderment. She was a sport, though, and a good friend--she tried to drive in the far right lane of the interstate as much as possible on the way back, just in case I had another episode.

Saturday--Halloween--was more of the same, just without the projectile vomiting. I spent the entire day watching TV and movies and trying to move my head and body as little as possible, and added pizza to the routine later on that night. Luckily, I didn't get any trick-or-treaters--if I had, I'm sure they would have run screaming the minute I opened the door.

So that was how my birthday and Halloween went down. I can't say the weekend was a total waste--that Disney night parade was pretty awesome.

Bridal Designer Love

I'm not one of those girls who dreams about her hypothetical future wedding. At least, I don't consider myself one of those girls. I equate it to staring into a baker's shop when you're on a diet: it's something I can't have (yet), so to dwell on it is just torture and mildly depressing. But yesterday Ali introduced me to a bridal designer that got me at least thinking about the outfit I'd like to rock when I do eventually walk down the aisle. That designer is Eugenia Couture.

WOW. Wow wow wow wow wow. As I was looking at picture after picture of bridal gowns, I was enthralled and immediately fell in love. Aside from being sexy and feminine, Eugenia Couture gowns employ just enough of a unique twist that sets them apart, rather it be an unexpected pleat or a surprising embellishment. I LOVE that, so I have decided that when I get married, I'm getting married in a Eugenia Couture gown. In fact, I know just the one:

The deciding factor, aside from the gorgeous shape and bead work? It would make the boobs look hot. I've pretty much accepted the fact that I can't really hide my rack, so I might as well flaunt it a little. I love this gown so much that I want to purchase it, like, now, so that when I do get engaged it will be already be in my closet, ready and waiting. (Bonus: the only bridal shop that sells Eugenia Couture gowns is in Miami. Can you say road trip? Although I imagine when it comes time for me to wedding dress shop for real, I'd probably have to class it up and not turn it into a weekend of drunken debauchery. Oh well, a girl can dream, right?)

Now no outfit, bridal or otherwise, would be complete without a sweet pair of kicks, am I right or am I right? So I have decided to incorporate the "something blue" tradition into my shoes (side note: I kind of hate that tradition, but if it will give me an excuse to shoe shop, I am all for it) and purchase a pair of blue heels to wear with my dress, not unlike the Manolo Blahniks Carrie donned in the Sex and the City movie:

Now all I need is a ring...and a guy to give it to me (that's what she said).

Minaret Outfit!

Every year, the university where I work, and more specifically, my department, hosts a dinner to honor the top university donors. This dinner is called the Minaret Gala, and if you work in my department, you are required to go (unless you are either dead or dying). Now I know that a mandatory work function might sound like a drag, but I actually look forward to the Minaret Gala for two main reasons:

1. Free wine. Last year, a co-worker and I took FULL advantage of this perk, and we plan on doing it again. Wine makes a multi-course formal dinner bearable.

2. The chance to dress up. This is where I get mega-girlie. I LOVE any occasion that lets me showcase my glamorous side, because let's face it: I'm not a royal, or a socialite, or in the entertainment industry, nor am I dating anybody who falls into those categories. Glam Sarah rarely, if ever, gets to come out, so when an event comes up where her presence is required, I go all out. And now that I have this blog, I can share my fabulous outfit with you all. The really really girlie part? I planned the outfit around the shoes. I know, I know. But come on--how could I not?

Seriously--aren't these fabulous? They're the Betsey Johnson Cady pumps, my birthday splurge. (Warning: I also love shoes. I'm sure at some point the obsession will make itself more known.) So because I wanted the shoes to take center stage, I decided to go with a dress that was more minimal. My co-worker suggested (we were dressing shopping on our lunch break last week) I try on the below dress, which is by Suzi Chin (and also in red):

At first, I was skeptical, but it actually fit really well! The ruching flatters and flattens areas where, I, ahem might have a little extra baggage (if ya know what I mean. No? You don't know what I mean? Alright, I'm talking about my fat. Geez.) and the ruffle down the side adds just enough detail without overshadowing the shoes.

I'm super-excited to rock this outfit at the dinner. I'm even adding a special touch (well, I added this special touch last year too): false eyelashes! Except this year, I'll know to cut them to fit the shape of my eye before applying. (Had a lot of fun with that last year!) ;-)

Friend Date!

Tonight my friend Ali is coming over for what I like to call a "friend date." We discovered a shared love for pigs-in-a-blanket, so we decided to devote an entire night to that tasty little delicacy and make some. We're also making Cuban sandwiches, buying chips and dip, and probably getting some beer to round out the menu. Probably not the healthiest stuff to eat, but ya gotta admit: shit sounds good, don't it? Of course it does.

At this point in my life, I've come to regard friend dates as being more fun and generally better than actual dates, because my dating experience has been one veritable suck fest after another. Just the idea of spending a few hours with some guy who I don't know and who will inevitably start spouting off some weird-ass shit because of his lack of social skills makes me want to stay in, curl up on the couch and watch a Meg Ryan film.

I'm not another overly picky female who has her standards set so high that no mortal man could ever reach them. I'm not. In fact, I'm pretty much the most laid-back woman you'll ever meet when it comes to men. Don't get me wrong, I'm not going to settle for Johnny Dipshit just so I won't be single or anything, but I think what I look for in a guy isn't that much to ask for: a good heart, a sense of humor, laid-back, good head on his shoulders, a sense of morals and values. I mean, come on. But my dating track record has been with guys who, at first, seem cool, and then just do a 180 and turn out to be the weirdest motherfuckers I've ever spent time with. And after reading the date I'm about to relay here, as well as subsequent dates I will eventually post, I think you'll see that my attitude has an actual basis.

The Manic-Depressive

Before I transferred to USF in Tampa, I did a stint at North Florida Community College. During my tenure there, I was quite active on campus: I was editor of the student newspaper, participated in the Fellowship of Christian Athletes and was a member of Phi Theta Kappa. I was also involved in a play that the school sponsored, called "Heaven Can Wait," which is where I met Brad*. Now Brad wasn't exactly what I would call a looker (my sister, who is generally less diplomatic, compared him to Donkey Lips from Salute Your Shorts), but he seemed nice enough. I didn't want to seem shallow, so when he asked me out, I agreed to the date. Shortly thereafter was when the first red flag popped up. He asked me out on a Monday, the date was on Saturday, and for the week leading up to the date, he was acting like we'd been going out for awhile. Never mind the fact that prior to Monday, we'd barely exchanged two words and Saturday was our first date (I can't emphasize that point enough); in his head, we were already a couple. Needless to say, this was hella awkward for me, but I was 19 and naive and didn't want to hurt his feelings by telling him to back the fuck off. Had I paid attention to that red flag, however, I could have saved myself a lot of headache on Saturday.

For Saturday's date, we decided on a good, old-fashioned dinner and a movie in Valdosta, Georgia. I met him at his parents' house and he drove us to Georgia. It started out pleasant enough, actually: making small talk, finding out our music preferences, hobbies, the typical--the normal--things you talk about on a first date. I began to relax and actually enjoy his company. Then the conversation took a nosedive when he said the following phrase:

"In case this (meaning us) goes anywhere, there's something I need to tell you."

Now, in my dating experience, I've found that when a guy says something like the above phrase, or something like, "I'm probably going to shoot myself in the foot by saying this, but..." it means his brain filter is off, and you're about to be privy to some tidbit of information that you shouldn't be privy to on the first date. Remember when I said the thing about guys spouting off weird-ass shit on dates? This is where the weird-ass shit comes in. However, at the time of this date, like I said, I was naive, and I was thinking he was going to say something like, "I tried pot when I was 12 but didn't like it and haven't tried it sense." You know--something that I probably wouldn't give two hoots about but something he felt he "needed" to get off his chest. Boy, was I wrong. What he said instead was a real doozy:

"I'm manic-depressive...and not on any medication for it."

Now before I go any further, let me say, my intent isn't to make fun of manic depression or anybody who has it. I took abnormal psych in college. I know people who have dealt with it in some capacity or another. I know it's a serious mental illness, and I completely respect that. However, I also know that it doesn't deplete your reservoir of common sense, and there are certain situations during which you should probably not make that kind of revelation:

-bat mitzvahs

-funerals

-wedding anniversaries

-operating a motor vehicle while on a date with a girl who doesn't know you from Adam

I'm just saying. Okay, so after he revealed that bit of info, I was stunned and speechless. Even my brain was drawing a blank on what to say. I kept thinking, "Say something!" because the silence was growing more awkward by the second, but I came up with nothing. I knew what he wanted me to say. He wanted me to pat him on the arm and say something like, "It's okay, baby," but it wasn't okay. Not being medicated for a mental illness and driving a car at speeds upwards of 60 miles an hour while I'm in the passenger's seat isn't okay. So I did what I typically do in a situation where I have no idea how to proceed: I kept my mouth shut. Which pissed him off, causing the rest of our ride to Valdosta to be shrouded in an awkward, pissy silence. He was pissed I didn't react to his news more favorably; I was pissed that he would spring that type of information on me on a first date and expect me to be okay about it.

We arrived in Valdosta, which was crowded. Valdosta is a college town, so it doesn't need to be said that on the weekends every restaurant establishment in the area is packed to the gills. We decided to eat at Applebee's, but when it became apparent that the wait was going to be significantly longer than what we had planned on, we decided to go somewhere else.

"Where else do you want to eat?" he said.

"I don't really know what's around here. Why don't you pick?" I said (I picked Applebee's).

"I don't want to pick."

(Getting pissed that I keep having to pick the damn restaurant) "Okay, how about Red Lobster?"

"Damn, you're expensive."

Yeah, you read that right. Apparently I'm expensive because I wanted to eat at a medium-priced national seafood chain. Again, I was stunned at what a prick this guy was turning out to be. So, visibly aggravated this time, I said, "You pick."

We ended up going to this steakhouse he picked (which was more expensive than Red Lobster, by the way). Like every other restaurant, it was crowded and the service was slow, which made the dinner even more drawn-out and painful than it had to be. We basically sat and ate in silence the whole time, I kid you not. We also missed the movie we had planned to see, The Hours, so he had me pick another. The only other movie that was playing at a time we could see and that I had any interest in was How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days (ironic, no?). The whole time I kept sitting with my arms crossed or making sure my hands weren't in a position where they could be easily grabbed and held, as I could tell he was warming back up to me and was one of those guys who would try to snuggle and shit.

The ride back to his parents' place was nothing but awkward silence, broken by the music of Pink Floyd, and when he dropped me off, I wasted no time in hopping in my car and getting the hell outta there.

True story, folks. And I've been on subsequent dates that have come from a similar realm of hell. So give me a friend date any day of the week, because at least I know a good time will be guaranteed, and I won't want to slash my wrists during it.

*not his real name

Edit: I really hope in no way that story wasn't offensive to anybody who suffers from manic-depressive disorder. It's not a character flaw to have it; my only point is, I don't think that's something to spring on someone on a first date. And it wasn't really the fact that he was manic depressive that freaked me out; after he said he was manic depressive, I thought, "Oh, well, there's medication for that, it probably won't be a problem," and then, as if he was reading my mind, he finished with, "and I'm not on any meds for it." And that was what made me a little uneasy. AND he started talking about one of his episodes where he just up and drove down to Ft. Lauderdale, I think (at this point, I really wasn't paying attention because the screaming in my brain was so loud). I get his reasoning; he wanted me to know what I was getting into, and I guess that's great (?) but I'm all about getting to know someone a little at a time when it comes to dating, and something like that is more of a third or fourth date revelation when it's pretty obvious that the two people might start dating exclusively. My attitude with the first date is, "Okay, we'll hang out and see where this goes. I'm only committed to this date with you; beyond that, I make no promises." So I really don't see the point in discussing such heavy topics right off the bat since you have no idea what might happen afterwards.

A "Real" Blog

So I decided to try out a "real" blog, and by that I mean a blog in which I talk about what's going on in my life, make observations, etc. Don't worry, your girl is still keeping up with the Steve Perry blog (I'm having way too much fun to get rid of it); I'm just adding a new blog to the mix. For awhile, I refused to start a "real" blog, the main reason being I kept old-school journals, and didn't feel like people on the internet needed to know my bidness. I also took pride in the fact that I played my cards fairly close to my chest and liked to think I was giving off a mysterious vibe by not relaying everything that was going on in my life.

But then Steve Perry changed all of that. Or rather, the ridiculous blog I made about Steve Perry changed all of that. Blogging turned out to be more fun than I bargained for, and allowed me to connect with people outside of my social circle who happened to stumble upon my little spot on the web. The notion of an interactive journal was appealing, and I thought it would be a nice way to let my friends know what's been going on with me. (My family, however, is still hella old-school and doesn't really use the internet for much more than email.) Plus, I figured I was kidding myself with the whole mysterious vibe thing and was probably coming off as crazy guarded and mildly anti-social.

So there you have it. Bada bing, bada boom, I now have a second blog. While I will talk about what's going on with me, there are a few things you can NOT expect to see:

1. Crazy emo entries. I still have the old-school journals for that. I'm striving to make this blog upbeat and funny and not one that will make you want to slash your wrists after you get done reading it. Plus, there are some things I still want to keep to myself. So breathe a sigh of relief; you will not log on to find me throwing myself a pity party. Nor will I go on tirades. Or get overly sappy and sentimental.

2. That's What She Said jokes. Well, not a lot anyway. I can't say there won't be any because I do have the sense of humor of a thirteen year-old pubescent boy, but the main point of the blog isn't to share a bunch of TWSS gems. Maybe a few though.

Honestly, I thought I had more points than that, but those two pretty much cover it. Whatever, check back and shit, and I hope you don't leave feeling too bored.

That's what she said.