The Best Day

Nothing clever or fun to talk about today.

But look at my niece, so friggin' excited about squash.

That's what friends are for...

Wedding season is fast approaching.

I recently lamented via twitter that five of my facebook friends announced their engagements just after Christmas break.

They are choosing dresses, colors, cakes, and flowers.

They are booking photographers and churches and receptions halls.

Who knew I had to book my dates so far in advance?

Tom (I described him earlier, you remember) was to be my wedding date. We discussed this.

Tom bailed on me. Unfortunately he has several other weddings to attend this summer (I just noticed he did not ask me to be his date... ouch). Anyway, I'm running out of gays to strong arm into acting as my dates.

They are scattered across the country and even if they were here, do I want to bring Matty Dubbs or ZachDan to a Bosnian wedding?

Its bad enough people my age are getting married, I can't even find someone to eat cake with me for a couple hours on a Saturday night.



Oh-bla-di.

Twist it, pop it, twerk it, stop it.

In recent months I have developed a strange love of hand-wash only clothing. This is unfortunate. Each week I have to make a decision between hanging several items back up in my closet after wearing them, or actually taking the time to hand wash them.

Needless to say, a clumsy swig of a vodka tonic is the closest that many of my clothes have come to actually being washed.

The way I see it, these clothes, usually shirts, are only worn for four-five hours at a time. That's not legitimate cause to wash them.

Today I finally caved. I filled may bath tub with warm water and some laundry detergent, and dumped a third of my wardrobe into the tub.

I'm feeling very June Cleaver-ey now.

In which Stephanie defines herself by Amazon recommendations...

I was perusing my Amazon account yesterday, checking to see which of my recent orders had not shipped yet. (I didn't buy any shoes, be astounded/proud/willing to buy me shoes).

According to Amazon:

I love Keanu Reeves:


"So when a half-breed breaks the rules, I deport their sorry ass straight back to hell."

This is the first of anything that pops up in my recommendations. I have never seen this movie. Don't get me wrong, I acknowledge the existence of the Matrix. I'm not crazy about it, but someone made it, and that's... nice. I like "the Replacements", and I loved "A Walk in the Clouds" in fifth grade, but I don't know that I have searched for any Keanu movies on Amazon. However, this could appear in my recommendations based on the movie's plot. A movie about an exorcist/detective battling demons in LA is exactly what I need...

I am obsessed with Alias:


"My name is Sidney Bristow..."

After Constantine, various seasons of Alias dominate my recommendations. Amazon gets this one right. I LOVE Alias. Its my guilty pleasure. I own all of the seasons because I want to be Sidney Bristow and hook up with Michael Vaughn, or Michael Vartan.

I am a follower of sexual astrology:


"Ms. Aries is looking for a lover, not a father."

I don't know why this is recommended to me. I'm not complaining, because its interesting. I'm just now sure where in my searches for Butch Walker, Lady Gaga, and older editions of textbooks tie in to a 1979 guide to sex and stars.

My bathing regimen requires a musical score:



This is legit. My itunes library is full of Debussy for Daydreaming, Mozart for the Mind, Bach for Breakfast, and Chopin and Champagne. Soon Baroque at Bathtime will join the ranks.

Perhaps I should test out all of these fun little things. I know you're all dying to hear more about them. :)

All cats are grey.

My capstone class is full of creative writers.

There are some major differences between most creative writers and professional writers.

While there are the CWs that will really find themselves competing in the literary shark tank with people who can make a living off of their art, the overwhelming majority of them are delusional.

We PWs are practical. We love writing and and most of us can piece together a decent short story or memoir/creative non-fiction piece (I find that poetry alludes like 99.97% of us), but we are realistic. People with teaching degrees and law degrees can't even find jobs right now. How guaranteed is a future with an MFA?

GVSU likes to slap us all together in the generic writing classes, like genre theory and intermediate non-fiction. PWs are the ones in the corner talking about 30 Rock, the weird kids that wear chain-mail and/or capes to class, and making plans for the weekend.

The CWs (at GVSU) circle around the profs and talk about how facebook has sucked out our souls, they wear chain-mail and/or capes to class*, and make plans to take down the Kindle.

On the rare occasions that CWs can lower themselves to interact with us, they like to ask what we actually write. "What can you do with a professional writing degree?" they sniff at us, assuming that we could never appreciate their in-depth conversations about the latest Terry Gross interview, debates on whether its still okay to like Elvis Costello, or how David Sedaris is the best thing to happen to literature since Gutenberg**.

In case you can't tell, a lot of the GVSU Creative writers are pretentious and boring.

PWs are so much more fun.

In a completely unrelated note, one of my favorite Nat City customers came to the bank today. Haven't seen him in a while as he joined the military to become a chaplain. He asked for my number, and while blushing furiously, I said no.

Kind of kicking myself now.

*this observation may be limited to GVSU's unfortunate renaissance festival.
**I actually subscribe to NPR's Fresh air, and I like David Sedaris... total hypocrite.

Motoring: What's Your Price for Flight?

I called in sick to work today.

I hate calling in. I always think that they think I'm faking it, which is weird, because I never think that other people are faking it.

Anyway...

I've calmed down since the last post. Believe you me, dear reader, last week was an intense Monday. Thank the Lord for Jenny, keeping me in check. Without her I'd be swooning and giggly over something (someone) I can't have.

I had planned to post my e-mail exchange with her during the whole debacle, but for the sake of her privacy, his privacy, and mine, I deleted it all. Sorry.

I am already into the fifth week of my classes.

Ten more.

I simply cannot wait. This semester is full of the following:

SOC 323: Families in Society

This is the last class I need to take for my "theme", GVSU's way of making sure that we are all well rounded citizens. I chose the Human Journey theme back when I thought it wanted to be a nurse. So anyway, I'm learning all about how families have changed over time. Easy class, ridiculous. As long as I remember the difference between polygamy and monogamy I should be fine.

CAP 321: Media Relations Writing

This class terrifies me. I feel like it is way over my head. I can write a press release, but I have no idea how to plan out a media campaign, much less, for a major client like the Rapid. However, this is the kind of stuff I want to do for the rest of my life, so its going to be very worthwile.

WRT 351: Web Design

The baaaaaaane of my existence. I hate this class. I like the prof, I love my classmates, but I just hate web design. Html isn't really all that hard, but it is tedious. However, it is one more skill that makes me a wee bit more marketable, so I put on my big-girl pants and sit there for three hours every Tuesday night.

WRT 495: Theory of Genre

This is the last class that all writing students have to take. I already did a thirty minute presentation on genres of restaurants. Last week we met at Schuler's and we got a tour. I think the prof just didn't know what to do with us. However, I got to spend my class time drinking wine at one of my favorite bookstores. I'm not complaining.

This semester will be long, but this is my last full semester at GVSU. I can see the end. Feels good. :)

That boy is a monster.

How do you men always know?

This is not the first time I have felt the need to voice my frustration on this charming little trait of yours' and I know that this will not be the last.

But really, enough is enough.

No joke, all men have an internal alarm that starts ringing as soon as a woman starts to get over them.

Remember the finale of Sex and the City? Carrie is about to move to Paris with Alexsander Petrovsky and Big shows up?



"You do this every time! Every time! What? Do you have some sort of radar? Carrie might be happy, it's time to sweep in and shit all over it?"

Truer words had never been spoken on that show.

And while I am not moving to Paris with a Russian artist, I am moving on with my life. My own "Mr. Big"'s alarm started ringing this morning.

Texts and phone calls were sent my way that I proudly ignored. Then he appeared. At my branch.

It was an emotional trainwreck in which I was almost reduced to tears in the 28th street Olive Garden.

Why can't we train men to ignore that alarm? They ignore so many other things...