Stairwells and wrong assumptions

Whenever I am in a stairwell and I hear anyone else enter said stairwell, I automatically assume I’m about to be murdered. Unfortunately I also believe in taking the stairs whenever possible to work out the ol’ gluteus maximus. So, as usual, I just ran up 3 flights of stairs like an idiot, in a skirt, at work. Oh, and I’m pretty sure my potential attacker turned out to be the super nice maintenance man. Dang it. But, it could have been tiny Grandma Pearl for all I knew, and I still would have ran like my life depended on it (well, my glutes depended on it, anyhow).

I know I can’t be the only one with this (ir)rational fear. Of course, I blame Law and Order.  My active imagination may also have something to do with it. At least the stairs at work aren’t the kind with openings beneath each step that lead to the abyss below, just waiting for someone to grab your ankles.

Quick. Someone say something not terrifying.

Oh, I know. Here is our cat. Falling asleep. In a pan. Because that’s totally normal. And hygienic.



When life gives you citrus, add vino.

When life gives you lemons… And oranges and limes and apples and expired maraschino cherries in a jar of sugary syrup, and red wine (and white wine) and brandy – or cognac, if you’re feelin’ jazzy – make sangria.krazy straw

And then try and wait 24 hours for the flavors to meld. But when you actually drink it less than two hours later, because of course you will since the lime wheels have now been dyed fuchsia and look too gorgeous to keep waiting, make sure you add a topper of something fizzy such as tonic water or ginger ale, though I advise against Crystal Pepsi.

Get out your krazy straw and enjoy.

I’ll make friends. You make babies.

I’ll be 30 in two months, which means for now, I’m 29. No need to double-check my math.

A majority of my vagina-wielding friends now have children, and those that were left all got together and mass-announced their pregnancies with 4D photos of tiny beige faces on Facebook last month. Who knew January was a surefire month for unprotected sex?

I, for one, have not had a baby recently or at any time in my life. (I do, however, have two cats, which I realize is not the same thing at all. But they love to cuddle and they were born knowing how to walk and pose for photos. I share these furry loves with my handsome boyfriend.)

These days, my adulthood friend pool includes my single friends, my busy-as-shit-but-still-the-shit mom friends, some dudes who are always asking about my single or hot married friends, and a few women who are A) defiantly against child-rearing, B) not quite ready for child-rearing but excited for that day, C) scared to death of child-rearing but may give it a try someday when they drink too much pinot or just for the hell of it, and D) me.

But, don’t worry, I’m not writing about cats or babies. I’m unqualified.

For my inaugural post, I want to talk about female friendships at 29. In particular, how to start one. So, tell me. What do you do when a girl (do we still call each other girls at this age?) you barely knew in high school moves back to town 11 years later and asks if you’d like to hang out sometime?

Well, first, you get super excited because it must mean she saw something in you that she liked. On Facebook.

Then, you wonder what the hell you’re going to talk about on your girl date.

So, naturally, you consult the truest source you know. Not your mom or your sister, not your boyfriend, not the female coworker who doubles as a social butterfly. Nope. You’re too ashamed. You go to Google.

Okay, maybe YOU don’t. But I do.

“How to make friends as a female adult,” I type.

“What to talk about on a girl date.”

“Conversation starters for women.”

“What pairs well with pinot noir.”

“Do wild turkeys fly.”

“Do any turkeys fly.”

…And so on and so forth.