When will I ever learn?

Probably never.



I have little to negative willpower. Unless you count forcing myself to sit through a Jon & Kate Plus 8 marathon, followed by The Real Housewives of New Bubbies, topped off by 12 new epidoes of TrueLife on MTV. In that case, I am the fucking willpower champion. But usually, I don't know my limits. It's always, one more, I'll just have one more. And then another after that. And then, well. Needless to say it's not pretty. Basically, I need help. If I have it anywhere around me, I'll mindlessly partake. Work. Home. Driving. Anything. And the consequences are always disastrous. What did Einstein say? Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result? Well, kids, surprise! I'm nuts.



Listen to your Auntie Blythe. JUST SAY NO!

No matter how good you think these colon bombs are, please, limit yourself. Turns out your body cannot actually handle 150 grams of fiber in one sitting. If you are going to hit it, though, oats and chocolate is by far the best flavor. I just hope you have a private bathroom at work or a sphincter of steel.

Too much?

I'm a one-two punch of awesome.

For those of you that (don't) care, I went ahead and got that haircut last week. Or whenever that was. The days run together when you work in a windowless basement.* I went to a fancy-pants salon in Edmond (the snooty suburb of OKC) to have my head massaged and drink wine and shit while they cut my hair at 7pm, because that's the only time I have to take care of these things (I've left clothes at the dry cleaner for almost two months now because I never make it home in time to pick them up, can they mail them to me?). I said to the chick, it's been since August, so I'm going to need my ends trimmed, also, I'd like more layering, and can we talk about bangs? She responded by giving me what appears to be the same haircut I had in second grade. Blunt shoulder length. Thanks. I paid my money, including a good tip, for no apparent reason and haven't stopped bitching about it because that's how I do. I am hopeless at communicating my hair desires to hair professionals. I'm eternally unhappy with the results, which is sad since my soft hair is probably the best feature I have going for me, which leads me to punch number two.

Have you ever been 27 and the puberty fairy visits you and plops a gigantic bindi like zit smack dab in the middle of your forehead? No? Lucky you. Not that you were going to invite me anyway, but I'm hiding out till this sucker's a goner.

Thanks life!**

*In all honesty, my jobs is quite all right. It can be challenging and sometimes I feel like I'm essentially volunteering, but I doubt I'll ever have bosses this awesome ever again.

**Yes, things could be worse, but I'd rather obsess over my hair than read about how sad the world is.

Top Ten Signs You're Not Ready to Procreate.

When I was in the NYC, I saw lots and lots of babies and preggers chicks. They're fucking everywhere. And then there's octomom and her litter. And, of course, Brangelina. And those Duggers. Also, FaceBook reveals news of knocked up high school mates left and right. I don't really feel the ol' biological clock ticking, but I do know that my body makes horrible cracking noises during yoga and one time last week I got a cramp in my hip during naughty time = I'm getting old. But among the thousands of reasons I'm aware of (there are surely more I am not) that would make me an unfit mother, I think the most telling is what I'd consider naming spawn. Here are my top favorite bebe names in no particular order:

Charlotte

Valentina

Savannah

Simon

Anouk

Sebastian

Clementine

Evangeline

Annabelle

Liam

Ruby

Tabitha

Oscar

Can you imagine being named Ruby Valentina?

Just a little marketing scam warning.

Yes, I perspire. It's true. Actually, I sweat. Like a lot sometimes. Even though my sweat smells like freshly baked sugar cookies, I decided to check out all of the new "clinical" deodorants out there and test drive one. "Clinical" is code for $7 deodorant. Anyway, I settled on Secret and have been applying at night, as per the instructions. While I think that the product is working as advertised, it's doing a little extra work, too, e.g. growing an overnight pit forest. Seriously, a week's worth of growth crops up overnight! My razor's been working overtime, when I remember. When I don't, sorry. The point of my story is that clearly, Secret is in bed with Gilette to mastermind this whole scheme. So, now I'm left to weigh the severity of the lesser of these two evils, smelly pits or hairy pits. Date me!

Monsturd!*

I work in a basement. We call it the Garden Level. However, it's still a basement. The bathroom in this basement is cold, dank and has terrible lighting, I hope. God, I hope. It also has a scary drain in the middle of the floor, under which, I imagine lives a monster. A smelly monster. Not smelly in a poo way, per se, but in a moldy, generally icky way. I brought in some Glade products earlier in the year, but turns out they were stinkier than the drain monster. Point is, I don't go in there unless I absolutely have to, but that's a lot since I have a bladder the size of something very small [will insert comparison later]. Every few trips or so, I notice that there's an interloper in our mole midst. What are these women doing, wandering about the bowels of the building? Crapping. It's got to be. They totally go downstairs to the monster bathroom to poo out of shame. Well, I'm totally onto them. I could go on about how women are weird about pooing, but we're all familiar with that song and dance, so I will let it be and give them the evil eye.

*I actually watched this movie on purpose one time. For real.

Love means...

sharing the same bathroom when you each have a different form of the nastiest GI focused flu/virus that ever was.

In a related story, I've lost 10 pounds! Now I can fit into my skinny sweatpants while I suffer.

It turns out that I am alive.

However, Christmas has sent me into a sadness spiral.

PMS: Part II

I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm kind of a little bit rere (I think Julie Gong's working to trademark this term, ask permission before using) at 114% of anything and everything I endeavor to do. Lately, I've put my mind to taking an ungodly amount of time to decide whether or not I'm in a relationship and whether or not this is a good thing. Good news! I am and it is! (You know, for now, until I fuck it up or he notices that I live at home or something.) In the meantime, I guess I've fallen into that age old trap of all your friends are belong to hating you. No one calls anymore because they think I'm busy (gettin' busy - zing!). Then they get mad if I don't call even though they didn't call in the first place leading me to believe they don't like me. Well, guess what, kids. I don't need any of you. I've got a new MySpace friend. We're gonna be eternal BFFs, like forever.

Question:

have you ever had such bad PMS that you actually start to relate to (not to mention almost like) a Tori Amos song?

Shit, man.

It's a vajungle out there.

Do you know what's worse than having your annual down there doctor appointment? Taking off work, sort of pruning your lady garden (more than I would ever consider for any boy - or girl, this is an equal opportunity blog), busting your ass on I-35 to get there, then arriving 10 minutes late because your work study took her sweet time to show up to cover you so that some nice woman says that you'll have to reschedule. I had mentally prepared for days. And all for naught. Ladies, I think you know what I'm talking about. And it's not even really about shoving stuff up there - I'm used to that. It's more about answering all of those G-D questions. And being weighed. Judgement city. Yeah lady? You're going to look at me like that? You're wearing zebra striped scrubs topped off with neon green Crocs with those little Croc accessorstupids (probably little OU footballs and such) stuck in them. And yes, nice lady nurse, you're right to judge. Reschedule this bitch! Mama needs a refill.

It's Friday, I'm in Love

with the anniversary of this blog (but seriously, only because no one else is and I have to, it's contractual). SPOILER ALERT: this has the potential to turn into a sapfest. Either get out now or, yeah, just click the little x. But before you do, as this is my blog, I can use it for evil as well as good. In the words of Bobby Brown, it's my prerogative.

Last year was an extraordinarily bad year. I mean, mega shitteous. Coupla things: 1. tragically dumped by high school boyfriend of seven years/love of life (so I thought), 2. beloved dog Zealand stolen (and, unless you've raised a dog from a puppy, it's really hard to describe just how absolutely heartbreaking this was) as a result of my dumping, 3. sold myself out of gainful employment (long story), 4. moved back to Oklahoma from the remains of my seemingly happy life in Northampton, MA. I know people have been through worse, yes, but this was all so completely unexpected and expected. Anyway. Shitty. I started this blog while I was tinkering with spreadsheets at good ol' Yankee Candle as a way to kind of creatively get through this crappiness. A year later, it's strange to peruse the archives to see who I was and think about where I am now. Also, this is a good test to see if I know my months.

A year in the Blythe: a photographic and postographic retrospective.

September

I picked apples.

October

I went to a Halloween party in a barn. It was very New England. I do love Fall in New England. Something I already miss.

November

I met Augusten Borroughs.

December

I went home to the OK for Christmas. While Christmas is about family to most, to me it is about gifts. Too bad for me.

January

I decided to move home. Yup. That's all I'm gonna say about that. Oh, except that before I left, Party Cat (featured in November) got tape stuck in her ass.

(I suggest clicking to enlarge.)

February

I will be single forever! And ever! and ever!

March

I loved substitute teaching middle schoolers in Noble, OK. No, really. I actually did.

April

I got all nostalgic and shit.

May

Shain and I continue our tempestuous relationship.

June

I celebrated my the one year anniversary of my dumpage. Sometimes I can't believe I made it. Sometimes I can't believe I stayed with that kid for so long. Bygones! Also, L and I hung out a lot. This is when I starting thinking I would someday ask her to be my hetero life mate. This is also one of the best perks of moving home.

July

I got HPV(II).

August

I got old.

And now, well, looking back, it seems pretty mundane, but trust me. It was. Ok, seriously? It was a fucking awful year, but I think things are on the upswing. I really do. Well, as long as OU continues to dominate.

I need an adult!

In spite of being a 26 year old woman who has indiscriminately dabbled in slut a time or two (who hasn't? don't lie) and who had a BF for a million years, I have a really hard time talking about s-e-x. I mean, really hard (ha!). Like I'd rather say vajayjay or bajingo than the v-word. I snicker when I hear boner. Saying breasts is too adult. I prefer boobies. I don't know how I've managed to get this far without being able to utter simple anatomy, but here I am, red faced, giggly and squirmy. The whole thing's quite ridiculous, really and I'm certainly not proud of it. I am an educated woman who should be able to talk about s-e-x like a normal person (whatever that means), but I just can't - without laughing a little bit. Like in the middle. The thing is, I want to learn. Is it something you're born with? Because I don't have it. I think part of the problem was having a BF from high school through, I don't know, last year whose idea of dirty/sweet talking was "hey, you wanna?" later, this would be followed up with me saying, "get that away from my butt" and then "seriously, dude, get that away from my ass" and then finally, "hey, I was talking to your mom this morning about our plans for Christmas..." and then he'd roll over. Match made in heaven. I need 900 operator training. Is there a workbook? Remember when Elaine whispers dirty nothings into Jerry's tape recorder and they all fall for her? Just sayin.'

It's Friday, I'm in Love

with lovin.' Sweet, sweet lovin.' It doesn't take much to get a girl like me into bed e.g. a (1) PBR, kind(ish) glance, the promise of cheese flavored corn chips, etc, but it takes a lot almost nothing to keep me there. Hey, a girl has needs. I am a girl. Ergo needs. Or whatever. My needs are best met in the presence of the following albums. In the words of Ron Burgundy, my hero: "that's baby making music that's what that is."

1. Astral Weeks - Van Morrison: Need I say more? This is a sure way into my pants. I mean heart. The heart of my pants.

2. Kind of Blue - Miles Davis: Again, not much to be said here. Fuckin' genius.

3. Lovers Rock - Sade: It's freakin' Sade. She's the definition of sexytime music. Come on. Seriously.

4. Heartbreaker - Ryan Adams: Because I'll always have a little indie rocker in me. Well, hopefully not too little. ZING! (God, I hope my mother - or anyone for that matter - isn't reading this.)

5. Mutations - Beck: Perfect for space sex.

6. Between The Lines - Janis Ian: Weird choice, I know. That is all.

Dear Shain (letter #3 in a series):

Why did you have to post this picture on your blog? Although we communicate all day via email, gmail chat, (other people's) blog comments sections, telephone and telepathy, I still find myself checking *The Life & Times hundreds (4) of times a day. Lately, I have been greeted by this mesmerizing image. 9.5 times out of 10, I find myself pulling a Super Troopers muttering "enhance, enhance, enhance" while enlarging the image on my screen much to the dismay and concern of my coworkers. What does this mean? I can't look away.

Love in Christ,

Blythe

Friday th 13th

I know it's lame, but I kind of believe in this stuff. And something dreadful has happened.

Could NO ONE have told me that my shirt is completely see through today? You all really made me wait till I took my pee break 30 minutes before I'm out of here? Thanks folks. I met the president of the university today. AWESOME 5000.

It's Friday, I'm in Love

with nothing. (Well, maybe myself, just a little bit.) I do know what I am not in love with, and one of those things is this "feature." I've been working on upgrading IFIIL to Casual Porn Friday, but I always get so sidetracked when I do research that I just don't think it's going to work out. For you. It's working pretty well for me. Anyhoo, I'm stealing Mr. Shain's Friday Confessional. The following five things I wouldn't reveal to anyone, except you, dear reader(s), and of course Google searchers.

1. Once, I had a sex dream about Patton Oswalt. And it was effing hot. I mean, hot enough that years later I still remember it. Hang on a second. Ok.

2. I will eat yogurt months past the expiration date. Don't give me that shit. It's fucking disgusting to begin with. Who cares how old it is.

3. Speaking of music, I literally tear up every time I hear Danny's Song by Loggins and Messina. I think I want it played at my wedding right after Don't Stop Believin. If you are ok with these song selections and my inability to love, I will marry you immediately.




4. While at Smith, on the way home from Quad parties, I would pee in the bushes outside of Cutter/Ziskind house because I didn't like those girls.

2000-2004 Smith Quad Dance Party Mix Sampling

Digital Love - Daft Punk
Rock Your Body - Justin Timberlake
I'm a Slave 4U - Britney Spears
Boom, Boom, Boom - Venga Boys
Move Your Feet - Junior Senior
Crazy In Love - Beyonce
Waiting for Tonight - Jennifer Lopez
Dirrty - Christina Aguilera
Get Yer Freak On - Missy Elliot
Always on Time - Ja Rule

5. This is perhaps the most shocking revelation yet. Notice how you have never seen a picture of Mr. Shain's face. That is because he doesn't exist. I began running *The Life & Times as a sort of blogging experiment. I just wanted to see what it would be like to blog as a man from Oklahoma living in LA. It wasn't as exciting as I had hoped.