Wednesday, March 31, 2010

my dirty place.

This isn’t that kind of post, so keep your pants on and get your minds out of their respective gutters. Like any stereotypical mo, I pride myself in my organizational skills, cleanliness, and (for lack of better unintended pun) extremely anal retentiveness. I don’t know what made me this way. My family is anything but organized and laid back about things that make me want to scratch my eyes out. (This is one of the reasons I love my in-laws so much). They know how to set a proper table, eat like people can actually see them, and plenty of other things that we can relate to and judge my family on.

If you’ve ever been in my home on any given day, the bed is usually made, dishes are clean, and every little duck is in a neat little row. I iron my sheets, enjoy doing laundry, vacuum in parallel lines, and appreciate the aesthetic euphoria of my little chotchkies arranged in right angles. All that being said, I am completely OK with saying that I have one dirty place: my car. Now, it’s not anything close to the disgusting hobo rides some of my friends roll around in. I cannot stress this fact enough, my car is not disgusting/filthy, it is just very cluttered/unkempt relative to everything else in my life.

Maybe having a dashboard that could desperately use some Armor All, floorboards that haven’t seen a vacuum in ages, and compartments full of Sonic receipts/straw wrappers is a release my mind needs to not have my head completely explode. Part of me thinks I should just shell out the money to have it detailed on a semi-regular basis, but paying someone to clean for me (when I get so much pleasure out of it) seems downright sinful. I mean, I would never hire a cleaning lady! Even when I have a free day and feel like going to vacuum my car or wash it, I pull a drive by on the car wash faster than a Cadillac in a bad neighborhood full of ethnic youths.

I guess this is all has a three-fold purpose. The first being a confession: despite popular belief, it turns out that I’m NOT perfect... The second purpose being an offer: I would totally barter my house-cleaning services if you will clean my car! The final purpose would be an inquiry: does any other extremely, borderline OCD person have a “dirty place?” Or am I the only slacker?

Monday, March 29, 2010

füd for thought.

If you browse through my Facebook mobile uploads or see a lot of my status updates you’ll probably think one thing, this guy is really bored. But, if you happen to think two things, you’ll probably think that this guy loves food. And I do. It actually rivals my love of television. While I would be worried that the two would conflict, they actually go together quite nicely in an amazing chemical reaction whose only result will be a cottage cheese ass I’m guessing I’ll acquire in my mid 40s. Anyway… the whole point of this is regarding some food faux pas. Not hard and fast rules, but general guidelines in gluttony.

I cannot stress this first rule enough, but never eat Buffalo wings in front of a person who has never seen you naked and who you might want to see you naked in the future. I firmly believe eating these delicious little cluckers before that actually happens, could result in keeping that little scenario in the hypothetical indefinitely. I don’t think they existed when Emily Post laid down her law, and although raised in a family where table manners were about as scarce as dignity on a dance floor, I can set a perfect table and know what all the little forks do. There is no classy/proper/clean way to eat them. So, I would save them for interactions with friends or someone you’ve been dating long enough that they have seen you in more compromising positions than a face smothered in Mango Habanero sauce with dripping fingers to boot. Case in point: there is nothing less sexy than eating Buffalo wings.

Speaking of unattractive eating, when dating, you'll undoubtedly end up at the movies. That being said, if you’re anything like me never eat popcorn in front of a boy/girl. Until I am comfortable enough with someone to continually wake up next to them in the morning (when I’m at my most visually vulnerable) for all they will know, I hate popcorn. When in reality, nothing could be farther from the truth. However, nothing breaks down the barriers of my self-control faster than a buttery, salty bowl of popcorn. Me shoveling handfuls of popcorn into my face in rapid succession is a lot like what I imagine throwing a veggie burger at a homeless hippie would look like. It gets ravenous. Also, food gets stuck in your teeth. Isn’t that hot?!

Finally, you know yourself. You know your body. When you’re on a date follow these seven simple words: never eat anything that gives you gas!

I don’t pretend to be an expert on dating or romance. In fact, I’m sure suburban tweens have more knowledge on the subject matter than I do. But, if there is one thing I know, it’s food.