98 Degrees & A Serious Lust For Nick Lachey


“Stay out of it, Nick Lachey!”

98 Degrees, the boyband from the 90’s, reunited on the Today Show this morning after a ten year hiatus.  You probably remember them as the four-man boyband who tried to outwit the other boybands of the time by straying from the proven five-man formula.  They had sub-par hits, likely songs that weren’t good enough for the Backstreet Boys, like “Invisible Man” and “Because of You” that every now and then, can be heard ever so slightly in the canned vegetable aisle at the supermarket.

Although my storied boyband loyalty is to the Backstreet Boys, I do have a deep and profound love for Nick Lachey. He’s an all-American, sex-oozing, hot piece of charming, genuine man.  He’s the closest thing–that actually exists on Earth–to the perfect man I’ve invented in my mind.  The following was a conversation I had with my co-worker, Richard about their performance and the lust I have for Nick Lachey:

Me:  They didn’t sing “Una Noche”.  But Nick Lachey is still hot.  And that other guy.

Richard:  That is their best song!!  They must hate it.

Me:  I think it’s too involved.  It was above their skill level at the time.  Imagine it now.

Richard:  Heeey (in my gay voice)

Me:  I fucking need a man like Nick Lachey.  He’s the ultimate man.

Richard:  Did he cheat on Jessica?

Me:  NO!  As if.  He went sexless for years because of her!

Richard:  LOL

Me:  He’s gatta be the most well-rounded man on the planet.

Richard:  Why did they break up?

Me:  Cause she’s an asshat.  9/11 brought them back together.  And Newleyweds and Chicken of The Sea tore them apart.

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Return To Junk City: My Battle With PVD

I’m suffering from PVD. I have been for a long time now, about four days.  It’s time I share my story:

I’m not sure Post-Vacation Depression is worth taking a vacation in the first place.  You jam pack hours of fun activities and brilliant laughs into a few days spent with the best people you know and when it’s all over, you’re supposed to return to Junk City and carry on with the same, mundane drudgery that is life as you usually know it.

It’s like I was eating a 99-cent ice cream sandwich, and then for ten minutes it was replaced with the most glorious and gigantic ice cream sundae ever, complete with Mint Chocolate Chip ice cream, whipped cream, sprinkles, bits of Butterfinger, hot fudge and every delicious topping you can imagine.  And then when the ten minute time period was up, even though I could further indulge in this amazing ice cream waterfall of splendor, it is taken away and without choice I’m back to eating the 99-cent ice cream sandwich.  But now it has freezer burn.  And has shrunken in size.  And tastes like the frozen meats and vegetables it was sharing space with in the freezer.  You didn’t think a 99-cent ice cream sandwich could get worse.  And then it did.

To deal with my current battle of Post-Vacation Depression, I’m gonna avoid the sad, 99-cent ice cream sandwich as much as possible until I can go home, climb into my bed and hide from it and the rest of the world underneath my comforter.  I hope it doesn’t prematurely find me before I know I’ll be forced to deal with it again at 9 a.m.

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A Serious Blog About Emotions (Makes Ya Wanna Read, Doesn’t It?)

When it comes to emotions, I like to think I’m indestructible.  Any emotional pain I feel is smothered by mantras I internally repeat to myself (“You are amazing, smart, funny, and have great hair.”) and huge doses of humor.  I am a big fan of humor for humor’s sake and also a fan of humor as a giant band-aid for emotional wounds.  If I can make jokes about the emotional horror I’m wading through, it will lessen the pain.  It won’t seem as bad if I constantly undermine the true way I’m feeling with jokes because then we can at least laugh and that offers a temporary relief.  I depend on humor’s ability to mask pain.  If I pretend everything is ok, it eventually will be.

Humor is the crutch I need to scale steep emotional mountains until I realize I’m on the descent and don’t even need the crutch anymore, but reaching this point is a tough battle.  And sometimes when you think you’re there, you’re actually just on a patch of stable, flat land until the ascent abruptly continues.  These are dark days, when humor seems like the only thing you have to help aid the continuation of the climb.

Getting to the true point of decline can take years of work.  Navigating through emotional terrain is certainly not easy.  In addition to humor, you better have packed your GPS, tissues, water-proof mascara, energy bars and matches to start a fire for those nights when you’re trapped wondering what the hell happened when the helicopter dropped you off in the middle of nowhere and now you’re sleeping over (or not sleeping at all) in a freezing, emotionally-burdening sleeping bag of hurt on the edge of a teetering cliff.  And it will agonize you to tears and rage at points along the way to know the journey could all end in one single moment if the helicopter would just find you again.  A part of you will wonder what it would take for a fading-familiar hero to appear above you, brilliant as ever, dangling from the rescue rope to pluck you out of this torture and into a warm embrace, offering apologies for all you’ve trekked through.  And you will wonder this for what seems like forever as you vehemently push on yourself because simply,……..you have to.  The only way to guarantee progress is to do it yourself and you’re certain to go nowhere if all your eggs are naively thrown into the basket labeled “Hope”.

So I press on, into the sun, tired but hopeful, worn but wiser, with a better sense of myself and what I want when I find my way back to emotional civilization.  The rescue helicopter may never come– maybe it can’t find me, doesn’t want to, doesn’t realize I’m lost, is lost itself, or has moved on to flying over new territory—so I must power through myself with visions that the finish line, although possibly years away, has its own rewards.  By making it through the emotional rainforest of hell, I will know what I’m truly made of.  I will learn many aspects of myself– my needs and desires, what makes me happy, sad, motivated, inspired, what I will never again accept and where I’m willing to compromise.  And for this I will be stronger and better.

It would be just another lie dressed in a cloak of humor if I didn’t say that surely, I glance to the sky every once in awhile, wondering if that helicopter may ever return and where that helicopter could be at this very moment.  But in the meantime, and sometimes grudgingly so, I move on knowing that progressing with my own two feet and a thermos of humor is the only sure thing I can control in the quest to feel whole again.  And if by the time I’ve made it to the final few steps of the descent without that helicopter ever back in sight, I will know that this was my destiny and the entire idea of the helicopter in the first place, was only ever an artificial fantasy.

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Did You Just Whip Out Your D?

I must be confused. Or I’m old. Or as much as I try, I’m just not a raging whore. 

Are females these days extra easy? Or are men extreme sluts? Can someone explain to me how meeting someone at a bar, followed by a brief group happy hour, followed by five days of sporadic texting, followed by a one-on-one, two-hour time period at a bar with a few beers that certainly wouldn’t qualify as a proper date, means you invite yourself back to my apartment, make yourself at home in my bed, and immediately whip out your D? 

Ummmm……….So wait…….you aren’t even going to buy me dinner?

Are women giving it up that easy these days that men think poking you is a guarantee after treating you to $11 worth of draft beer? I just don’t see how this is an equal trade off. $33 worth of beer….maybe.
And I get it.  Sometimes you just want the action and the $11 worth of draft beer was just an added tipsy bonus, but in these cases, maybe the woman can make the first move because no man on this earth with half a penis is going to turn down woman-initiated action.   

And this isn’t just a single isolated incident courtesy of one ego-maniac douche bag. The premature whipping out of the D is a move I’ve seen before, so I ask again, who are these chics giving it all away for two Tangerine Wheat beers? This allows men to continue to believe this move is acceptable before they even realize that my name has an ‘H’ in it or that my eyes are hazel…or that I even have two eyes…

I’ll let you know when I wanna see your peen. It likely won’t be after spending a combined total of five hours and 19 minutes with you. This isn’t The Bachelor, I’m not a raging whore and you hardly bought me enough alcohol.

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The Bachelor Nation Van? Yes, Please!

"Chris, will you accept this rose?" "Yes, Ben. I will."

As you may know, my friends and I love the ABC comedy series, “The Bachelor”.  We all get together Monday night to view the dignity-stealing, two-hour wreck with dinner and wine and we laugh over our own commentary.  It’s pretty amazing.

I was scanning Twitter today and because I follow Chris Harrison (duh.), I came across the fact that The Bachelor Nation Van, complete with past cast members, will be stopping by viewing parties this Monday night.  While trying not to pee my pants with excitement, I quickly alerted my friends and we sent many reply-to-all emails to each other planning out the logistics of this Monday night.  We HAVE to get picked! 

To get chosen, you needed to send an email to The Bachelor Nation Van people.  The following was my email:

Hello Bachelor Nation Van!

My six friends and I have a Bachelor Viewing every week in our

makeshift Fantasy Suite, complete with dinner, wine and a hot tub (ok,

no hot tub) and would love for you to stop by for the most dramatic

Bachelor viewing in Bachelor history.  We are a co-ed group, which

makes for less tears and even more hilarious commentary.  You will not

be disappointed.  We will even have a ‘First Impression’ rose to hand

out to the former cast member who opens up the most!

Please stop by!  We will wait for you on our balcony marked with a

‘Bachelor Fantasy Suite’ banner and if you do not arrive, we will

hysterically cry over the balcony in a more dramatic fashion than

Jason Mesnick.

Waiting in a sequined dress to receive a rose,


(address was included but removed for the purpose of this blog so that I’m not stalked by any number of my regular readers)

After this email…..how could the Bachelor Nation Van NOT show up?

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Math With The Masses

It is a challenge for me to mingle with the masses, mainly because I hate them, but what I witnessed at Old Navy yesterday makes me want to eternally hide from all humanity.

A woman held up a $40 sweater and asked her husband what 75% off of $40 was.  Seriously?  How could I not shoot a stare of judgment and horror in her direction over this elementary math equation?  Even more shocking, the husband answered, “I don’t know.”  So there are two of you, equally as clueless?  Well I’m just glad you two found eachother!  Sadly, they were pushing a baby boy in a stroller.  All I could think was, “Poor kid.  Your parents won’t be much help to you with math homework after grade 2.

I’m not a math genius by any means but people, come on!  If you can’t figure out simple percentages, you shouldn’t be eligible for the sale.  “Sorry, you’re a moron.  So you have to pay full price.”

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Response Article: “First Person: My $50,000 Salary Felt Like Minimum Wage”

This is a response piece to an article I read on Yahoo.com titled “First Person:  My $50,000 Salary Felt Like Minimum Wage” by Laura Cone.  The article can be read here:


I never thought I was making a lot of money but certainly thought that having a full-time job could afford me a decent and comfortable life.  But when I sit down each month to calculate my finances, I realize how much I am struggling…and then I cry over my remaining thirty cents.

Writer Laura Cone outlined all of her life costs in the above-referenced article.  Here, I do the same in the same categories she listed:

Calculating the commute:  I commute about 31 miles each day in hellish LA traffic.  Even though I carpool most days with a co-worker, I still spend an average of $200 a month on gas.  My car is a 2001, hand-me-down Ford Taurus, fortunately donated by my parents, with over 160,000 miles on it.  Maintenance and repairs are plentiful and inevitable.

Adding up the childcare expenses (AKA my school loan):  I don’t have any children but I do have a $640 college loan payment every month.   It’s as costly as a human life and keeps me up at night just as much.

Taking into account the worn-out factor:  Sure, I’m worn out some nights of the week but I still find time to prepare meals and release stress at the gym (which also helps to combat the ‘secretary ass’ I can’t avoid by sitting at a desk for nine hours a day).  For a single person, sometimes take-out is actually a cheaper option than cooking.  Either way, I spend around $300 a month on food.  And $30 for that gym membership.

Spending more to keep up an image:  Like any lady, I like nice things.  But I purposely don’t let myself venture into Neiman Marcus, I purposely rock my natural hair color, and I purposely tend to my own nails (most of the time).  I also purposely shop sales, purposely drag my friends capable of discounts to the mall, and purposely drink only one $10 cocktail at the bar with friends.

Combating work stress by paying others:  Cone indicated she was so stressed that she needed expensive vacations, weekly massages, and housecleaning and lawn services that further drained her earnings.  It must be nice that she even had the leftover funds to choose to spend it in these ways. 

What Laura Cone left out:  Cone doesn’t mention anything about a rent or mortgage and the associated bills that come along with that.  And while she mentions she has children, she doesn’t mention that she is married and living in a situation with dual income.  My rent and associated bills average around $1,000 a month.  And I live with a roommate in a lacking apartment.

I realize the overall point of Cone’s article was to illustrate how quickly her salary diminished to a rate of minimum wage.  And while I think that a salary of $50,000 can be a challenge to live on, pointing out weekly massages and hair color as “necessities” makes a mockery of the people who are actually struggling to make a life for themselves. Some of her expenses were undoubtedly going to anger readers who make minimum wage BEFORE any expenses are accounted for.   This is what Cone failed to recognize.  She listed out all of her expenses, some rather lavish, and then stated she brought home a net of only $7.50 an hour, minimum wage.  What does she think people who actually make minimum wage have left over at the end of a week?  I can tell her it’s surely not enough for lawn care service. 

I am single and struggling and my hourly pay rate after expenses nets me around $4.50 an hour.  I guess I’ll have to save up and wait until next year for that manicure.

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