"Okay, Taylor Swift. I'm over it."

Seriously. Is there no height your duplicity won't reach?

It's not enough that (somehow) you, as a million-feet-tall infant, captivate the hearts and libidos of all males between 12 and 35 (probably infinity, actually- we know how men are), even despite the confusing semi-Asian-eye look. The mermaid hair and 'technically hot body' seem to entrance anyone who is, even in the loosest sense, attracted to girls. I could forgive you for that. It's not easy for me to get along with skinny blondes, but some of those songs are so damn catchy!

But then I found out you had a pony as a child (found out = heard somewhere) and something inside me just snapped. To quote Billy Shakespeare: "the shit hath hitteth the fan."

Taylor Swift! You sing all these songs about 'why you're guarded!' But you seem to have forgotten: You. Were. Privileged. You're whining about how you 'wish you'd never grown up.' PLEASE. Your life is so. Hard.

It must really be disappointing to grow up and realize your parents moved to Nashville just so *you* could become a 'country' 'singer.' Those are some real demons you'll have to battle in therapy, Taylor Swift. Luckily, you have your millions of dollars to pay for it. And your fame. Hell, I bet you can get some pervy shrink to sikowanalize you for free. To her that hath shall be given.

And speaking of that, how difficult it must be for you, dating men famous for their good looks, and wealthy because of their (dubious) talents. Tsk, I'd hate to have to go out with Jacob Black(!!). And by the way, don't you think it's a TEENSY bit lazy to date men who have the same first name as you? I mean from now on you can just yell your own name in bed and who cares? If it's him, maybe you're talking about yourself but he just feels validated. Or you could be pretending some Jonas Brother or Gyllenhall is TL, and they'd never even know it... You're a wily one, Taylor Swift.

I feel really sorry for you, Taylor Swift. It must suck to be a wealthy, famous fetal-giant.


Oh wait.

And if it's not enough that you are never satisfied with your perfect sunshine-man-candy lifestyle, you just have to put out catchy albums designed to remind the rest of us (normal-sized) humans how miserable we actually are. "If Taylor Swift can't catch a decent man, what hope do we have?"

So thanks. A. Heap. Taylor. Swift.

Most of my relatives' names start with 'T.'

So, since moving to Arizona, I've joined a co-ed softball team coached by my cousin Tori. The team is pretty much comprised of people I'm related to, and since a girl recently quit the team, there was an empty space for a girl. I haven't touched a softball (ahem) in about ten years, except for playing catch in my yard about twice. One of those times, I was *this close* to taking out the back window of a Jeep. "Never mind that," said Tori, "The open space is for right field." So I borrowed some cleats (a little too big for me) and a glove from my cousin Tatum and I sashayed out into right field, dressed in the requisite shorty shorts and knee socks. Lucky I make sure to own the essential softball gear.

We play double headers every week that doesn't have a holiday in it. The first week, the ball didn't get anywhere near me, and I skipped around the field like The Littlest Elf Does Gym Class. I struck out about three times and once I got to first, because my dad always yelled at me if I struck out by watching a pitch pass my face. Ergo, I swing at everything.

The second week, some lefthanded jackass actually hit the ball toward me! I stared in shock as the center fielder hurtled past me in a desperate attempt to salvage the play, muttering under his breath and giving me a disbelieving headshake as he walked back to his post. But when I went up to bat, the real fun began.

My swing was never worldshattering or remarkable in any way. It's still not as bad as someone who didn't spend her childhood desperately trying to win her father's love through athletic achievement (no surprise he's not crazy about yours truly), and I can often hit the ball somewhere in between the pitcher, the catcher and the third baseman. This is actually sort of a perfect place for me, because they usually stare at it for a second, like, 'Really?' and then at each other for another second, trying to decide who's responsible for fielding the thing. And by that time I'm already running like the dickens.

This special night was no exception. Right up on past the dickens-running. But just as first base was within my reach, those borrowed, half-size-too-big cleats turned out to be somewhere I wasn't expecting them to be, and before I knew it I was catapulted through the base-coach-box and scrambled to my feet before anyone would notice what was going on. I looked around. Everyone on the field was staring (except the runner on third who was taking this opportunity to score. Good one, Tyler). The first baseman was cautiously approaching, trying to determine whether I was fit to stay on the field. I hurried to my base, and right at that moment the third baseman, annoyed with himself for letting a run in, decided to throw the ball to first, and maybe tag me out. But in his emotional state, he overthrew and the ball rolled around in the dirt in which I'd recently been sprawled. The base coach said, "Take second! Take second!" And before I knew what was happening I was dashing to second base. When I got there, I looked around again. Everyone on the field was staring. The pitcher turned around and my hand unconsciously moved toward my ears, to make sure lobsters weren't crawling out of them. "Are... you... okay?" he managed to stammer. I realized everyone thought I might be suffering from blood loss, trauma to the head, or both. And I cite both of those as the only possible explanation for everything that happened next.

I responded with my best cheer pose, hand on hip, one arm in the air, and I guess they all breathed a sigh of relief. I thought to myself, "I wonder if I should ask for a runner... my knees are starting to bleed kind of profusely..." But I dismissed the thought, reminding myself that runners are for chubby old men and people with torn ACLs. And the game went on.

My cousin Dylan was up to bat next, and, unlike me, he can hit the ball with some measure of accuracy, timing, and force(comma count: 5). He popped the ball in the air, and someone in the infield caught it. I forgot that I wasn't forced to run, because why would I ever have an extra base? I saw the pitcher give me that look again, the one where he's thinking, "I mean she didn't look handicapped..." as he held the ball in front of him near the shortstop. I gave him my winning oh-well-I-tried-and-a-double-on-errors-is-obviously-the-best-I-could-hope-for smile, and he tagged me with the ball, still looking puzzled. As I approached the third base coach, I realized I could have stayed on second and, in the tone and volume I usually reserve for remarking on the weather, I said, "Shit!" But it turns out that when everyone on the field and off is staring at you in befuddled silence, my weather-remarking voice is clearly audible to all. My cousin Tiffani's husband, Tyler, said, "Please don't yell swears in front of my nana." I looked over to see a woman whose age I'll place somewhere between ninety-five and infinity, looking old and dumbstruck, along with all my aunties and several babies. I looked down at my knees, pouring blood, and took advantage of their attention. "Does anyone have a First Aid kit? Or at least some tissues?"

Probably I shouldn't be involved in physical activity.

My friend Josh says art is a constructive way to express myself.

Just how much energy are you willing to put into this boy?

There's this boy (I know, right...how many times have you heard THAT one...). He and I were in History together, and I sort of kinda talked to him a few times...I have a thing for him. Not only is he SUPER cute, but he also has many other fine qualities such as intelligence, maturity (so rare in 22 year old males), and talent. Now, I'm not exactly at a "I'll just call you and we'll totally hang out" place with him...we know eachother, but that's it. I want to get to know him, because, even in the worst case scenario, he'd be a cool guy to be friends with. How do I go about getting to know him in this situation?
-Getting to know you...

ps...I also have these crazy dreams about him where he's a pirate...that has nothing to do with my question...but I thought you might get a laugh out of that...I don't know.

Okay. In order to get close to this boy, you need to start by listing everything you know about him, because as we know, Knowledge is Power. So sit down and make a list of band t-shirts he's worn, food you've smelled on him, what shoes he wears, and everything he's ever said. This might seem crazy, and it is. But school's out and so if you're not running in the same circles, you're going to need to force your way into his life and also (here's the tricky part) not let it look like that's what you're doing. So you're going to need to list places you think he might go and then show up in those places, always looking super hot. If you're facebook friends it might be easier to just see what events he's RSVP'd yes to. And make sure you get invited to the same things.

Now, here's where it starts to get complicated. Once you happen to run into him in a blues bar or at the party of a mutual friend, you have to force him to notice you, but almost exclusively in a positive way. One reason this will be difficult is that you have put a lot of secret energy into ensnaring him, which is likely to make you unusually agitated. You might find yourself jumping high in the air and maybe screaming when approached by small stimuli. You may find that you can only talk in CAPS lock, but an extremely squeaky version. These are things you need to prepare for, in one of two ways. You can practice being in very uncomfortable situations and not having these kinds of reactions (not that reliable), but I always find that practice awkwardness doesn't do the job as well as real awkwardness, and when faced with a real live stalkee, the reactions still manifest. So what I recommend you do is, practice making your CAPSqueak sexy. Try to make your jumpiness into part of your charm. Whatever your pathologies, try to make them seem appealing. Tricking your man is always step one.

Now that that's out of the way, you'll need to Shock and Awe. It's not yet the time for table dancing or taking your shirt off. But the time for casually walking up next to him and calmly remarking on the general depravity of your surroundings is long since past. Embracing your new devil-may-care attitude, I recommend walking up behind him in Casa Que Pasa and giving his ass a little grab. Smile winningly. He'll probably be cool with it. If it looks like an Abort Mission is in order, you can just look horrified and say, 'Oh my gosh! I thought you were my gay boyfriend!(a la Carrie Bradshaw) I am SO sorry for the misunderstanding!' And you know what? You may be able to salvage it. If he asks you how you can have a gay boyfriend, you're in! And you know what? He probably will. Because men have a really hard time understanding that concept. I don't know why.

But you don't have to take this route. You can tailor your own strategy to fit your style and (probably more importantly) that of your intended. But the important thing is, you have his undivided attention. That's why it needs to be a full-on grab and not just a smack. That could be accidental. But with a grab, he's forced to look you in the eye. If you're brave, you'll say, 'Hey there, sexy. How'd you do on the History final? Can I buy you a drink?' If not, you'll probably smile a little apologetically and say, 'That final was crazy, huh?' But I don't know why you would take the lame route at this point. You've already grabbed his ass, you might as well go whole hog. If you're more of the demure school of thought, you probably just winked at him across the room at best. But the point is that now you're talking. But what you need to do after this is, be sure you walk away before he does. Before he even looks at his watch. Remember: You're a teaser. You turn him on, leave him burning, and then you're gone. A little like Batman.

PS Don't under any circumstances tell him about your dreams. Don't ask me how I know this, just trust me.

I worry about my life, not only because of the content of this post, but also because of the fact of it.

So I didn't do a post last week.  MY BAD.  So I'm going to do a real post later this week but I have to post something and right now I'm in the write mood (PAH!) which actually may be the entirely wrong mood to publicize my thoughts but here you go and I'll probably strongly regret this in the morning. 

I think I should be concerned about the state of my life, and I'll tell you why. I cannot have a nice phone.  I've realized I am not grown-up enough for that.  I bought a nice(I mean not that nice, but it wasn't a free phone.  It was like a quick upgrade but I knew even then, instinctively, that I needed to not get that fancy slider. Even though I REALLY wanted it.  But I think everyone knew I hadn't earned that privilege.) phone that was a little soldier and I loved it.  It got lots of chips in the paint, of course, because I regularly hurl it to the ground- not in rage, just in carelessness. I gesticulate wildly a lot and then before I know it my phone's across the room and I'm crawling under strangers' chairs hunting it down.  Anyway, the final straw was pretty much when I dropped it in a pitcher of pink lemonade. After drying out, it would turn on, but it got zero service.  I thought, 'Welp, best thing I can do is try to wash the lemon and sugar off.'  So I took it apart and tossed it in a glass of water, figuring that at best it would help and at worst i'd be back where i started with a phone that didn't work (I did NOT consider that if my phone wouldn't turn on anymore I would lose all my numbers, but that ended up happening later on anyway). Lo and behold, that crazy move enjoyed some measure of success. My sweet phone limped along for like six months,brave in the face of slow death by terminal water damage, which the girl at the Verizon store claimed was pretty common, but I think she was just taking undue credit for my phone's Indomitable Spirit and also Love of Me.  Anyway then I got a phone that was seriously from like 1995.  It had a *blue screen.* Legit.  I was amazed it could text.  It was ginormous and people frequently asked me if it was my home phone brought out into the world by mistake.  No, friends, it wasn't.  It was my Frankenphone.  I somehow went through a couple of phones after that and then had to go back to the Frankenphone, and now I have my current phone which was given to me by a friend.  It's been serving me faithfully for like five months, but as you can see the paint is seriously chipped.

This is due to the aforementioned Casting Aside Dramatically.  Also I pick at it sometimes when I'm nervous.  (Yes, I'm wearing my choir dress. Get over it. It's like a nightgown.)  So by now you're probably saying, so what, Janel, get over it. You trash your phone. No big deal.  But you know what? It IS a Big Deal.  It is a Very BIG DEAL.  And I will tell you why.  (This is where I probably start my sassy side to side head motions that I cannot explain. I usually also put my finger in the air at this point.) I LOVE my phone.  If it was like, you can have your phone with you or you can eat today, I don't know what you would choose but I know what Sharon Stone and I would do.  We would keep our damn phone.  Sharon Stone LOVES to text (probably) and SO DO I.  I love texting more than the average person for sure and am uncomfortably addicted to it.  When I'm having a serious conversation with a friend about life problems but my phone buzzes, I have to do that leg-shaking thing that sometimes people do that you're sharing a couch or lunch table with and you're like STOP SHAKING THE TABLE, ASSHOLE. But you can't help it because you have to get rid of all that nervous energy, wondering who's calling or texting you.  And once it buzzes three times and stops then you know it's a text and so you're like, okay it can wait, but I still REALLY want to know what it is and respond pronto.  But then if it keeps buzzing you're like oh man somebody's calling me and it *might* just be the love of my life, how am I to know? But even so I know that if it's a number I don't have saved I am pretty much never going to answer it anyway.  What if it's that guy who kept calling in every night during closing when I worked at Victoria's Secret? That was a creepy man that I hope I never meet in real life.  The thing is, I don't know his name so I could actually meet him at any time and NOT EVEN KNOW IT.  That man is roaming around loose somewhere and making creepy phone calls to innocent lingerie salespeople.  RUDE.  Anyway the point is I really want to know who's calling or texting me.  My closest relationship in life is probably with my cell phone (because the pickins are slim, folks... but at the same time of course I'm not saying my phone is a backup, I love it for who it is).  So, okay, you're probably still a little confused. Like, okay, you destroy your phone.  Okay, you love your phone and destroy it anyway.  So what?  I'LL TELL YOU SO WHAT. I am REASONABLY CONFIDENT that this is the way I treat all the things I love best- I destroy them.  Isn't that a charming thought? I mean yeah, I also do lots of nice things for people I love such as feed them and tell them I love their sweaters.  But also I destroy them with my inability to Handle With Care.  This is why I really need an LG phone, because I hear they solder their parts instead of glue which allegedly makes the thing more durable, but I'm not sure what kinds of friends are the most durable.  Bubble Boys?  But then at some point you know that bubble is going to get a hole or something and you know those people are super vulnerable from not growing any antibodies and all of a sudden the immune system is compromised and guess what?  You just gave your best and only friend chicken pox or some such shit which doesn't sound that bad but if your body has never been sick and has no idea how to fight that off, you just KILLED your best friend.  Via chicken pox.  Good one.  I bet it would be embarrassing to die of chicken pox in this day and age.  Or any, mostly because who wants to be killed by a chicken? They're like the most retarded, dirty animal of all time and if you put them on one side of a six foot chain link fence and some food on the other side, they will just keep walking into that fence imagining that one of these times they'll be able to walk through.  They can't just walk around.  They're dumber than a fly.  And you just made a chicken kill your best friend so not only is your friend itchy and then dead, but also humiliated. *Good one.*  (This is where I snap my fingers in Z-formation as if to say, 'Mischief Managed.)

UPDATED:

I forgot to mention, one of the biggest things I do to my phone is text in the shower.  That has led to the demise of many a phone.  It's because I love it too much to leave it alone for half an hour.  Make an analogy of THAT, if you can.

I probably shouldn't be allowed to talk.

So today I was standing around, talking to some Unsuspecting Normalsons.  They were like, what's up with that new Fantasia movie? And I was like, you mean the one that came out ten years ago instead of fifty? And they were like, yeah. What's even in that?  And I was like, well, that terrifying Mickey Mouse one is shown again right in the middle.  And they were like, yeah, that Sorcerer's Apprentice is really stupid.  And I was like, Yeah, I KNOW, right? And totally scary! Like, every time Mickey chops up that broom and then it COMES BACK TO LIFE I'm like FFFFFCK!!!! I kinda had a dream like that last night! And they were like, ....

And I was like, 

I was working on an early steamship, and everyone was really impressed with the technology that made it go.  I think I was a waitress, and my friend Grace was going downstairs to clean the pipes out (like you always have to do mid-voyage on your steamship). (It should be noted that I don't actually have a friend Grace, she's a dream-friend.  Like most of my friends) (But then why aren't they better friends, if I just make them up? I need to start imagining friends who don't stab me in the back all the time...) So then it turned out there was a sea serpent in the pipes and I ran down to the basement of the boat just in time to see Grace flailing helplessly as the creature cruelly dragged her back to its pipe-labyrinthine-lair.  I hauled her out and even though she had been hopelessly clutched in the serpent's fangs, she didn't seem to be too much the worse for wear.  I grabbed that serpent and took it up to the kitchen, where I put its head in the garbage disposal (like you always have on your early steamship).  As I realized that this was the best plan I've ever come up with, I decided to grind the whole thing up in the blender.  My brother helped me.  When I was finished, I had a little tadpole of post-blender-sea-serpent goo.  I felt like the right place for that goo was the bowl in which my faithful goldfish, Buckaroo Bonzai, resides.  This later became a problem because, you know how some things can kind of regenerate?  like lizards' tails, or things in a dream?  Well, it turned out the sea serpent just regenerated and my brother had to grab it by the back of the head and put it in the blender.  Then we had the bright idea that if it regenerated but wasn't in water, it would just suffocate since it's a SEA serpent.  As in fish. As in needs water to breathe.  As in why on earth did we put it in that fish bowl anyway?  So we put it in a bag and took it out to the garbage cans out front.  As we got there, we were greeted pleasantly by a friendly but bumbling (like most of my brother's real-life friends) neighbor who I knew had caused this mess in the first place.  After a brief montage of all the ways I could help him see the error of his ways, I just decided to get over it. I put the remains in the garbage can, smiled at the neighbor and went into my house.  LEAVING THE SEA SERPENT UNATTENDED.  I could hear the Jaws theme playing as I walked away.  Even in my dreams, I make Very Poor Life Choices!  And then I was making out with this guy I met in choir but it was actually a little scary. *exhale.*

They exchanged a few perplexed glances with one another and said, ...welp, choir's starting...

The interesting thing about all this (I can hear you say, "Really? Really??) is that this Sea Serpent was really the same monster as the Giant Eel pursuing me and my cabinmates in a dream about two weeks ago:  roughly the length of my driveway, with GIANT fangs.  Kinda Basilisk-esque, in a Harry Potter kind of way.  

A Fairy Tale.

Once upon a time, there was a Princess who lived in an old castle, in the middle of a meadow, in the master bedroom downstairs, with a bathroom/shower directly adjacent. After two Princess Years of living in that room, the Princess grew tired of dirty peasants tromping in and out of her bedroom to use that shower. And also coming in 'to chat,' but really just wandering off and leaving their things on her floor and the door wide open. So the Princess decided to take action and move to an attic room upstairs. She was confident that the relationship between Princesses Who Live in Attic Bedrooms and Princesses Who Are Virtually Enslaved by Fairy Tale Antagonists was correlational and not causal, and, with just a little trepidation, she moved all her furniture up there.
This move resulted in a few changes in the Princess's life. For one thing, she loved having a room that was really and truly her own. She loved that it was a little less accessible to the General Populace (her loyal subjects loved to seek her wise advice), and she loved that her little room had a lock on the door. But, rather unexpectedly, she found herself having to ratchet up her levels of efficiency, because climbing rickety stairs that are slanted and not in the way they're supposed to be (that way too, but also to the side) and aren't big enough for an adult foot to step on unless it's sideways is not something Princesses like to do that often. For another thing, she had to be a lot more conscientious about turning the fan off when she exited the shower, because when the Princess got up to her attic room, the fan sounded like a helicopter beneath her bed. She also learned how other Princesses came to befriend local birds when she discovered the nest in her wall. It didn't come into her room, because this isn't the Dark Ages, for heaven's sake, it's the Twenty-first Century, but those birds sure did wake that Princess up in the morning with their twittering in the nest and scrabbling around. The Princess assured herself (with some difficulty, and a teensy bit darkly) that the birds weren't intentionally waking her two full hours before she was due to get out of bed. And on particularly difficult mornings, she wondered, a little belligerently, to herself, what kinds of girls these other Princesses were, making friends with such noisy and obnoxious animals. But, she inevitably concluded, you really couldn't expect anything else from girls so desperate for a little attention that they'd kiss a frog or move in with a house full of unsavory miners. So, to make a long story short, there were some adjustments to be made.

One day, the Princess had places to be, countries to rule and lives to save, and she had to take a shower before any of that could happen. She had grown pretty used to her little attic room, and normally she brought her clean clothes down to the bathroom and changed into them there. On this occasion, however, the Princess was in a hurry and didn't worry too much about the idea of running back upstairs in her towel. But as she opened the bathroom door after her shower, she suddenly remembered that the Court Music Tutor was teaching a beginners' class for some of the toddler nobility of the surrounding country. 'Oh, well,' thought the Princess, 'the Queens and Nurses might be in the castle, but I don't mind MUCH if they see me in my towel, and after all I haven't much choice at this point.' She stepped out of the bathroom, looked to her left, and saw, to her surprise, the door open and her own former Music Tutor and the father of one of the pupils, Bruce Hamilton, sitting in a wicker chair in the throne room. He smiled a little awkwardly and the Princess stared for a second, looked down, then around, then up, then gave up. She shrugged and trudged upstairs. When she got up to her own little attic bedroom, she realized she was clutching her magenta bra as if presenting it to an award-winner. She sighed, and decided to forget her evening's obligations. The Princess got back in bed.

THE END.