Miss Carson Palmer: mew
Him: Cars, I’m sleeping.
Miss Carson Palmer: mrooow
Him: Cars, leave me alone.
Miss Carson Palmer: MROOOWWW
Him: CARSON, CAN’T YOU SEE THAT DADDY IS HUNGOVER?!! LEAVE ME ALONE.
Miss Carson Palmer: ……mrow.

Him: it’s just a breath of fresh air, like I could never look at her like that.  I could never even see her in that way. It’s so nice to have a female friend like that.

Me: Well good, I like her too. I’d totally be friends with her.

Him:  I mean I have girl friends who I’m just friends with now.

Me: whoa, so why are they only friends now? Were they something more than friends before??

Him: WAIT. Uh–no. Wait!

Stretch pants are also the mark of a weekend well-spent. This weekend was spent with my girlyfriends who came to visit me at my  new digs (does moving in in May still constitute my apartment as new?) The moral of this estogen-laden weekend? GOD I MISS MY GIRLFRIENDS. That, and your 20′s are a severely hungover god damn good time.

Most fabulous take- aways from this weekend:

• Call ahead, find out if a place has AC on a 100 degree day. Columbus apparently doubled as the portal to Hell this weekend, as it was hot enough to fry an egg on my head, or more appropriately fry an egg in my ass  crack sweat. IT. WAS. AWFUL. Add to this offensive heat, the fact that I was miserably, pathetically sick. The type of sick that makes strangers ask you if you’ve sought medical attention for your disgusting hacking and inquire if you’ve ever been immunized against TB. To be honest, I was so lucid from all the Dayquil and Coors Light I didn’t remember who was even playing football..go Bucks!

• Four girls go through enough nail polish in a three day weekend to cover most of North America in a thick, shiny coat of Lincoln Park After Dark. Oh, the polishing. The polishing!

• Lady Gaga’s lyrics make no sense but it really doesn’t matter to 20- something girls. We’re going to memorize every word and belt it out while painting our nails. That bitch is cray cray, but her music is delicious ear sex.

• We will go anywhere with our gays to dance. The gays share all our same interests–Beyonce, dancing, fast beats, sparkles, high kicks, rouge and boys.

But this is the first Memorial Day since my brother got home from Afghanistan, and forgive me for being Debbie Downer, but this holiday is seriously effed up. I guess it’s all still a little fresh for me, but you do realize this holiday is about remembering the people who died in war, right? And we’re still in a war right now, soooo people are still dying. And yet we are celebrating.

That might sound a bit melodramatic to people who don’t understand what it’s life to have someone you dearly love fighting a war in some shithole country like Assghanistan. Until you’ve had recurring nightmares that you’re at your brother’s military funeral and it’s closed casket because he was blown up by an IED, you don’t really get to judge. When you have night sweats for a year straight and cry yourself to sleep and make yourself physically sick with worry about someone you love, then you get to have an opinion on this. So no, not dramatic, just seriously sad and seriously common.

A guy named Sgt Ed Smith was killed on 09-24-09 in Afghanistan by an IED. He went one way on patrol that day, my brother went the other. Smith took the route that my brother normally took. And he’s dead now. So it all seems a little…insulting, really, that most of us celebrate Memorial Day–a day meant to memorialize the people who died for our country– drinking beer, playing cornhole and shopping. No Macy’s, I’m not particularly interested in shopping your 5- Day Memorial Day  Door Buster  Sale. People died. What the hell is wrong with you?

I’m not trying to preach or harp on anyone, and I don’t think for a second that people who’ve died for our country would want us to wallow in misery this holiday weekend either. I just want people to internalize the meaning of Memorial Day and to understand the gravity and the actual effects of war–something I wasn’t able to do until recently. And don’t get me wrong, I’ll be out tomorrow grilling and sucking at playing cornhole too, but I’ll be doing so only half-heartedly, because there’s a wife and two kids in Homestead, Florida, who’ll be decorating a gravestone instead.

Have fun, be safe, and take a moment for remembrance this weekend.

1. L’Occitane bar soap ($10)

This is one of the brands I always see in the back of Sephora and think that the purchasers of this line must be a)out of their god damn minds b)stoopid or c)stoopid out of their god damn minds. It’s crazy expensive and French. I instinctively don’t trust it hate myself for not being able to afford it, all at the same time. Truth is one of my girlfriends bought me a bar for Christmas because it’s great for shaving your legs.

This. shit. is. la. bombaaaaa. I cut the hell out of myself pretty much daily with a razor blade. Not in the Demi Lovato kind of way, but shaving. Chock that up as the one girl thing I utterly suck it. My shins are just too jaggedy for normal shaving cream to handle. But this profanely expensive soap is like 12,000 % shea butter or something. I don’t know but it’s a literal gift from God. Seriously it says it on there “made by God, delivered by angels to Sephora so you won’t cut the fuck out of yourself anymore.” Check the packaging, it’s there.

2.) Netflix ($9.99/month)

So i’m a few years late to this party, but I just got it and it’s just seriously kick ass. I watch a movie every other night. I check my mailbox like six times a day now. I have every Jason Bateman movie ever made in my queue. I am in lurve with the ‘flix.

4.) 630 tc Palais Royale sheets at Bed Bath & Beyond ($80)

I am the pickiest person when it comes to sheets. That’s not debatable–my knowledge of threat counts, varieties of cotton, weaving methods and fabric washes is frightening. So when I laid my hands on these mamajammas in BBB, I was truly taken back. You spend too much time sleeping each year to uncomfortably wallow on shit fabric that’s not suitable to make potato sacks from. And these sheets feel like baby ass meets angel feathers. Mmmmm

Wedding always catch me off guard. The general rule is that they affect me about as much as half caff coffee—I don’t feel a damn thing. But throw in some royalty and that sweet angel from heaven, Kate Middleton, and I was a bag of sniffles watching the highlights at my desk at work.

Just pathetic.

Like everyone else on planet earth, I was enthralled by last week’s royal wedding. I didn’t think I would be so giddy until the morning of and I was logging onto my computer with the speed and urgency of a computer code analyst trying to abort nuclear warfare . And lo and behold, to my surprise she and Pippa were dressed in Sarah Burton for McQueen. You could have knocked me over with a feather.

I really and truly thought she’d be wearing a)Emanual Ungaro b)Marchesa or c)Badgley Mischka. I was already emotionally vulnerable from learning of her gown choice–a beautiful nod to the late British designer. Then the clear resemblance to Princess Grace’s dress hit me and to top of it off the first hymn played at the ceremony was the last hymn played at Princess Diana’s funeral. Oh the tears. Oh God, the tears.

I was all ready to shove my foot right up Pippa’s Duchess of Cornwall for wearing white to her ethereal sister’s wedding, but apparently it’s tradition. Well did you really need to wear a low-draping cowl neck dress, Pippers? Did you? Really? It wasn’t enough that the dress was snug-fitting and ass-clinging? No? You really felt the draped cowl neck was necessary?

Long story short, I want to be Kate Middleton when I grow up and I’m devising a plan to raise my future unborn children in the UK so they can go to St. Andrew’s and marry royalty as well. The end.

Yah, that’s all. Just have fun. When I’m not having fun, I’ll focus on having fun. And when I am having fun, I’ll try to have even more fun that I’m already having. Less thinking, more fun. I win.

Which leads me to believe 2011 is going to be the year of the Stoli.

You’re kicking my ass. I’m not the spry 20-year-old I once was. I can keep up with your merriment, but not your endless supply of Christmas Ale anymore. And frankly, my head feels like Michael Flatley is doing  jig on my brain as we speak.  Ouchieeees.