The Top 7 Ways to Have a Popular Blog

1. Post stylistic photos with kids, and call them "littles."

TRUTH: He's not my kid. He's my kick-ass nephew. And for some reason the word "littles" is like nails down  the chalkboard for me. Seriously. Who started that? Please. Stop.

2. Start Trolling and say something controversial.

TRUTH: This shirt just makes me laugh. Posting this on Facebook once, I actually got some people that got into Political tirades. (HILLARY 2016!!)  Please know, the shirt is just worn to bed, and in all honesty, is too small...  And for the record, I'd go out with anyone of any political persuasion. (He just can't be listening to Glenn Beck while he buries gold in his back yard and stockpiles an arsenal in his basement. I've gotta draw the line somewhere... I used that line once in an email to someone I met online, thinking I was hilarious. He responded by explaining the value of gold these days, and facts on the Second Amendment.)

3. Post about all the trips you go on.

TRUTH: I LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE the adventures I've been on, but 90% of them have been solo, and I'd rather be spending that time WITH someone.  I'd trade a trip to Paris any day for an evening in SLC with a special someone.... Well, maybe not Paris...

4. Post Selfies. LOTS and LOTS of Selfies.

TRUTH: see #3. Because usually there's nobody else to even be in the picture.
Two words: Selfie Stick.

5. Cats. Because, internet+cats= sensation.

TRUTH: Duh. My blogs namesake in all his furry glory.

6. Have an OOTD- (Outfit Of The Day, for the layman)

TRUTH: I love clothes. LOVE THEM. I buy way too many, and I'll continue to do so. When I was in Junior High my mom started promising that me and my sisters each got a new outfit once a month.  That, combined with 17 years working in retail, and I'm a goner. That being said, most people don't look like the people who post an OOTD.  Most people look a little more awkward. Plus, all my best outfits involve sweats of some sort these days. Plus I don't want you to care what I wear.
TRUTH: I'd rather entertain you. I want to make you laugh.

7. Have some sort of list and hope Buzzed will pick it up.  

Holiday Stalking

Sometimes I get myself into the most ridiculous situations. Especially, it seems, when it has to do with dating.  I feel like I'm living an episode of 30 Rock, Parks and Recreation or the Mindy Project. You may watch these lovely lady protagonist heroes of mine and think, thats ridiculous, that would NEVER happen, where I think, OMG I had something similar happen to me!!
It is a good thing I have a good sense of humor, or heaven help me...

And somehow, even though I haven't been on a proper date for about 6 months, my dating life has caught up with me in graduate school.

So lets just get something out in the open. We ALL internet stalk people. Don't tell me you've never looked up an old flame, a new crush, a co-worker, a boss. If you hear a story about someone, the FIRST thing you do is google them. You find them on Instagram. You look them up on Facebook to compare shared friends. If you say you've never done this, you are lying. You have. We ALL have. It is basically why the internet was invented.  Ask Al Gore.

So.

Internet stalking.

You do it. I do it.  WE DO IT!

It's done.

And now let's set the scene:

Class, a few minutes before it is set to start, girl trying too hard to become friends with a group member.

LINDA: Hey! So I was internet stalking this guy last night, because sometimes I'm just curious what he's up to, and he was traveling abroad, and I guess he was there visiting some girl, and so I looked her up on Facebook, and guess what, she's friends with you!! It looks like you guys had pictures together YEARS ago. Isn't that funny? Small world.

HIM:...Wait... Like traveling abroad, where?

LINDA: Oh, to Europe*. (*it wasn't Europe...)

HIM: Europe*?... O.M.G!!! You were internet stalking Bob**!! (**his name's not Bob).

LINDA:(backpedal...backpedal...) How do you know Bob**??

HIM: How do YOU know Bob**??

And then, to top it all off...

HIM: I'm really good friends with Betty***. (***her name's not Betty.), who Bob** is visiting. 

LINDA: Like how good of friends?

HIM:  We Skype several times a week....


I don't get embarrassed easily. When you are as ridiculous as I am as often as I am you learn to laugh at yourself.  I've fallen out of my chair now THREE TIMES in one of my classes. But in this moment I felt my cheeks getting hot...

Because I knew he was going to tell Betty***
and Betty would tell Bob**
and PLEASE DON'T TELL BOB**!!!!!
WHY are all my most ridiculous situations connected to BOB**!!??

A week or so later, me and my new Graduate School Buddy were studying at his house. His phone sat between us on a speaker doc, playing nice ambient music as we tried to figure out pivot tables and other statistical charts. And then his phone rang. And as one does, when a cell phone rings in front of you, I looked at it.

It was Betty***.
Calling my Graduate School Buddy.
Over FaceTime.
From Europe*.

"Don't answer it!!" I said, the mortification flooding over me again.

He looked at me with a wicked grin, as he answered her call. He proceeded to say hello, and then turn the phone towards me as he said, "Look who's here!!"

I smiled too big, and said hello too enthusiastically. "We're just here doing homework!" I said, in a voice about an octave higher than my usual register.

Here's the thing. She was so cute. And nice. And, truth be told, she and I have SEVEN mutual friends on Facebook, from such different and random places, all people I really like, and I know if I ever met her in real life I would be her friend. But I didn't want to meet her in that moment. I didn't want to like her in that moment.  In that moment I was MORTIFIED.

She said hello, and he turned the phone back around to chat with her saying, "That's my friend, Linda. She know's Bob**!!"

I don't know if Betty*** or Bob** ever found out about my internet scouring.

However, I haven't internet stalked Bob**, or anyone, since.

Or maybe I have just learned not to tell anyone about it.

Applying for Graduate School, or, How To Get The Definitive Answer on How Many Spaces Belong After a Period

When you apply to graduate school, you have to do all sorts of horrible things like take a three hour test where you do math, SO MUCH MATH, and you you are interviewed and asked about things that happened in your undergrad life 15 years ago, and WHO REMEMBERS THAT!?!   

But you also get to write a personal essay, and when that happens the interviewer may tell you that she enjoyed reading your essays, after grilling you about things you did when you were 20, so you don't feel so bad. 

This actually stemmed from a former post. (please to enjoy here) but I took it an tweaked it. 

Behold, my graduate entrance essay:

***
All activities, decisions, and actions involve some level of risk. The company I work for does training and consulting with manufacturers in the life science industry and we offer a training course on Quality Risk Management. Risk Management in this industry is specifically about assessing risk in approaching a manufacturing scenario with the designs, systems, and processes with making their product. The main idea behind Risk Management in manufacturing is to think of EVERY. SINGLE. LITTLE. THING. that could possibly go wrong with your product. On purpose. (If you suffer from severe anxiety, do not become a manufacturing engineer working in the Risk Management department).

One example in the training is selling milkshakes. In this scenario participants are asked to list everything they can foresee going wrong if they worked in a store that sold milkshakes. You can run out of ingredients, you can have the wrong ingredients, you can mix up the ingredients, your cup can break, you can spill on the counter, spill on yourself, spill on a customer - the list goes on and on and on. There are a seemingly infinite numbers of issues that could arise, ranging from bad to worse. The manufacturers in the course will then come up with plans and processes to make sure these potential hazards don’t occur.

In life the most common response to a potential hazard is inaction. If you don’t put yourself in the line of fire, you wont get hit. If don’t make a milkshake, you wont spill.
Up until now, I have stayed out of the line of fire when it comes to an advanced degree. If I don’t apply, I don’t have to worry about the myriad of hazards that come with a graduate education. I will not have to deal with the work, the late nights, the stress, the debt. If I don’t apply I will not deal with the insecurity of being unsure how technology works with the educational experience, knowing that when I graduated from college 13 years ago I didn’t yet own a cell phone. If I don’t apply I’ll never have the stress of the GMAT, or worry that my last math course was over a decade ago. Without applying I don’t have to worry that I’m not quite sure anymore if you are supposed to put one space or two after a period when writing a formal research paper.

But as time has passed, and I gain more experience and move forward in my career, there is a new scenario that has presented itself- the potential risk of NOT pursuing a graduate education. If I don’t apply I lose the opportunity to learn new skills and acquire new information that can help me progress even further in my career. If I don’t apply I will never be able to engage with other young professionals, learning from them and their experiences. If I don’t apply I will never gain new insight on how to help my small company move forward and grow. And if I don’t apply I will never get the definitive answer on how many spaces actually belong after a period when writing a formal research paper.

In the training course, after listing the potential hazards, they discuss how severe the harm would be with each hazard. If you ran out of ingredients to make your milkshake, how severe would the outcome be overall to you or your organization? And so I weigh each of my hazards carefully, and assess the potential harm- to attend or not to attend the University of Utah. How severe would the harm of each of those choices be? What is the projected outcome?

And I have my answer.

The anxiety is still there. The list of potential hazards with actually getting in to the program and starting the coursework to acquire an MBA are stacking up. I am thinking of EVERY. SINGLE. LITTLE. THING. But the potential harm of not doing it is too great. And so I accept the potential risk. I’m pursuing a graduate education. 

***

Elle Woods Ain't Got Nothin' on Me

The thing about blogging your dating life is that if you have no dating life there is nothing to write about.

So as I start Graduate School, I thought that maybe I have something new to write about.
And I miss writing about things.
So, without further ado, I introduce to you.... Manny Mondays!!

Let's be honest... This will most likely only last until the season premier of the Bachelorette...

But as my Monday nights are currently free- and by free I mean those hours after 10 pm when I get home from class and can't sleep- I am going to attempt to write. Maybe I'll write about graduate school. Maybe I'll write about dating. Maybe I'll write about something completely different. Who knows. But, as those of you who write know, it is an urge that bubbles up, and sometimes just needs an outlet. And if me and David Sadaris are ever going to be best friends, traveling abroad, and discussing our craft, I have to have a craft to discuss.

I definitely jumped into the deep end without much thought, embarking on this advanced degree. I haven't been in school since 2001, and the thought of homework and papers and projects strikes fear in my heart and sends a chill down my spine. And MATH. Don't even get me started on MATH!!!!!! You guys I've been doing MATH!!!!

I took one day of math in my undergrad Freshman year, to maintain my status in the Honors Program, and then decided that graduating Cum Lade wasn't all that important, and that maybe instead of one semester of Calculus I would drop said class, and suffer through four semesters of Spanish.

Y, no hablo Espanol...

Regardless, for various personal reasons, reasons for another post, another time, jump in I did. Starting the application process in Mid October, I assumed I would be starting in September. And yet, they were still accepting for a Spring start, and one GMAT prep course, on GMAT test, and one full application process later, I started class in January.

My friends, I'm thinking there will be some good stories to share.

Like orientation night.

Orientation night was the week before Christmas, on a Wednesday evening, and there were two things on my mind as I prepared.

The first thing on my mind was the pictures. They told us to wear business professional clothing, as they were going to take pictures of us for the program. Of course I bought an entirely new outfit, because I'm me, but a few days before the
BIGGEST.
ZIT.
OF.
MY.
LIFE!!
appeared on my chin. This sucker was huge. And because I lack restraint, it soon became a wound rather than just a pimple.

The second thing on my mind was plain old me. A true Gemini, I have two selves. I turn them on or off, but there is no in between. My first inclination is to go into a room full of strangers and sit in the back glaring at everyone, but I knew that wasn't a good way to start this adventure. And so I brought my other self, which was perhaps a little much... As a friend said to me, "You went full out Gap on them, didn't you?!?"

Yes. Yes I did.

As I walked in for pictures, I took a deep breath, willing my introvert self to retreat so my alter-ego, whom I lovingly call "Gap-Linda," could fully emerge. "Look," I said to the two photographers in the room, pointing to my chin. "Do you guys use photo-shop, because I have the BIGGEST zit right now!! I don't want it to follow me around my ENTIRE graduate career!!!!"  They just stared at me. And so I turned it on even more, "I mean, come on, LOOK AT THIS SUCKER!! It's HUGE!!" They still just stared at me. And so I awkwardly sat down, smiled, they took a snapshot, and I was on my way to talk to more people and make more of a spectacle of myself.

(not my best picture, but good news- they DO use photoshop!! No zit!!)

In the first few weeks of school I fell out of my chair, I walked into a closet instead of the exit, and I busted out the Oklahoma classic, "The Farmer and the Cowman" to blank silent stares. As is always the case with me my laugh is a bit too loud, my enthusiasm a bit too eager.

Someone took a picture the first night of class. Something about being studious makes people touch their faces, for some reason.

The last three months (already three months!) have been some of the hardest ever. Graduate School and working full time is no joke, my friends.

But I can feel myself stretching and growing.

And I'm meeting new people, and learning new things, and I have a whole slew of things percolating in my head waiting to be put down in a deprecating truth spew of words, aka personal essay. In class tonight instead of taking notes, I made a list of 10 weeks- 10 WEEKS- worth of portable readable nonsense....

Be excited.
Manny Mondays.
It's at thing now.

Pick ME!!!

“Close your eyes, ladies… Imagine the role that you want. The role that you dream of dancing, and have been working towards all year…”

Ballerinas, age 10-18, are standing in their studio, about to embark on auditions for their annual Christmas program, a retelling of the Nutcracker, but while they are wearing mouse heads. (trust me- it’s awesome.) 

The young dancers stand there with their eyes closed, each imagining themselves pirouetting their way to stardom.

“Think of yourself dancing your dream role…” the studio director continues.

And then:

“Most of you will NOT get that part.”

This scenario happened to my niece, as she dreamed young prima ballerina dreams.

She did not get the part she wanted.

I have another niece who plays soccer. And she is SO good. She had high school try-outs this week, and ran circles around the other girls. Literally. There were speed tests where she smoked everyone. She made several goals during scrimmage games.  It was in the bag.

The team list was posted last night, and her name was not on it.

The reasoning from the coach?  She plays left wing, but is right footed.  He admitted that she was one of the best- that she was faster and more aggressive than all the girls there. But he only chooses left footed left wings.

In High School I was in Drama Club, and I tried out for every single play. All of my closest friends got the main parts. I always got call backs, but my name was never on the cast list.

In PE I was always one of the last one picked. An introvert who lacks athletic coordination is the kiss of death when combined with choosing the winning team.

Something I have learned in my 30 something(mumble mumble) years is that we don’t always get the part we want.

Sometimes you imagine a certain scenario, and sometimes the reality is completely different.

Sometimes we sit there expectantly, waiting, while others are put in the game.

And sometimes we don’t get to play at all.

And sometimes the reasons why are not very good ones.

Sometimes you just kick with your right foot.

MANDRAKE: Ode To Manny

Last week my sister's poor little cat died. She was old, and lived a good cat life. My sister called me, crying, and asked for my help,  and so of course I went. The next hour was sad and absurd and disturbing all at the same time, as we wrapped its little body in a towel, and drove it to the vet.

And after that adventure, of course I reflected on my stupid feline.

Mandrake never had health problems. Mandrake never went to the vet. He went for an afternoon to the Humane Society to be “fixed” 10 years ago, and that was that.

Until last year. 

Last year Mandrake was lying listless on the ground for days. He wouldn’t move, eat, anything. And this is not a usually mellow cat. It is not a friendly cat. If you come within 4 feet of him, all you will see is a flash of black, with a small tuft of fur on the carpet as the only clue that he used to be close to you. You cannot pet him with your hands. He will only sometimes allow you to pet him with your feet. (I know, it's weird.) My sister and niece have watched him and fed him as I travel for work, and they saw him only once, as he lashed out with his claws, growling and hissing, from the depths of my closet.  

So this lethargy, this allowing me to pet him, lay by him, mess with him, was obviously out of character. I knew this silly, stupid cat was not ok.

And, in turn, I was embarrassingly not ok.

I would only need to look at him languidly lying in the middle of the room and I would begin to cry. When it became apparent that he needed medical care, I had to call several vets, because as I would describe the symptoms on the phone I would burst into tears. Then, appalled and embarrassed at my own behavior, I would hang up and call the next one. I found a vet that made house calls for a reasonable price, as I knew my cat was not a crate-able cat. All the vet managed to do was give him a quick antibiotic shot, and both me and the good Doctor had severe battle wounds from the process.

Later that evening, there was no improvement. I had borrowed a cat health encyclopedia from my dear neighbors (the epitome of cat ladies, who have an urn filled with a past cat’s ashes, complete with it’s paw print in ceramic on the lid sitting on their mantle) and as I read about all the different possible ailments, my anxiety was unbearable. So I borrowed a carrier (a true testament to how lousy Manny felt was how he just walked into the cage) and took him to the animal ER. I hadn’t known until that evening that such a thing even existed.

$400, and a few hours later, I had a cat with 10 stitches on it’s rear from a huge abscess. They gave me some pain medication (aka cat tranquilizer) and sent me on my way. And for the next week my house was transformed into a cat rehabilitation center. My bed turned into a cat hospital bed, I dealt with giving medicine, bringing disgusting food to him, placing warm compresses on the wound site, and the terrible Cone of Shame.

And while dealing with the ridiculous time and money that this had taken I had to think about why I was even doing this for a cat. A cat that will not likely even live all that much longer. (except that he will, because he is going to live forever...)

I’ve had Mandrake, aka Manny, for 12 years now. 12 years, of which I’ve worked in 9 different locations, lived in 5 different houses, had ups and downs and changes and heartaches.

And the thing about this cat is that through all of this he exhibits the ONE characteristic I am searching for in a potential boyfriend/husband/mate.

He is FIERCELY loyal.

This cat does not like anyone.

Any other living thing is worthy of hissing at, hiding from, and all the true distain that only a cat can show.

But this cat LOVES me.

This cat has attacked roommates, he has peed on my best friend's bed when she came to stay, he has been difficult and mean and cranky.

But never to ME.  To me he has to lay directly on top of me. He has to sit right by me, touching me. He has to be in the same room I’m in. He has to sleep with me at night. If I’m gone for a few days, he’ll follow me around mewing his displeasure at my absence, but then sit on me, purring loud enough to wake the dead as soon as he gets the chance.

This dumb cat loves me more than he loves any other living thing on earth, a role thus far reserved for a significant other, but as of yet unfulfilled in my life.  And while I realize a cat cannot truly fulfill that role, and I realize it is a slippery slope as a single lady with a cat, I get why us old single ladies have them.

Unabashed Adoration.

My Holy Grail.

This cat, this silly, temperamental, ridiculous cat, will have to do for now. 

Peas and Carrots, or The Friend Zone

The Friend Zone is a place that I know well. 

I have my own parking spot, and have lived there (somewhat) comfortably for most of my life.

I’ve had visitors now and again, that seemed like they were interested in having me leave the area, but upon further inspection, they were happy I was there.

And so I have settled in.

The thing is, I’m really good at being peoples friends. (Please note: This is not said in sarcastic font!  What I apparently suck at it beyond. But just friendship- That is what I do!)

All through High School I was in LOVE with a friend from church. We went out once, the summer after my Freshman year at BYU, after being friends for years, and I was ecstatic. He never asked me out again, and a few weeks later started dating the girl he ended up marrying. And I am still his friend.

After High School I hung out with the same guy every day for about three years straight. He was my best friend. We watched movies, ate Taco Bell, and played video games. He taught me about the rules of football through Madden 2000 on PS2. About 10 months in I confessed a crush, he let me down, and then we went on hanging out EVERY DAY for years after that.  And I am still his friend.

In college I dated a guy for months upon months,  who abruptly stopped talking to me at all. Like one day we were making out hanging out, and the next day we weren’t. And I am still his friend.

These are just a select few- there are more. But as you can see, this Friend Zone is a place I know. Perhaps it’s stupidity. Perhaps it's naivety. Perhaps I’m too loyal. 

But once I care about you, I don’t stop.

Reciprocity be damned.

I go to the Friend Zone, and I settle in.

And so, hypothetically speaking, when an old flame friend asks you about your dating life over lunch, pointedly not making eye contact while he fishes out the peas and carrots from his fried rice, you may settle in a little deeper.  And when he asks if his reoccurring character has made any recent appearances on your blog, you may laugh, and settle in a little deeper.

…Hypothetically speaking…

But here’s the thing. And here’s why I truly am perfectly fine with this:

Once you've already mourned that loss, and expectations are off the table, and all you are left with is a person that you really care about and connect to, it’s okay to settle in....

And maybe they have a single friend.