Always Check the Laundry Room for Ferrets

With every failed dating saga I feel like I'm closer to giving up and becoming "that crazy dog lady next door." Last weekend I did a professional photoshoot with my one true love. While three engagement photoshoots swirled around me, I was lost in a euphoric state staring at my dog like this:

As much as I'd like to think a dog-centered lifestyle could work, unfortunately I'm all too aware that much like my princess pup, I'm a little needy. I also lack situational awareness and can barely make it through a trip to the DMV without losing my sh*t. So I press on in search of someone who can save me from myself. It's a labor of love for, well, love. 

But man, it's rough out there. The singles of the world are not-so-delicately tiptoeing through a hot mess minefield riddled with creepazoids, mistaken identities and ferrets. Yes, ferrets.

So today I've set out to detail some words of advice for those of you wading through the madness with me. Let my dating screw ups and these vintage Becky memes remind you that you're not alone. And dating is hard.

Pizza Stone Toe Happens

Look at the life picture I've painted in 2017 and you'll see me falling in love, traveling across the globe and playing with lots of puppies. There were many bright spots, but I'd like to go on record along with the rest of America and say that overall this year was pretty much a little bitch. (Sorry mom.) Plus I've had to endure most of 2017 with only nine toenails. And if that isn't a metaphor for life, I don't know what is.

Social media me, sending chill vibes in 2017.

The real me, telling 2017 to lay off.

"You seem oddly... calm," my best friend, Suzie, says as she sits next to me less than two weeks after my latest breakup. As I prattle on and on about the man of the minute I found on some dating app, she remains skeptical. But obviously, I'M FINE. I mean, look at the evidence: I'm going on dates! Booking flights right and left! Taking up new hobbies! Unstoppable, I tell you!

A few days later, the simple task of reheating a piece of pizza confirms that I am not, in fact, fine. Apparently the sure-fire indicator I'm experiencing life trauma is to gauge my behavior in the kitchen. (cc: The Great Chocolate Chip Cookie Meltdown of 2013.)

"Place directly on oven rack OR ON PIZZA STONE." Danger ahead.

I cleverly decide to use a pizza stone for this task because A) I'm a new woman post-breakup who makes even dull tasks exciting, B) The reheating instructions told me to, and C) I had a pizza stone when I moved into my apartment two years ago and wonder if it still exists. Answer: it does! And in its original packaging no less! This becomes a problem when I lift the disintegrating box to about chest height and the pizza stone falls out the bottom, plummeting to the ground... by way of my toe.

Something > Nothing

A funny thing happens when you broadcast your life-altering decisions to the world: some people actually listen. One of the coolest things about the past year of my life (other than the fact that I can finally make happy hour) is that I've somehow become a source of wisdom/inspiration for a few people. I'm flattered and humbled, but also at a loss for what to say when people ask how they can shift their lives in a positive direction. It forces me to retrace my steps and ask myself: How DID I get here?

The simple answer is that it can't be defined by a single moment. Quitting my job may have seemed like a very assertive, final action that put everything on track, but in actuality it was one action that was flanked on either side by other actions -- some big, some small -- that were just as important as the birthday card/resignation letter saga.

The before... I pursued new relationships; I moved to a new part of town; I gave my boss an ultimatum that if things didn't change, I was going to find something new.

The after... I traveled to new parts of the country; I sat in my kitchen and applied to new jobs; I went to awkward networking events and met more new people.

Hello from the Other Side...

Well kids, I survived. For those of you who have more important things to do than track my employment status, I quit my job last fall with zero plans for next steps. I had lots of adjectives thrown at me during my three-month funemployment journey: brave, risky, exciting, irresponsible. It was all of those things, but more than anything... IT WAS WORTH IT.

Comin' atcha, life. 

My generation gets a bad rap for being lazy, self-entitled brats. Perhaps that's true of the well-coiffed hippie I saw selling "magical rocks" outside a bookstore in Portland, but in general I'd like to raise a hand on behalf of Millennials and say that we're dedicated, loyal, hard-working folks who just want to find our place in the world. We quite frankly don't have time to be wastes of space since we're expected to have three years of experience the day after graduation just to be eligible for an entry-level position. This means once we get a job, we're pretty serious about keeping it. I mean, we all own rescue dogs and they need to eat.

Yes, we are busy sending Biden/Obama memes to the group text, watching viral videos of pandas playing in the snow, drooling over Chrissy Tiegen's latest Snapchat recipe and stalking an ex's new flame on Instagram. But do you know the main reason some of us run into poles with our heads glued to screens? Because we're trying to figure out how email works in the latest iOS update, proofing the 29th revision of that document that just won't die and responding to our boss' 2am texts. I watch Mad Men today and despite the alcoholism, mental instability and sexism, find myself thinking: "Wow! Those were the days!" If Don Draper went to Hawaii, he was untouchable: no Internet, no email, no cell phones. Meanwhile, during my get-over-your-breakup-vacation I found myself pacing across a pool deck in Santorini trying to find a Wifi signal.

This is a problem that plagues all of working America. The difference for Millennials is that 24/7 accessibility is the only norm we've ever known. It hit me as I sat fielding emails in the ER with an IV shoved into my arm at 6am on a Wednesday: perhaps this isn't a good norm to accept. Perhaps it's time to try something different.

"Quitting" has a bad connotation in most circumstances. For a long time I thought quitting was the equivalent of failure. But ultimately I realized that sometimes quitting is the bravest and best thing you can do. I'm not right about everything, but I was right about that. The three months I spent in limbo were some of the most important moments of my life. Not because I did anything revolutionary, but because I re-discovered how to place value in the things that make me happy.

Breaking My Political Silence

Growing up, Election Day was like Christmas for my family. We'd gather around the TV with a blank map of the U.S. and color each state red or blue as the "politi-guys" (a term I still use as a grown adult) projected the winner of the Presidential election. The recount of 2000 -- oh man. Big times in our household.

Hanging chad, anyone?

But those were happier times. Times when I never would have dreamed up an election cycle like this one. I've watched the light go out that I once saw in my father's eyes at the prospect of selecting a new Commander in Chief. I've glazed over the politically charged posts and articles that have been cluttering every corner of the Internet with he said/she said. America is tired; so very tired.

I voted today, but with a different outlook than any other time I've fulfilled my civic right.

A Birthday Card and a Resignation Letter Walk into a CEO's Office...

Life is a series of decisions; hard decisions, easy decisions, good decisions, bad decisions. I have trouble deciding what toppings I want on my pizza, so making the big, life altering kinds of decisions is something I try to avoid. But sometimes, those decisions refuse to be ignored. Such was the case a few weeks ago when I turned my future into one big question mark.

It's 7:30am on a Wednesday in late August. I'm at my desk ready to dry heave, completely panicked, because... it's happening. I'm going to step down from my job without a clue what I'm going to do next. (Pause for "Are you crazy?!" mental shouting.)

Here's the deal. My job is amazing and so are the people that I work with. I've learned invaluable skills, traveled the country, and crafted messages for a massive brand. I've progressed further in my career than I could have ever dreamed in such a short amount of time, but that hasn't come without sacrifices. A lof of them. (And also some scars. Literally.) I know this big, scary decision will make me whole again, and I've been making excuses to put it off long enough.

Which brings us back to my mic drop moment.

I have a great amount of respect for my (now former) company's CEO, and I don't want to disappoint him. With my better judgment fogged by the weight of emotions I'm trying to wrangle, I walk into his office with what I deem to be a peace offering... in the form of a greeting card. My opening line:

"I have some good news and some bad news. The good news is, I have your birthday card. The bad news is, I also have my letter of resignation." 

I'm More of an Indoors Girl

"What do you do for a living?"

This is a simple, normal question that every adult hears on a regular basis. I just don't have a simple, normal answer. My usual avoidance strategy is to play the vague card: "I work in advertising," and hope we can leave it at that. But we rarely do.

"Oh really? What does that entail?"

This is where things get hairy. Although I work in advertising, my responsibilities can't be summed up in "I'm like Don Draper without the drinking problem." Three years ago, I started down a logical path as a copywriter, but I've been all over the place since then. Today, my title says "Associate Creative Director," but it doesn't say that I'm also producer, director, casting director, make-up artist, shrink, chef, hair stylist and den mother. These are all responsibilities that fall under my umbrella as the creative director of several online video series that my agency creates for ... wait for it ... the NRA. Yes, that NRA.

The up side here is that my work stories are far more entertaining than anything my accountant friends have to share, and I can bewitch 95 percent of men by dissecting the pros and cons of a Glock vs. a Sig Sauer.

I'm Writing a Book. Really.

Hello, 2015. I hope you're a heck of a lot better than 2014.

This is the time of year when everyone is making resolutions to stop eating sweets, find a new job and compliment one stranger a day. I'm not very good at keeping my resolutions. For example: still haven't finished reading The Three Musketeers, which was my resolution back at the turn of 2013. Whoops.

I don't even remember the characters' names.

In 2015, I've resolved to finish my book. Not Alexandre Dumas' book; MY book.

Yep. I'm writing a book. It all started about three years ago. I had just finished recounting the saga of my latest failed dating attempt to my best friend, Becca. She laughed and shook her head as she always does, then made a request:

"For my birthday this year I want you to write all of these stories down."

What best friend wants, best friend gets. So I started to write. I used to be a meticulous journal keeper, which meant I was able to reach as far back as my first-ever-kind-of-dating-situation circa age 15. And on I forged down memory lane; from first kisses to first loves to first broken hearts. And where has that gotten me? 37 chapters spread across 157 single-spaced pages. And counting. Becca is still waiting for her 23rd birthday gift. (My bad, B.)

So as my gift to Becca and to you, my loyal blog readers, an excerpt from chapter 6: "Bunny Boy"

The Great Chocolate Chip Cookie Meltdown of 2013

I like to think I've earned my place at Ackerman McQueen as a capable, intelligent member of the team. But for a time there, I was definitely known by 95 percent of the people I worked with as "the girl who lost it over cookies."

I've been known to lash out irrationally where baked goods are involved. Not just once, but multiple times. Some of my girlfriends still talk about one incident when I lost it while trying to dye icing orange. Then there was that time my best friend and I got into an argument over whether we should use a wooden or rubber spoon to mix a batch of brownies. We chased each other through the house wielding kitchen utensils.

Happier baking times.

What can I say? I have a flair for the dramatic. But nothing will ever compare to The Great Chocolate Chip Cookie Meltdown of 2013.

The root of this meltdown isn't actually the cookies in question. It's really about a boy, of course. I don't recall exactly what leads to our argumentative state that night. I'm on the defensive because he seems to be critiquing everything I do, and he probably thinks I'm doing the same. The result: we're both in moods. You know, those moods where it doesn't take much to set you off. My tipping point? He says the batch of cookies I spent five hours baking the night before are mediocre at best. Aaaaaaand I'm crying.

I storm off to take a shower and cool off. When I surface, I hope to extend an olive branch and watch some House of Cards. Instead he informs me that he's typed out a note on his iPhone detailing everything I've been doing wrong during our 11-month relationship. Well that sounds FUN. I guess Frank and Clare Underwood will have to wait.

Sorry guys, BRB. Gonna cry it out.

He reads the painfully long tirade without even pausing to look up, and I fall apart. The only positive words I remember are "I love you." However, those words are immediately followed by the word "but," which pretty much eclipses that ounce of silver I-Love-You lining.

Full-on ugly girl cry status has been reached. Once he finally wraps it up, I mutter something like, "Ok...I'll try to stop doing those million things that I'm apparently doing wrong." I don't know what else to say, so I roll over and cry myself to sleep. Clearly our communication skills are top notch and we handle conflict really well.

The next morning, I show up late to work with four dozen cookies that are now 48 hours old, partially burned and symbolic of a still unresolved argument and my crumbling (pun intended) relationship. My puffy, crying eyes are hidden behind my glasses. My hair is lazily pulled into an I-don't-care-bun. I'm wearing a thin layer of waterproof mascara. Basically, I'm giving off that "don't screw with me" vibe. Unfortunately, Darren isn't catching on to said vibe.

Darren is the local forever bachelor in the office. He's hilarious, charming and an excellent story-teller. However, you would not pin him for a fantastic baker. If, for example, he challenged you to a bake-off, you would gladly accept and laugh him off as zero competition. You'd spend an entire month trash-talking and sending office-wide emails touting your impending victory. You wouldn't be even slightly concerned that your latest batch of cookies wasn't your best, because there's no way this guy can bake half as well as you -- even when you're at your worst. No way.

Except he can. He can bake better than you. Better than me. Better than all of us. By a lot. I walk into the conference room that morning and see Darren's perfect cookies, which were apparently just removed from the oven mere hours before. My cookies look wimpy. They have half the amount of chocolate. They're losing their fluff. They are, as I had already been told, mediocre at best. Help.

Pick-up Lines That Never Work: Part 2

Re-entering the singles world after you had pretty much planned your entire life with someone is a jarring experience. On the upside, my newly single status has presented a plethora of opportunities for me to ridicule other people whose problems and dating prospects are clearly much bleaker than mine. While I am seriously concerned about the crop of men that lies before me, I am at least entertained by the words they allow to escape their mouths. I am even more entertained by the fact that they think these words will make me, or any female for that matter, go weak in the knees.

Allow me to provide some real life examples of why things are going awry as I force myself back into the dating pool. Apparently things haven't changed much since I wrote this two years ago. This is just one week in the life of a Dallas 20-something single lady. It's a scary place out there.

Valentines Schmalentines

Well. It's here. Again.

Valentine's Day.

Like many people, I've had a love/hate relationship with this holiday. The "love" phase came in elementary school when I got to decorate a shoe box and all my classmates gave me candy. Plus my mom threw me a Valentine bunko party one year that RULED.

The "hate" phase came soon after. My dating career began at age 15 with a month-long "relationship" that missed V-Day by a few weeks. This "relationship" held the record for my longest official dating situation until I was 24. During the intervening years, I pretty much dated boys for a week then was over it. People who follow a similar dating patern must come to terms with these three truths: 1) You're dating the wrong people. 2) You have commitment issues. 3) You don't have Valentines. Ever.

So went my life.

In middle school and high school I coveted the ugly, cheap teddy bears my friends received from their boyfriends and wrote angst-ridden posts on my Xanga.

In college, there was wine.

The City Museum: No. Just ... No.

Once upon a time … a serious case of sensory overload almost killed me. Seriously, you guys. I. Could. Have. Died.

Have you heard of the City Museum in St. Louis? If you like feeling claustrophobic, having children crawl above, under, and around you through metal cages, and being surrounded by chaos … this place is for you. If the combination of those three things sounds miserable to you … STAY AWAY. I’m in the “stay away” group, and wish I had known this before putting myself through what I've decided was a casual get together in Satan's backyard.

Here's a little teaser: Can you tell who enjoyed this experience, and who couldn't handle it?!

How (not to) Skydive Like a Pro

I hate heights. Absolutely hate them. But for some reason, I enjoy putting myself through emotional turmoil by doing things like riding roller coasters and bungee jumping. Skydiving has been on my "things that will terrify and possibly kill me but could end up being decently fun" bucket list for awhile, and Australia sounds like a pretty great place to do it. If I'm going to die by slamming my body into the ground, at least it will be a very pretty piece of ground.

I book skydiving a solid month before my Australian adventure, mostly so I am forced to pay my credit card bill before leaving for my trip and therefore would have to swallow the fact that I willingly threw away hundreds of dollars in the event that I decide to wimp out. I receive two different confirmation emails after clicking the "purchase" button. Both of them remind me of the astronomical amount of money I've invested in voluntarily ending my life and the second email says ... wait, what's that word?

WTF is a heli-skydive? Am I jumping out of a HELICOPTER? Cue frantic attempts at contacting the skydive company. After two emails go unanswered, I resort to Twitter, Facebook and lastly a phone call that tells me I have a wrong number. I. Am. Panicking. Skydive Australia, you're on my list.

The problem is, I've never been in a helicopter. One "first" for  the day (that first being shaking hands with death) is about all I can handle at a time. I realize that it really doesn't matter what aircraft I choose. Helicopter, plane, hovercraft or flying pig: I'm still free-falling at 14,000 feet toward my own demise. By choice. But still. A girl can only handle so much. Planes, I understand. We go way back. Helicopters ... I just ... no.

I eventually hear back from Skydive Australia (it really didn't take that long; I'm just a paranoid freak), and, just my luck, they don't have a plane anymore. Just two helicopters. Two "firsts" it is.

My skydive adventure begins at 6:40 a.m. outside a Holiday Inn in Kings Cross, where random drunkards are still piggyback riding through the streets and slurring karaoke songs. A small van pulls up to take us to the jump site. Our driver, the quintessential Aussie who would make a career out of skydiving, ushers my friend, Julia, and I into the van along with six strangers. We arrive at the jump site an hour later without incident and confirm our bookings, then I slip away to the bathroom to ward off the possibility of peeing on my tandem jumper when he hurls me out of a helicopter.

Also, yes. I brought Safari Sam with me for support. No, he didn't really help calm my nerves.

I return from the bathroom to hear my name being yelled repeatedly. I've been here for approximately 10 minutes, but it's time to get dressed for my jump. Oh, and by the way, I'm going in the first load.

Pardon?

No Pictures, Please (part 2)

I really wasn't kidding when I said I can't pose for pictures alone. Boredom recently led me to reach back to the depths of my Facebook past and discover that I've had this problem for as long as Facebook can remember (meaning since 2006 when I first jumped on Mark Zuckerburg's bandwagon). I truly was a solid solo photo poser up until about age 10, but then puberty hit and my preteen years just went to pieces as awkwardness took over in all my solo pic situations. And still the awkwardness remains.

Please see below for further submissions to my solo pic failures, featuring the faces first highlighted in this blog, plus a few additional faces that have popped up in my research.

1. The "you're taking this picture against my will and I'm not happy about it" face

New Year, New Nonsense

Oh, hello!

Let's all take a moment to relish in the fact that I am now embarking on my fourth year of ranting on this little piece of the blogosphere. From small beginnings involving way too much mayonnaise, a CAT-astrophe of epic proportions and treadmills, we've blossomed into lame pick-up lines, apartment lock-ins and my inability to be photographed alone.

Ah, sweet memories.

Moving on to a new year. Here are my 13 goals for 2013:

1. Convince one of my friends to buy a hedgehog. I would buy one myself, but I'm already in charge of one life, and that's about all I can handle at the moment. Therefore, if you are easily impressionable, please click here to see pictures of Buckley the hedgehog going shopping for a bed. And now you want a hedgehog, right? Please. Make my dreams (and yours) come true.

Want. Need. MUST HAVE. The mini bed and the hedgehog.

2. Go on the greatest vacation ever to Australia. Eat Pancakes on the Rocks. Swim in the ocean. Avoid being eaten by a shark. Learn to surf. Jump out of a plane. Etc. Etc. Etc.
2a. (Optional but preferable) Find an Australian husband.

Guess who will be in this exact spot in exactly one month? This girl.

Pancakes on the Rocks, get in my belly. If I can't have an Aussie husband, I'll settle for this.

3. Finish reading The Three Musketeers. Christmas 2011 I decided to be cultural (and cheap) and downloaded this literary classic for free on my Kindle. Since then, I've read 6 percent of the book. Off to a bit of a slow start on my cultural conquest, but 2013 is my year!

Nail Polish Nightmare

My most recent situation was part Incredible Hulk, part Carrie Bradshaw. The Hulk because it involved my super human strength; Carrie Bradshaw because the culprit that led to this predicament was a beauty product.

We're twins. (Fraternal, not identical.)

This is the Carrie Bradshaw I want to be.

This is the Carrie Bradshaw I actually am. (Except I don't even look cute in tutus.)

Additionally, both of these characters are fictional. Audiences watch in wonder and say, "Surely that would never happen to anyone in real life." Ladies and gentlemen, you've just described my 23 years on this earth.

Only I can lock myself INSIDE an apartment.

Only I can unintentionally put on a peep show for 40 Asian tourists.

And only I can end up in urgent care after a run-in with a nail polish bottle.

It all starts with open-toed shoes. I don't realize until I'm at work that -- gasp! -- my toe nails are not painted and the whole world can see thanks to my open-toed shoes selection. I realize it's a little silly I'm concerned about such things because I work at a zoo. Nail polish is not a must-have for most zoo employees, but it is for this one. Exposing naked non-painted toes is just a no-no.

Dream On

Don't you HATE it when you wake up from an insanely awesome and realistic dream, can still picture it in your head but are unable to put it into words, and then the dream disappears so you're left with nothing but the sad reality of waking up to your neighbor mowing the lawn at 6 a.m. accompanied by the immediate need to pee?

Well, my friends, I woke up from a dream last weekend that was so crazy I specifically laid in bed with my eyes closed and focused on the events until I was able to put words to them and make the pictures stick in my head. Lucky for you, this means I can now share my dream with you. You're welcome in advance. It's pretty great.

Close your eyes and dream with me ...

Pick-up Lines That Never Work: Part I

I've decided that my latest blogging endeavor is going to be to keep track of all the horrendous pick-up lines that I hear when I venture out into Fort Worth's social scene. I'll be honest, these occurrences are becoming more rare since I'm now more likely to choose the anti-social option of staying in with my puppy and drinking wine. (Cool kid, right here.)

Perhaps my hesitation to go out into the world has something to do with the sharks that are out there, waiting to throw their one-liners at me. Here are some examples of the word vomit that has assailed me recently.

Pick-up line that will never work #1

"You should smile. You look angry and sad."

I'm a smiler, but I don't just stare off into space with a smile on my face. In this instance, I was standing in a corner while my friends got drinks. Do I want to be the grinning weirdo standing by herself and surveying the room of strangers? No. I was neither angry nor sad; I was ambivalent. But after that lame pick-up, I instantly became annoyed. So I rolled my eyes and walked away.

Pick-up line that will never work #2

"That isn't how you really dance, is it?"

I talked to this kid for about three seconds and then he asked me to dance. Really? If you just insulted my super sweet moves, why would you even want to go there? Or think that I'd be interested? Not happening. And just for the record, yes I do really dance like that. "That" meaning, I only dance to songs that I know the words to so I can act them out.

Pick-up line that will never work #3

"Are you here for a bachelorette party?"
"No. Do you think me or any of my friends look old enough to get married? How old do you think I am?"
"23?"
"... Correct. But I don't want to get married until I'm at least 26. So no, this is not a bachelorette party."
"Well so you can meet your husband tonight, date for 2 years and 2 months, have a 10 month engagement, and be married by the time you're 26."

I can't figure out if this kid was trying to hint that he had chosen himself as my future husband, or if he was just way too interested in math problems. Either way, I thanked him for his interest in the next three years of my life and politely excused myself. A liiiiiiiiiittle too anxious for my taste.

Between Sir Smiles-A-Lot, Lord of the Dance, and Mr. Let-Me-Put-A-Ring-On-It, I have once again been reminded why I'm still single. I assume there are normal men who strike up normal conversations with normal women in this city. I just haven't been approached by any of them yet. Until I do meet one such suitor, I will continue to inform you all of the ridiculousness that I hear.

And a note to the gentlemen in question: I do appreciate the gesture. Walking up to strangers is intimidating. So thanks for deeming me worthy, numbers 1, 2, and 3. Just ... please think twice before you word vomit all over me again and I'm forced to embarrass you by retaliating with a sassy remark and walking away.

Damsel in Distress

Raise your hand if you've been held captive in your own home four times within a span of 15 hours.

What's that? Am I the only one with my hand raised? Shocking.

I've come to realize that living in an apartment means that things break a lot. However, it also means that people come to fix your stuff for you for free! This is excellent news for me since, by nature, as a girly girl I'm incredibly gifted at breaking things. And, by nature, as a girly girl I'm incapable of fixing things on my own.

Exhibits A and B of my girlyness: I wear tiaras in public and in private. (When in private, preferably while crafting and drinking wine.)

I'm the type that won't complain about something until the final breakage happens and leaves me locked in a room, stuck on the side of a road, cleaning up a flooded bathroom, etc. The door knob to my bedroom has been fidgety for the past week, but I have been choosing to ignore it.

It becomes impossible to ignore the problem on Sunday night when the door knob breaks completely and I become locked in my room. I stand with a dog that I know really needs to go to the bathroom in one hand while my other hand tugs and turns at the door knob to no avail. After a solid two minutes of knob turning, I decide  the knob is dead and I am trapped. So I grab my phone to call my roommate (who is very confused about why I'm waking her up via phone when I'm one room away) to rescue me. Too late for the dog since she's already peed and pooped on the carpet, but I learn my lesson and leave the door cracked open before I drift off to sleep.

Fast forward to 2 a.m.

My Night as a Groupie

I think enough time has elapsed that law enforcement will no longer come chasing after me if I share this story, so I'm going to tell it to you all. However, if the police drag me off to jail for evading parking garage payment, I will have to delete this post. Enjoy reading while I'm breathing the fresh air of freedom.

Remember when I told you about how I am incapable of functioning in the presence of a celebrity? Apparently that is only in reference to people who I think are actually talented or legit A-list celebs. Weird and non-talented D-list celebs do not apply. The night I met Tyler Hilton and made a fool of myself, I also met Josiah Leming and made a fool of him. Mwahahahahaha.

Upon arriving at the Palladium in Dallas that night, I decide that I am going to meet Tyler Hilton. No, I'm not just going to meet him. I am going to meet him and we are going to become best friends. Then somewhere down the road Ty (we'll be on a nickname basis, obviously) is going to fall madly in love with me and write dozens of love songs about our perfect relationship. To make this happen I realize I can't just be another girl in the line of meet-and-greets he has to endure. My plan: get in with the band. Genius, right?

Shortly thereafter, I rework my plan to be: get in with the band and/or the opening acts. Perfect. This is a definite slam dunk.