Dear Mark Zuckerberg

Heeeey, Facebook. You know, I don't give you much trouble. When you force us to update and conform to change, I grumble a little, but trust you and think: well, this must be better for all of us. I don't join the groups I Hate Facebook, or Kill Zuckerberg. I don't participate in the worldwide boycott of Adidas sandals.

But when I ask you to sort my stories in chronological order; could you do it please? This morning I scrolled down to see an old high school friend's wife was on her way to the hospital to have their baby. I liked the status, and smiled to myself thinking, hey! What a wonderful day. I scrolled down past 3 more statuses from various friends stating what they ate for breakfast, how many times they pooped today, etc., when I reached ANOTHER status from the same friend stating that the baby was born.

How big an ass was I, liking that status AFTER the announcement that they were on their way to the hospital? HHIS (hangs head in shame.)

Mark, I count on you to help keep my social standing to a maximum. Help me remember the birthdays of people I met one time in a bathroom stall at a bar. Let me know when someone enters into a new relationship so I can stalk their new beaus, or when someone becomes single again. And most of all, help me to spy on those friends who I haven't seen in 15 years, who are having babies and getting married. Because what else is facebook good for, if not for spying?

XOXO,
PGG

High School Reunion

Most likely to be a smart ass?

Next year is my 10-year high school reunion. 10 fucking years. Where has the time gone?

I'd like to Romy and Michelle my ass in there, bragging about how I invented post-its, saying I've done all I set out to do when I left the mitten...but what did I really set out to do?

Truly, I've had a pretty charmed life. Moved to NY, worked at Cosmo, and found an awesome guy who doesn't mind that I sleep with giant carebears.

But 10 years is an eternity. What are you SUPPOSED to have accomplished by now? I'm not married, I don't have kids, and I drive the same car that I did in high school (which I'm actually pretty proud of.)

Things I've accomplished in the last 10 years:
- beat 37 spiders to death
- got a cat
- got 2 more cats when I met K
- drank 10,956 cups of coffee
- fed a giraffe
- learned how to mow the lawn
- developed a cougar crush on Justin Bieber
- got my boating license
- broke about a bajillion things around the house

What do you think? Does anyone get to 27 and feel like they accomplished what they set out to do?

Thanks a pantload, Vera Wang.

I have hit rock bottom. Cheek-on-the-pavement, sucking-in-gravel, rock bottom. I went to a bridal shop to be fitted for the bridesmaid dress for my girlfriend's wedding next summer. I knew what the dress looked like (floor length, strapless, chiffon) and I had a BROAD guess at the size I'd need.

The lady at the shop had me try on the dress in the size I THOUGHT I would be. The gown was about SIX INCHES from closing in the back. Thankfully, my sister was there to help me out (and give me a paper bag to breathe into when I found out what size I would actually need.)

I had to go up four sizes. Into the PLUS sized section.

Devastating. And also the biggest punch in the face that I needed to get my ass in gear.

Apparently bridesmaids dresses are designed to make you want to slit your wrists. And after an extensive Google search looking for female consolance after my traumatizing experience, I discovered that this is actually very common. It appears that designers use an ancient size reference system, and women frequently have to order up several sizes from their typical size in order to fit into the gowns.

Why the HELL would they do this? Bridal shops are in the business of making girls feel beautiful in their dresses and building self esteem, not referring them to 1-800-94-JENNY.

Ladies, this bridal party is comprised of gorgeous girls I knew in high school that I haven't seen since I had a pixie cut. I cannot be the fattest girl in the wedding party. I CANNOT.

Operation Romy and Michelle is in full effect.

Why I had a pixie cut in high school

I had a pixie cut in high school. It was the hotness. Some people thought I was a boy, so once I graduated I grew it out porn star long to make up for the lost years of mistaken gender identity.

I'm going to give you a run down of my daily routine to explain why I buzzed my locks during my adolescent years. It takes me about an hour to blow dry this mop. Brush in shower, towel dry, put on heat protectant stuff so I don't get those little squiggly hairs all up on my noggin like a baby with peach fuzz, blow dry until I'm sweating so bad I have to change my shirt again, more heat protectant stuff, then curling iron. And trust me... the curling iron (or straightener) is EXTREMELY necessary. Otherwise I'm taking it back to the '70s with my afro puff.

I do my hair in front of a white-curtained window. This is strategic for two reasons:
1.) it lets enough light in that I can see the smoke rising up from my head if I've held the curling iron on it for JUST too long (hence the baby peach fuzz.) And 2.) I know when my hair is done when I look at it against the white background and I figure it would be easy enough to Photoshop a silhouette around the old bean with the pen tool. (Graphic design is both a curse and a blessing.)

Because of the high maintenance diva wig, summer is flat out scrunch season. My blow dryer will not be turned on from June 1st to October 1st. I go through about 4 cans of mousse a month. Good thing my favorite is White Rain (dollar store, what what!)

So during high school when I had to get up at the butt crack o' dawn, scarf down my Lucky Charms during a quick episode of Sister Sister and speed out the door, the pixie cut was a necessary and practical move for this lady.

So there you have it, folks. That's the story of the pixie cut. Not that I'm insecure about the fact that I was mistaken for a boy and felt the need to explain myself. Not at all.

My friend El and I after a softball game. Hawt!