One, Two, Three Strikes You're Out!

I want to tell you one of my favorite breakup stories ever. It involves a very nice gentleman whom I dated for about 3 weeks, at which time I determined that we were not the most compatible match that's ever been. So one night we met up for a drink and this is what happened:

"You know, I don't think this is working for me anymore."

"What isn't?"

"Us....us dating."

"Why not?"

"Well, I just don't think we're very compatible."

"I disagree. And we've only been dating for 3 weeks - I don't think you have enough data to make this decision yet."

Yes, folks, he actually told me I didn't have enough data to break up with him.

(With look of shock on face) "Well....um, I think I do, I guess."

"But three weeks isn't very long. I think you should give it 2 more weeks."

(more shock)

"I mean, when you say we're not compatible, what do you mean? Can you give me an example?"

"......Sure. Okay, well for one, you don't believe in premarital sex, whereas I am a dirty, dirty whore."

At this point, I'm thinking I'm pretty funny. I mean, it's true that he didn't believe in premarital sex, but I thought it was hilarious that I referred to myself as a "dirty, dirty whore", and I meant it jokingly, despite what you all might think of me. My sarcasm was met with this:

(concerned look, furrowed brow) "Misti, don't say that about yourself!"

And this, my friends, was the real problem. He didn't get my sense of humor. And if you don't get my sense of humor, then you really don't get ME. Humor is all I have. It's true: my IQ is very, very low; I was voted "Teacher's Pet" in high school; and I drink at least 5 nights a week. Without my sarcastic humor, I am just a dumb, drunk, ass-kisser, you know?

At any rate, what do you say when someone tells you you don't have enough DATA to break up with him? WHAT DO YOU SAY? I really had no idea. So I didn't break up with him. What was I supposed to do? I was in shock, when it comes down to it. So he walked me to my car and before saying goodbye, he said: "You know, if it's about the no sex before marriage thing, I might be willing to re-think that."

Whuh? I don't want to sex you, I want to break up with you. I totally see how that could be confusing.

Anyway, that was probably the strangest breakup I had. It took me two more times to get the job done - no kidding.

Rejected by a FWB??

A while back I mentioned how I may or may not have hooked up with a friend of mine. This is a guy I don't think I'd ever date (too short), but apparently I wasn't above sleeping with him (height doesn't matter when you're lying down, am I right? Heh heh heh). Anyway, I am a little concerned at this point that he's not into this whole Friends With Benefits thing. I drunk texted him last week asking if he'd like to "stop by" *cough, cough*, and he said "I want to, but I can't, I'm working until late" or something like that. "No biggy", I told myself. But I haven't heard a thing from him since then. AND I AM IRRITATED. I don't want to be rejected by someone I'm not even dating - that is just....well, I can't even think about it it's so horrid! I am awesome! I am good in the sack! He should totally want some more Good Times with Misti.

Truthfully, I have never tried doing the whole FWB thing and I'm not sure how this is supposed to work. Do you establish it up front? Create a schedule? Is there a committee? A vote? Does it just happen naturally (with a lot of help from Absolut)? And what if it doesn't just happen? I am not about to call someone and out right say "hey, want to do it later?" I have some class. Not much, but SOME.

Also, I think I need something other than boys to obsess about. Yes? Yes.

From now on I'll only blog about crocheting. That is a super exciting topic! Stay tuned!

Meet The Fockers...I Work With (Part Deux)

So, a while back I had a meeting in which there were multiple attendees. I happened to get there early, as did the individual I will refer to as Harvard. I stroll in, find a seat and dispense with the usual small talk

Me: “Hi Harvard, how’s it going?”

Harvard: “Well, hello there Rocky. I trust that you are having a pleasant afternoon. It is a pleasure to have this opportunity to converse prior to the start of the meeting.”

-pause- People, I shit you not, they’re all robots and speak like this. This is not a lie.

Harvard: “So Rocky, from where did you receive your undergraduate degree?”

Me: “{Large Midwestern State School}”

-pause- Let me give you a little background here. I already know where this wiener went to school. Hell, he practically has it engraved on his cuff-links and 4 pound gold bracelet that looks like something out of the Godfather jewelry store. He of course has no idea that I know…

Harvard: “That’s quite surprising Rocky, as my father is also a LMSS man”

-pause- Yes, Harvard did use the word “man” following the school name. It was also said in that Judge Smails from Caddyshack sort of way. I’m surprised Harvard didn’t say “well, the world needs ditch diggers too.”

Me (returning the favor): “Where’d you go?”

Harvard: “Well Rocky, I did my undergraduate studies at the University of Small Liberal Arts College. It was rather well known for molding the future leaders of this great nation, and preparing each of its graduates for the next level”

-pause- This is what wieners say when they’re ashamed of the place they attended; throwing in some stupidly ambiguous fact that could apply to any school across the land. He still hasn’t dropped the Harvard name yet and I can almost see the eagerness in his eyes…dying for me to ask where he went to grad school. It was like a little puppy begging for that last piece of steak on the plate.

Seeing it wasn’t going to be easy, Harvard attempts to bait me a little…

Harvard: “Rocky, did you pursue graduate studies?”

Me: “yep”

Harvard: “And what institution would that have been?”

-pause- knowing that Harvard didn’t give 2 shits where I went, I decided to make up something so random…

Me: “I actually went to a small grad school in the Philippines”

Harvard: “Interesting.”

-pause- Across the table I think I can see a bit of drool exiting the corner of Harvard’s mouth as he waits for me to ask the question. It’s like having a dog and you do the fake toss across the room…and he runs for the ball, but none is there, only to see that it’s still in your hand.

Me: “Sooooo…….{long dramatic pause to let the anticipation build}…..where'd you go to grad school?”

Harvard leans back in his chair, as if in his own office surrounded by leather bound books and mahogany furniture. Does a quick touch to each cuff-link with the opposing hand, just to show that his hardware was in tact, and flash a little material superiority in my direction.

Harvard: “{clears his throat a bit}”

Harvard then takes his fore finger and thumb on both hands in a pinching manner, starting at the top of his diagonally striped tie, and makes a downward stroking motion all the way to the tip, and states…in that Judge Smails tone…

Harvard: “Haaa-vaaard”

I wasn’t sure if he wanted me to start stroking him off right then and there, or wait until more people had arrived.

It was all I could do not to stand up, and in a hysterical laugh say, “you’re such a giant wiener!”, and walk out of the room.



Check back for this regular column where I'll introduce you to other spectacular work characters.

Meet The Fockers...I Work With

It’s Friday afternoon, I’m surrounded by the ever so uplifting colors of my cube (that’s sarcasm people), and as usual I’m quite bored. So, I have few options at my finger tips to combat this until I can punch the clock once again at the end of the day.

1. surf the internet
2. write for the The Simple Strife
3. reminisce of my rather humorous work environment

Check, check, and check! This should at least keep me entertained until my next mind numbing conference call.

Here’s a little history to wet your appetite.

As you’ve probably guessed, I work in corporate America. I don’t say that in an affectionate, proud manner…like you would if you worked for the Humane Society, or the Cancer Foundation. No, it’s more like “I work for corporate America, and I might as well be dumping toxic chemicals in my backyard under cover of night” kind of response.

But for some reason this place just attracts the BIGGEST wieners. I’m convinced there’s a giant magnet atop the building that only Ivy League wieners are drawn to. And then they get here and feel the need to metaphorically pull their wiener out and lay it on the table, as if to say “hey, my wiener is big because I went to {insert Ivy League school here}” And after 6 months, the following is typically heard “hey, my wiener is so big that I need an office in order to store it.”

It really is an interesting case study.

For a period of time I thought to myself (as I often do) that maybe I was a bit pre-judgmental, maybe a little jealous at the fact they hailed from such prestigious schools and had such wonderful pedigrees. Then I talked to one. And then two. And finally three. Yes, I talked to three of them, and although not statistically significant, I suspect my opinion is a leading indicator of the level of wiener-dom that exists throughout the Ivy League population – at least where I work.

I’m probably being a bit harsh, but if you heard some of the stories and the condescending nature of these wieners, you’d hop on the next train out of turd town...or you would start writing it all down (like I'm doing)

To be continued…

"It's Over So Fast"

One of my biggest problems with dating is that I don't know when to call it quits. I mean, sometimes there are the most obvious signs indicating that I should cut my losses, and I see them, note them, and then promptly pretend I did not just see them and then note them. Brilliant, really.

Well, here's a doozy: So I'm on a 3rd date with this guy and he takes me to the Olive Garden (and no, that's not the sign, although maybe it should've been). We're enjoying our dinner when suddenly the topic of conversation turns to sex (this was probably my doing, but whatever). The gentlemen in question was rather religious and did not believe in pre-marital sex. He was in his thirties and had been married and divorced, which means he had had exactly one partner. ONE. In his thirties. Okay. So now that we're clear on that, I'd like to share with you the conversation as I recall it:

Him: You know, I don't see what the big deal about sex is anyway.

Me: Oh?

Him: Yeah, I mean, sure it's nice, but it's over so fast!

Me: [Trying not to choke on fettucini. Trying not to laugh extremely loudly and spit fettucini all over table.]

Him: Oh jeez...please don't tell me "well I've had sex with guys for hours and hours". I mean....it's always over kind of quickly, right?

Me: [In shock. Trying desperately not to laugh out loud. Drinking wine. Lots and lots of wine.]

I don't really remember what, if anything, I said after this. I mean - "IT'S OVER SO FAST"???

Needless to say, I never stuck around to find out if it would be "over so fast". I think if a guy says that to you, he is basically saying "I am super, super terrible at sex. Like, really bad." WALK AWAY. CALL IT QUITS. RUN. I totally did that. 3 weeks later. What? I said I didn't know when to bail! Don't look at me like that.

Anyone care to speculate why that marriage ended in divorce? I'm just sayin'.

Stuck in the Middle with Me

I'm slowly pulling myself out of the depression that hit me upon realizing I am to post-after Rocky. This is a task that should not be left to someone as dull I am today.

So I can only write the few sorry thoughts that are in my sorry head today.

As I think back on the days of yore (actually I have no idea what that means, but it sounded AWESOME) -- I realized the struggle of being somewhere in between Anywhere Town USA and Coolville is there is a certain draw to each.

I'd be lying if I didn't admit I have little tiny bit of superiority complex each time I visit my hometown and see a former cheerleader who has fallen victim to GOAF (Go old and fat) while I was gone.

In addition, after each visit home I can barely make it back to my life fast enough and secretly fear that I may have contracted some strange "small town" creepiness that will be immediately noticed the minute I go back to work.

But at the same time,

If I have to sit through one more meaningless meeting with a bunch of self-involved corporate whores I'm not only going to kill myself, but I may serious start considering my mom's idea of coming back home and marrying the recently widowed chaplin at the hospital.

And yes. She really thinks I should marry him.

Don't worry - he's 70.

Apparently divorce is still viewed as a rather Hester Pryn like existence in the eye's of the gossip circle at home.

And that's really the problem -- we're stuck in two worlds and can, when required to - maintain a certain degree of social status in each. But we lack a true feeling of belongingness in either.

Great in politics, a little strange in life.

To Shag or Feel Shame...That is the Question

I used to be a nice girl. I grew up in a wholesome family on a wholesome farm in the very wholesome Midwest. I respected my elders, minded my P's and Q's, did my chores, and listened to my parents (mostly). I had a long-term boyfriend in high school, but being the good kids we were, we never did the deed. (For those of you who are a little slow, that means we never had The Intercourse.) You see, we were waiting until marriage, like all good kids should. We thought maybe we'd marry each other, and raise our kids the way our parents raised us. I am not joking one bit when I tell you that he already had 4 names picked out for our 4 children. At age 17 (and ask me if I've been able to find a man who will even considering having children since then. No.)

Well, things didn't turn out the way we thought it would. You see, I decided I needed to leave home and get me an edu-mu-cation in the big city. Part of me knew we wouldn't last. Part of me hoped we wouldn't last, because the biggest part of me felt like I was destined for something bigger than being a farmer's wife and raising 4 kids. Not saying there's anything wrong with that....I just knew in my heart it wasn't for me. So the fall after high school graduation, I packed up all my belongings, and my mother took me to college.

Anyway, that's about the time that I became what people back home might call a whoooore. And folks, it's only gone downhill since then. I don't know what it is (perhaps we can blame Sex and the City?) but the Misti of today just doesn't view sex like the Misti of the late 90s did. You see, recently I "accidentally" hooked up with a guy I've been friends with for a couple of years. I don't want to be his girlfriend, I know I'm not going to marry him....but I did have The Intercourse with him. A few times. Woopsies. The thing is, I don't feel that badly about it. I mean, why should I? Should I?

Shit. This is what I don't know. Farmgirl Misti would feel shameful about it. The Misti of today says "DAMNIT, I should be able to enjoy sex just as much as a man does, and if I want it and can get it, then why the hell not?!?" Right?

Have I lost my small town values? Am I doomed to Eternity in Hell? Jesus, Mary & Joseph would say I am. Me? I'm not so sure I believe in the big JC these days. What's a girl to do?

Keep shaggin' the hotty, you say? DONE AND DONE.

Try to make me go to rehab…I say…smash a mailbox

Given my country bumpkin up bringing, you’d never guess I expanded my musical knowledge beyond Billy Ray Cyrus. However, I’d like to thank my mom for that first Michael Jackson album and her love of the Beatles, which by the way border lined obsession.

So, as I was watching the 50th Annual Grammy Awards, of course in eager anticipation of the live performances and long-winded acceptance speeches, I caught a glimpse of one Ms. Amy Winehouse. Her voice and music were surprisingly good, but it was her mannerisms and awkwardness that got me thinking…my god she’s fucked up. I’ll spare you my psycho-analysis (as you can open any magazine and find some editorial on the girl and her rather impressive addiction).

So what’s the point?

Damn you people are impatient.

This is a blog, I don’t have to have a point (yes, it appears I’m now blogging to myself)

In small town USA I was never afforded the temptation of hard core drugs. Not to say that I wouldn’t have done it, it just wasn’t readily available. Number one, drugs take money and a pretty damn good distribution channel. Probably why I leaned more towards the other wonderful elixir of alcohol…thanks beer distributors and backwoods liquor stores! As for the price, it doesn’t cost a lot for molson ice (to get nice and sloshed, I would prescribe one funnel and six of those).

But I digress.

I grew up in a totally different world than the sons and daughters living in lawyerdoctorCEOville. I didn’t have the after school special at my house where all of my private school friends would show up at the door, book bags in tow (the messenger kind, not the back pack obviously), filled to the brim with prescription medications and other paraphernalia so far beyond my comprehension. I didn’t take an elevator up to Bryce’s house (apartment) on the 35th floor, overlooking the park. I didn’t hide needles and bent spoons with tarnished undersides from open flames in a cutout hardback edition of Alice in Wonderland. I also didn’t slide the mahogany ladder in the library in order to retrieve the aforementioned book from the upper shelves.

Nope, that wasn’t me.

My drug was slightly different. Take one 1991 Ford pickup truck, sprinkle with teenage angst and boredom, mix well with booze (re: “molson ice”), and garnish with one Louisville slugger. Sound a little “varsity blues”…yeah, you’re right. But son of a bitch it was cathartic. Oh, you’re wondering what we did. Well, it was all innocent enough, at least to us, maybe not to the USPS or the owner of that ever so delicately constructed 3 story monstrosity barely supported by the 4x4 piece of lumber upon which it stood. Yes, that euphoric feeling was reached by smashing mailboxes on a farm road in the middle of nowhere. It was an amazing high. The excitement, the chase (on some occasions), the Monday morning hallway chatter, it was all very wonderful. You’re breaking the law (albeit a federal offense), you’re doing what you’re not supposed to…you’re escaping from the reality of life if only for a moment.

So I ask myself, “self, what’s the difference between your high and the drug induced high of Bryce?” On the surface, there probably isn’t. But then I think, maybe there is. Though I never got caught, I realized that what I did in my moments of teenage insanity impacted those people. I never saw it with my own eyes, but I could envision the disappointment on Old Man Johnson’s face (pretty sure his first name was legally Old, middle name Man). I learned something from those experiences…pretty sure Bryce didn’t learn a goddamn thing from Alice in Wonderland.


Oh, I forgot to tell you, some asshole totally egged my car last night while it was parked on the street…fuckin’ kids.

You're Just as Far In as You'll Ever Be Out

and other thoughts about growing up and looking back...

Sometimes my life of a single career girl isn't as exciting as I imagined when I dreamed of leaving my husband and having my freedom back.

For example, since my divorce I love watching "Grey's Anatomy" and not just in a "wow, it's a killer TV show way" but in a -- this is quite possibly the greatest day of my life because Grey's in on tonight way.

So the other night I'm hanging out in my cool single life waiting for "Grey's Anatomy", a re-run, to start and it hit me.

"It" being the stark realization that as great as it feels to be free, and grown up and in the big time -- "it" also blows big elephant chunks from time to time.

For example, not only am I dedicating an entire evening to a television show, but it's on fucking ABC.

This is a difficult transition for those of us of the "Friends" and "Seinfeld" generation.

You see, for as long as I can remember there were two types of people in the world, those who watched shows on NBC and people who were lame.

Now, one divorce, a few gray hairs and an affair later and I've shifted demographics. Between my nights with Grey and my Monday's with "How I Met Your Mother" on CBS, I've turned into the one thing I never wanted to be - completely fucking lame.

I first blamed this Neilsen shift on my understandable draw toward shows featuring Neil Patrick Harris and some sort of lax hangover from my Doogie Houser days. I mean who doesn't miss Vinny?

Next, I tried to justify the shift to the fact that NBC is no longer the hip station. I mean, although "My Name is Earl" has a good joke now and then it's really a little too NASCAR for me. And god knows I worship at the Church of the Office- but that's a british rip-off

Yeah, that's it, ABC and CBS are just better marketers, they've reached out to me and mine and carried us to cool when NBC could no longer do it.

I'm not lame - NBC is.

This was the perfect excuse right up until I realized that NBC wasn't the problem. I've been moving toward lamedom for sometime. My small town dreams of big city cool - never actually came to life.

But let's be honest - the actual Friends aren't really cool enough either.

Just look at it. Rachel's a scorned ex-wife who got dumped for a younger woman. Monica's the former fattie who finally found the love of her life had a kid and we never heard from her again. Chandler gets fat, goes to rehab and crashes cars, but never quite finds his way. And Joey - well Joey's the poor fool who looked like he'd finally made it when suddenly he was living back with his sister, unemployed and still trying to hang out in the cool places with the kids.

Seems like at this age and in this life - me and mine, we're a generation lost between "Party of Five" and "Lawrence Welk". We're too cool to be hanging out at the VFW, too old to put on a black sweater, blue jeans and poof our hair for a night at the bars, but we're ass up to dinner parties and day spas.

Being single, or a born-again single as I like to say only compounds the issue.

Three years ago today I moved into this one bedroom apartment I like to call my home. I bought a dog, a tanning membership and size 6 jeans and began the life I'd always wanted to live. But instead of ending up like Carrie Bradshaw I find myself stuck somewhere between Ramona Quimby and Murphy Brown. I can either act like a child and try and pass myself off for 22 or I can have a child and act like I don't need anything except myself.

Super.

The point is, I'm about as grown up as I'm going to get. And the "when I get older I'm going to (insert whatever lofty goal/aspiration I've ever had here) -- is here.

Good or bad. Fun or lame -- this is it.

There's days that's good. There's days it's not.

I realized this weekend I spend more time on average each week with Pomeranians than I do with people. The closest thing I have to a social life these days is snappy conversation with the hot 22-year who makes my mocha each morning. And the closest thing I have to sex these days is accidently bumping against the washer during the spin cycle.

Yes, Virginia there is a certain patheticness to being a 34-year old divorce.

I try and keep a positive outlook on it.

Sometimes I read this poem I have on my wall - I copied it off the desk of some lady I worked with at my first "real" job in the city -- after all the things that have changed since that job -- this poem keeps hitting it dead on.

DECORATE YOUR OWN SOUL

After a while you learn the subtle difference between holding a hand, and chaining a soul

And you learn that loving doesn't mean leaning, and company doesn't mean security;

And you begin to learn that kisses aren't contracts, and presents aren't promises;

And you begin to accept your defeats with your head up, and your eyes ahead; with the grace of a man or a woman;

Not the grief of a child.

And you learn to build all your roads on today, because tomorrow's ground is too uncertain for plans;

And futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight.

After a while, you learn that even sunshine burns, if you ask too much.

So you plant your own garden, and decorate your own soul, instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.

It just seems to me that once in awhile we all have to remember how to be comfortable all alone. You have to remember that the grass isn't always greener on the other side, and no matter what happens only one thing is certain - you enter and exit this world all alone - so if you're not comfortable there - you might not be comfortable anywhere.

So maybe I'm not Carrie Bradshaw. But I'm not quite Stephen King's version of Carrie either - so there's still hope!

Letter From a Farm Kid (an email forward)

(NOW AT San Diego MARINE CORPS RECRUIT TRAINING.)

Dear Ma and Pa,

I am well. Hope you are. Tell Brother Walt and Brother Elmer the Marine Corps beats working for old man Minch by a mile. Tell them to join up quick before all of the places are filled. I was restless at first because you got to stay in bed till nearly 6 A.M. but I am getting so I like to sleep late. Tell Walt and Elmer all you do before breakfast is smooth your cot, and shine some things. No hogs to slop, feed to pitch, mash to mix, wood to split, fire to lay. Practically nothing. Men got to shave but it is not so bad, there's warm water.

Breakfast is strong on trimmings like fruit juice, cereal, eggs, bacon, etc., but kind of weak on chops, potatoes, ham, steak, fried eggplant, pie and other regular food, but tell Walt and Elmer you can always sit by the two city boys that live on coffee. Their food plus yours holds you till noon when you get fed again.

It's no wonder these city boys can't walk much. We go on "route marches," which the platoon sergeant says are long walks to harden us. If he thinks so, it's not my place to tell him different. A "route march" is about as far as to our mailbox at home. Then the city guys get sore feet and we all ride back in trucks. The country is nice but awful flat. The sergeant is like a school teacher. He nags a lot. The Captain is like the school board. Majors and colonels just ride around and frown. They don't bother you none.

This next will kill Walt and Elmer with laughing. I keep getting medals for shooting. I don't know why. The bulls-eye is near as big as a chipmunk head and don't move, and it ain't shooting at you like the Higgett boys at home. All you got to do is lie there all comfortable and hit it. You don't even load your own cartridges. They come in boxes. Then we have what they call hand-to-hand combat training. You get to wrestle with them city boys. I have to be real careful though, they break real easy. It ain't like fighting with that ole bull at home.

I'm about the best they got in this except for that Tug Jordan from over in Silver Lake. I only beat him once. He joined up the same time as me, but I'm only 5'6" and 130 pounds and he's 6'8" and near 300 pounds dry. Be sure to tell Walt and Elmer to hurry and join before other fellers get onto this setup and come stampeding in.

Your loving daughter,

Carol

All About Rocky!

Hi everyone, I'm Rocky.

I don't know what the hell Misti and Kristi are talking about. I can’t identify with them in the least. I’ve always been surrounded by money. In fact, I used to have the maid sew together $100 bills into a 31.32” W x 64.1” L sheet just so I could dry myself off after a good steam in the sauna. Yeah, that’s a $12,000 towel you peasants.

Oh shit, that wasn’t me; I think it was a scene from Richie Rich…but probably a good sign that my skewed view of what I thought I should be was directly proportional to the amount of television I watched as a kid.

Being the only child of a middle/high school teacher (yes, the school was so small many teachers had to pull double duty, but I’ll get to that later) and a bank teller, I didn’t exactly have a lot of social interaction with kids my own age. Since we didn’t have a lot of money I couldn’t exactly buy my friends, and being the son of a teacher wasn’t necessarily conducive to open acceptance within the tight-knit farming community of which we attempted to plant our roots.

Most of my early memories…you know, the “formidable” years, were of me hanging out with my parents’ friends. And with no kids around of my age, I tried desperately to fit in with the adults. When that didn’t work, I would haul my lego’s from the closet and begin constructing for hours. Yes, that’s nerd with a capital N.

As I moved into grade school, I found that I was pretty damn good at sports, but more importantly the “good ole’ boys” of the town were much friendlier to me when they realized I could win games and bring glory once again to their one stoplight town. But deep down I was a guy more excited by knowledge with a crap load of talent who wanted nothing to do with the hunters and gatherers. So, I was athlete and mr. popularity by day, and by night I would dream of being rich, famous, and brilliant.

I began my exit strategy at an early age, with only one possible out…higher education; at the best (ivy leaguers cover your ears) STATE SCHOOL I could find. Hey, I may have had big dreams, but I was still small town people! Undergrad {check}…hmmm, still not satisfied…Grad School {check}….hmmm, still not satisfied….big time corporate America {check}….you get the picture.

With 2 degrees, a lot of work experience that doesn’t interest me, a whole shit ton of unresolved issues, and trying to reconcile my constant need for something more with just chillin’ the F out, here I am….Livin’ The Simple Strife

All About Kristi!

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All About Misti!

I suppose I should tell you a thing or two about myself. Well, I grew up on a quaint little farm in the upper Midwest with my father and mother and three siblings. There were 9 kids in my graduating class, and I never really felt like I fit in. For example, I didn't take kindly to racism and sexism and homophobia. I hated the intolerance in my hometown, but I loved the people, the wide open spaces, the camaraderie and the comfort. That tiny little corner of the world was mine, but I just knew there had to be something bigger and better out there for me.

At 18 I moved to the city and started college at a reputable liberal arts school that I was not nearly smart enough to get into. I am pretty sure someone was playing a trick on me and put my application in the "accepted" pile just to mess with the dumb kid. While in school, where I had to work my ass off just to keep up, I met people from all over the world: Kenya, China, Russia, Zimbabwe, India, Ireland, Germany, New Zealand, Ghana....you name it. I met gays and lesbians and found that I had been right all along - they weren't the freaks my classmates from home insisted they were. And everyone was smarter than I was - or at least that's how it felt. They'd all gone to fancy prep schools and read Nietzsche, whereas I heard the word "Nietzsche" and thought it was some form of VD or something (you know, "that dude gave me the nietzsche!"). Boy was that an awkward lesson learned.

Having recently completed my Master's degree, I am currently under-employed, under-worked and overpaid--hence the birth of The Simple Strife. I'm cruising the internets for jobs, networking like mad, and stewing in my own mediocrity in the meantime. Good times all around.

Stay tuned - you'll learn a lot more about me over time (more than you probably want to, if we're being honest). And now, I'll let Rocky and Kristi introduce themselves....

Oh wait - more about me: I'm single. Hopelessly, eternally single. When I'm actually in a relationship, usually it's fairly dysfunctional, and I'm sure you all will enjoy the trials and tribulations of my poor, awkward dating life. For being so educated and, um, successful(?), I haven't a clue what I'm doing when it comes to finding love--you will often times question if my stories are true. They are. Strange things happen to me when it comes to dating. Enjoy the ride, kids - it won't be pretty!

Okay, now I'll let Kristi and Rocky get a word in....