Monthly Archives: September 2010

Off to College.

In mid-August, the summer after I graduated high school, I packed my little blue Daewoo to its gills and began the drive to my new home in Baton Rouge, La. While I had dreamed of this day for months, it was difficult to leave my hometown and all of my friends. However, 14 hours in the car filled my mind with reasons why I wanted to move south—I wanted the official break from Indiana. My parents told me if I was going to get out, and not end up living there for the rest of my life, I should just do it now. They were right. I knew nearly all of my friends would be attending state schools, which would be fun at first, but I didn’t want to redo high school; it was bad enough the first time.

I had thoroughly convinced myself I was going to move to Louisiana, where I would discover myself amongst the hazy summer heat, sweet tea, and slow-talking boys. I had romanticized the south ever since I spent a summer in Charleston, Sc. as a child.

I was traveling to school a week early than most of the other students because I was enrolled in Greek rush. Having no family members in any fraternities or sororities, I knew I was in for a unique experience. We, the rushies, were to get to campus in time for registration, and the first round of parties.

While the first round of parties is said to be the most casual, as we were served ice water with lemon, I learned much about my newfound home and I wasn’t sure if I was going to fit in. The girls, my peers, were wearing floppy hats and designer dresses and pricy pumps—I was wearing The Gap. We were sent ideas for outfits, but I had never seen anything like this in my life.

I heard stories from my older friends and their rush experiences back in Indiana, but southern Greeks are no joke. I just saw it as a chance to meet new people. I had only been to Louisiana two times before now, once to visit the campus and once for orientation. I knew no one and was going to need a few friends, and fast. I figured this was my only sure-fire way to meet hundreds of people; nothing like paying for them.

Rush is so organized it is nearly scary. All ten of the houses on campus arrange a schedule of parties that stretch along the entire week, as the sisters meet more than 1,000 potential new sisters. The parties are divided into rounds, with girls getting eliminated as the rounds progress.

Going into the first round of parties, I wasn’t nervous. I figured I could easily find something to talk about, considering I was from out-of-state and had many different interests. But my fellow rushies had something I didn’t—money. My family was near upper-middle class, but I definitely wasn’t prancing around in BCBG pumps and pearls. Partly because it wasn’t my style; it wasn’t even the style of my peers in the Midwest, but these girls didn’t just have money—they came from old money.

Welcome to the south.

Since I was brand new to campus, I was able to objectively look at each Greek group I visited. Overall, I liked the girls I met. Of course, there were a few I didn’t click with. When I walked into one house, we were handed ceramic owl cups filled with ice water. As I talked to my potential sorority sister, she slowly fanned me with an Asian-inspired hand fan.

“Did you have a summer job?” she asked, smacking on a piece of gum.

“Yeah, I worked at a frozen custard shop,” I said. “What about you?”

“Ugh. I have been working as a nurse’s assistant,” she said. “It’s okay sometimes, but you know, it’s mostly bitch work.”


“So, what does your dad do?” She asked.  I wanted so desperately to lie to her and say my dad was a janitor. But I told the truth—he owned a company. She still wasn’t impressed.

At another house, I ruined my chances of getting in when I mentioned I enjoyed everything about writing for my high school newspaper except for selling ads. Turns out, that is exactly what the sorority’s philanthropy was—selling ads for a children’s organization. Oops, insert foot here.

Despite the flubs, the most stressful part of rush was the nighttime. My roommate, who was chosen randomly and who I hadn’t met yet, wasn’t on campus yet since she was not rushing. So I spent my nights alone in our dorm room. My rush group leader, a student who we could confide in with questions and concerns about rush. After each day of parties, the sororities would vote and make a cut. Our rush leader would either call us or show up at our door and tell us if we got cut so we wouldn’t show up for the 6 a.m. posting of The List. I told her I was more comfortable with the call. Afraid of getting the call, I would call my dad after dinner and talk to him late into the night until we both thought I was “safe,” since I never had my rush leader beep in.

By the last day, I had made it through rush, got a bid, and ended up at a party on the lawn of my new home. That night, we went to the home of one of my new sister’s parents where there was a pool and tubs of jambalaya. It was a weird feeling knowing that, hours earlier, I had really no idea who these girls were, but now they were my friends. Or, supposed friends.

During the first week of class, my sorority held several functions with the fraternities. The announced our first “grub”—an event held at a bar with a theme, where everyone brought a date. The theme for this grub was “Mystery Mad Hatter,” meaning we were supposed to bring a date we didn’t know. Lucky for me, any date I brought was going to be someone I wouldn’t know.

During that initial pool party, we were paired up with a sorority sister who would help us get to know people and show us around campus. My buddy that week was Meghan, a girl who rushed me on my final night. Luckily, she was very welcoming and knew someone she could set me up with for my first grub.

So Friday night came and I was ready for my blind date function. Meghan and I met up with her boyfriend and my date, Brian, at a friend’s place to pre-drink. I sat with Brian on the couch as he talked with one of his friends.

“Have you ever been to his house?” he asked me, pointing to Brian.

I shook my head. Brian was from Bossier city, that was nearly four hours north of Baton Rouge. I had hardly seen this city, let alone any others in the state. Like most people I eventually met at LSU, everyone assumes you’re from Louisiana and that you’ve been everywhere. Out-of-staters are nearly unheard of.

So his friend proceeds to tell me how great things are at Brian’s house, because he has a live-in maid. Apparently the maid was black because Brian’s friend felt it necessary to speak in ebonics as he asked Brian what he wanted for breakfast, mocking the maid. Brian and his friend laughed about the way the maid talked and the things she said.

I was appalled. Months earlier, when I explained to my high school guidance counselor I wanted to go to LSU, she told me I would be the first person to graduate from there and attend LSU. A majority of my classmates were confused. Why would I pick a school that’s out of state, but not in a glamorous place? My classmates were running on the ideas of Adam Sandler in “Water Boy.”

But I knew better. After my first visit to LSU’s campus, I fell in love. I was certain the south would not disappoint me. My journey to LSU started with my love for dance. As captain of my high school dance squad, I was constantly watching music videos and dance competitions. My sophomore year, the LSU Tiger Girls won the national title for dance, putting them on my radar. My senior year in high school, I still loved dance, but my original dreams of being a celebrity choreographer were crushed when I did a school project that proved I wouldn’t make any more than $30,000 a year and my career probably wouldn’t see my 40th birthday.

However, I still kept LSU on the map when my next door neighbors told me they were LSU alumnae. Since I was still interested in going out of state, they assured me if I visited the school I would be hooked. They were right.


Boys of Summer.

“Psst…hey,” I whispered. “So, do you think he had sex with his ex-girlfriend?”

“Umm, maybe if they dated for a long time,” Sheena said.

“You’re right, I will ask him later.”

We were sitting in a glorified shed my boyfriend Zach called the Tiki Hut, due to its string of palm tree lights draped from the ceiling. The shed was in his parents’ backyard, a place we often hung out. At 17, spending a late night at my boyfriend’s house ranked among one of the riskier things I’d accomplished.

Sheena was my best friend, and had been since 7th grade after we met over a shared obsession for Hanson. We were in the Tiki Hut, sipping on sour malt drinks, with Zach and his friend Josh, both slamming beers like true country boys of summer.

“How long did you date your ex?” I asked.

“Two years,” he said. I gave Sheena the look. Crap. I had kissed my fair share of boys and fooled around with a few, but I was still a virgin and planned on remaining that way for a while. Josh often joked about Zach being “hung like a horse,” a fun fact he shouldn’t have known. I didn’t know if it was true or not and I didn’t want to find out.

“We’re gonna go to the bathroom,” I said, pulling Sheena toward the house.

We went inside and down the dark stairs to Zach’s bedroom in the basement. Like most Indiana homes, the basement was unfinished, revealing walls of stacked cinder blocks. We searched with our hands to find the light switch.

“Two years,” I said. “I bet they did it. But maybe not…he seems so nice.”

We flicked on the light, and I walked over to snoop Zach’s dresser. It was a typical high school senior’s collection—watch, pictures of himself in his baseball uniform, and condoms. Condoms.

Great. How was he ever going to be satisfied with simple make out sessions if he’d already done it. I felt pressured, but the only thing I could do was wait and hope for the best.

Sheena and I went back outside to the Tiki Hut and proceeded to get hammered, which probably meant we chugged two Skyy malt beverages and then pronounced, “I’m sooooo drunk.”

I didn’t start drinking until the summer before my senior year of high school. I thought beer was disgusting, so I drank sugar-filled malts, which gave me horrible heartburn. However, I thought heartburn was a side effect of being completely wasted, so I just went with it.  I rarely drank hard liquor, except to shoot it. And one shot was my limit. After one shot, the muscles behind my shoulder blades would soften, leaving my arms to weigh me down.

“Oh guys! My arms are heavy!” That was the sign to me, and everyone else in the room, that I was on my way to Shlitzville.

But that night in the Tiki Hut, Sheena reached her limit, puking all over the family’s back deck. We decided it was time to call it quits and go to bed. Sheena and I went back inside to Zach’s room, and left the boys outside to deal with the mess. I curled up in Zach’s bed and found his stash of nude magazines underneath. I was aimlessly flipping through the pages while Sheena passed out on the bedroom floor. Just then Josh and Zach came downstairs, noticing what I had found. Josh grabbed a magazine from the stack and laid down next to Sheena.

“Well that’s just great,” Zach said. “My girlfriend and my best friend are looking through my porn, while I’m supposed to be outside cleaning up puke.”

I fell asleep shortly after, worrying over the sex for no reason. Zach kissed me goodnight when he climbed into bed, but I was barely awake until morning when Sheena and I had to drive back to town for work.

Zach and I had met a few months before that night, at Sheena’s house. A high school friend of Sheena and I came over and said he was bringing a friend. We went outside to Sheena’s driveway to greet them and spent the night talking on the swing in the backyard. When I left the swing to go to the bathroom, Zach explained his true feelings to Sheena.

“Wow, she’s got a nice ass.”

Of course, I found that out later in the night when the boys were gone and I’d gotten his number. Zach was cute, very tan, tall, and slender but with muscles. He lived in Franklin, Ind., a smaller town about 20 minutes from where I grew up. His passion was baseball and, like me, had just graduated high school and was looking forward to the next step.

Although I felt like Zach and I had a good connection at 17, we both knew our relationship was on a timer. I was moving far south, to go to Louisiana State University—something Zach admired, simply because he loved their baseball team. He was staying local and going to a community college.

Despite the relationship timer, it was a perfect summer—spending time with my best friend and two country boys. When I left Indiana months later, Zach and I left on good terms. We kept in touch my first semester away, even though both of us branched out to meet new people. He just might be the only ex-boyfriend I don’t hold bad feelings for.

Of course today, Zach is happily married and is soon to start a family, I’m sure. While I on the other hand, was closer to being married that night in the Tiki Hut than I am today.

Modern Love.

Aside from writing a book, it has become a dream of mine to be published in The New York Times’ Modern Love column—I know, I really have some hefty dreams here. I’ve written and submitted two columns, both of which I am proud of, but I am still working toward my goal. I came across one I wrote about my latest ex-boyfriend. I wrote it a little over a year ago, to the day, when we were on a break.

*     *     *

I arrived at his house wearing ruffled lingerie and a pair of black stilettos. It was 3 am, in the middle of November. I walked up the brick path to his door, balancing a homemade white cake in my hands; it was his 25th birthday.

He answered the door, surprised, but blew out the candles. He motioned me inside, but then stated the obvious.

“Holly, you have no clothes on.”

“I know,” I said. “It’s part of your present.”

Although we’d only known each other a few months, I felt comfortable enough to pull such a sexy stunt. I saw Matt for the first time, almost a year before, on Valentine’s Day. He was serving tequila shots at a local bar, while I was drowning my single sorrows in a dirty martini. He didn’t notice me that night, but we met six months later at the same bar.

I wasn’t attracted to him at first. He was a little too flirtatious for my taste. I always saw him leaning over the bar writing down his phone number for different women. However, with each time we saw each other, he grew on me. He was tall, with light brown hair, and eyes that became my weakness. More importantly, he made me laugh.

One evening, he invited me to his house to watch a football game. He said he wanted me to meet his friends, because he thought I could date one of them. The high from his invitation became an extreme low; I was crushed. I declined the invite simply because I wanted him, not his friends.

Soon enough, he got the hint and invited me over for a movie, just the two of us. It was there, my crush grew, we kissed, and he told me about himself. He claimed he was busy, in graduate school, working two jobs, and completing an internship. His packed schedule was his main reason for being single. He also said a previous girlfriend had cheated on him, making him hesitant to date.

His openness comforted me. My past was a mess of failed relationships; I had been cheated on, too. I saw his previous relationship as a challenge, since I knew I would never cheat on him, or anyone. I had always thought of myself as a good partner in a relationship. But two years later, I found myself lost in a sea of tears as I told him to forget my name.

Matt told me he loved me for the first time on a Sunday morning. Since we usually spent Saturday nights together, Sundays were often special for me. I loved waking up to the sound of Matt’s neighbors mowing the lawn. Matt would get the paper from the end of his walk way, we might fix eggs or cinnamon toast, and then sit on the couch together and read the local news. His ‘I love yous’ often came in these quiet moments, which I cherished.

Matt and I celebrated our anniversary on Boss’ Day; an inside joke we shared because I often let him think he was the boss in our affair. Looking back, it seems he really was the iron fist in our relationship. I call it a relationship, because to me, that’s what it was. The feelings were there, the motions were there, but I was never Matt’s girlfriend.

For this reason, it took me a long time return the favor and tell Matt I loved him, too. In my heart, I knew I loved Matt, but my past experiences kept my lips zipped. I had only loved one other person, my first love, and I didn’t want Matt and I to end up as that relationship had.

A week before our one year anniversary, I caught Matt with another woman at a bar. My insecurities heightened. I was embarrassed, hurt, and confused when he took her to his house that night. Since I wasn’t technically his girlfriend, I had no right to get upset at Matt for sleeping with someone else. I got mad anyway and pushed him out of my life for months.

Like a mathematician, Matt calculated each move with me. Sometimes he was sweet and would tell me he loved me, but if I got too attached he would pull away. He never called me his girlfriend, but he didn’t approve of me dating anyone else. When I said it was time to meet his family, he agreed, but never made the plans.

I fell in love with Matt for many reasons. He made me laugh, but we could still have serious talks. He put up with my girlish requests—calling before bed, behaving at bachelor parties, tasting my recipes, etc. Matt was perfect on paper with a master’s degree, a great job, a nice car, and a beautiful home. I saw stability in that; something I rarely had in life, let alone in a relationship.

The best part about Matt was the way he made me feel when we were together. He was never short on compliments, interested in my work, and confident in me as a person. He often told me how great I was, how lucky he was to have me. On those days, I had the world in my hand. But the good times were laced with the bad, times when he would ignore my calls or stand me up for a date. It was in these moments I learned actions really do speak louder than words.

Matt always apologized if he messed up and was quick to tell me he would take any punishment I had for him. I didn’t want to punish him; I wanted him to treat me right in the first place.

But one batch of apologies and two months after I caught him with the other woman, I gave him a second chance. I remember our first Saturday night back together. We were sitting on his couch again, watching a movie, while sharing a bottle of red wine.

“You know, sometimes I think about what it would be like if we were together forever,” he said.

I had thought about it, too. I pictured us moving in together and having our usual Saturday nights. I thought about cooking him dinner when he arrived home from work, fixing him a stiff drink, and talking about our day. I liked the idea of it, but I had a feeling that’s all it would be—an idea.

I had fallen in love with a man who put his life first and my heart was breaking because of it. I was last on Matt’s to-do list, after work, family, and even friends. The bad times were starting to push out the good and I was growing impatient as our two-year anniversary was approaching.

One week before Boss’ Day, Matt’s sister was getting married. I had been with Matt eight months prior, the night she was engaged. I made a mental note about the October wedding and waited for Matt to ask me to be his date; it would be my chance to meet the family, finally. When the invitation never came, I had reached the end of my rope. And there were no more chances left to give.

I have always fantasized about that perfect relationship—the one that’s a balance of me and my boyfriend, our friends, and our families. I pictured that with Matt, but I never got it. I wanted to be close to his family, like they were my own. I wanted to bake cookies with his mom and go shopping with his sister. I wanted to be a part of his life.

My mind was confusing fantasy with reality. My fantasy was that he would eventually leave work at 5pm, spend time with me when he said he would, and answer my phone calls. My reality was I had a man in my life that simply was not into me as much as he was into working overtime, going sailing, or doing his parents’ yard work.

After two years of living in the clouds, I had to face the cold and end the relationship. Maybe he thought I was overreacting, but I couldn’t get caught up in his mind. My feelings had been tangled for months, waiting for something better and I finally saw it wasn’t going to happen in this relationship.

When I told Matt I was done, he said nothing. Of course, there was a small part of me that wanted him to fight back. I wanted to hear that he cared about our future and would try to make things right, but it didn’t happen, which made the wound worse. For all I know, Matt could be waiting in the wings for the day my will breaks and I give him another chance. But that day will never come.

I take part of the blame for our relationship failing. Instead of taking many of the signs seriously in the beginning, I did the typical girl thing and just hoped things would change. I’ll admit that my optimistic heart often gets me in trouble in situations like these. However, I can’t punish myself for fantasizing that someday there will be someone willing to include me in his life, even if it is a busy one.

As a woman, I am constantly training the people around me how I need to be treated. Matt figured out early that it was okay not to be exclusive with me or bring me around his family. In return, he taught me what I shouldn’t put up with if I expect to have a real relationship that lives up to my dreams.

A Timeline.

It’s time to add a little juice to this machine! Over the year, one thing I HAVE been doing is creating a timeline of things that happened in my life—some of them pertain to “How to Make Lemonade,” others don’t. This is me accepting the fact that my memory sucks, so how am I supposed to write a memoir when I’ve been drinking heavily for 5+ years?!?!

I present to you, the timeline.

1998: My first boy/girl dance, including my first slow dance with Evan R. Of course, I develop a crush on.

June 2001: The summer before my junior year of high school, which includes many antics with John S., Wil E., Jon J., Pat G, Ian M., and Matt R.

July 2001: I get my driver’s license and my parents divorce.

September 2001: I begin my first job as a hostess at Outback Steakhouse. It’s my junior year of high school and I date Patrick G., my first boyfriend and my first kiss.

December 2001: Patrick G. dumps me because the relationship “isn’t moving forward physically.” I start fooling around with Jared S.

May 2002: Patrick G. asks me to my junior prom, I tell him, “I guess.”

September 2002: Senior year, I am single and ready to mingle, going on dates with Will B. and Evan B.

March 2003: Sheena H. and I go on spring break where I develop a new crush on Zach G. I ask Ben H. to my senior prom and have a HORRIBLE time.

June 2003: I graduate from high school. That summer, Joey U. sets me up with a hometown hottie, Zach C. Hilarity ensues.

August 2003: I move to Baton Rouge to attend Louisiana State University. I join a sorority and get set up for our first event: The Mystery Mad Hatter. My date owns a slave. That night, I meet Justin E. This same month, I meet a boy named DC. I ask Justin E. to be my date for the next Greek event: Classic Grub. He agrees, I get drunk off of amaretto/pineapples. He gets drunk and loses the keys to his BMW.

April 2004: My mom comes to visit me at school for my sorority formal. Justin E. is my date and he gives me an arrangement of yellow roses and lilacs. While we have fun at the dance, it’s pretty much the end of anything romantic between us.

June 2005: That summer, Sheena H. and I are nearly arrested at Evan R.’s lake house. Later that night, things get frisky with Zach G. Weeks later, I start dating Adam J. He becomes my first love.

August 2005: I leave Indiana to go back to LSU and start working at Abercrombie & Fitch

October 2005: I visit Adam J. during my fall break. On my flight back to Baton Rouge, I run into my Abercrombie & Fitch coworker, Austin F. At this point, I only know him from work. Adam J. dumps me two weeks later by ignoring my calls and text-messages. We never talk again.

March 2006: Austin F. asks me on a date in the Abercrombie & Fitch stockroom. I agree, and we go on our first date. I wonder if it’s too soon for a relationship.

April 2006: Austin F. can’t go to my next Greek formal with me, so he says I can ask someone else to join me. I ask Matt T., with balloons and a sign, but he rejects me. I bash him publicly in a newspaper column. Austin F. sends me postcards from his class trip to California.

June 2006: Austin F. dumps me, after he meets my mom, because he wants to work more hours at Abercrombie.

July 2006: Austin F. and I go to a Marc Broussard concert together, which I had previously bought tickets for. We have a physical relationship, which Austin F. tells me he regrets.

August 2006: I start working at American Eagle, in addition to Abercrombie, and meet Eddie G. That same month, I move in with my first male roommate Sean M., after answering his ad in the student newspaper.

October 2006: I get mono from Eddie G., but we travel to Indiana to meet my parents over fall break. He dumps me when we return home by ignoring my calls and texts.

January 2007: My friends Kirk Q. and Nicole E, see Eddie G. at American Eagle in the mall, after I’ve quit working there. He pretends he doesn’t know me.

March 2007: Austin F. and I are talking again.

May 2007: Austin F. graduates from LSU. We go to dinner at Bonefish Grill, the same place we had our first date, and I give him a pair of Prada sunglasses for a graduation gift.

June 2007: I go to St. Thomas with my best friend Angela H. and our mothers. Austin F. is getting ready for his move to Dallas. We spend several days and nights together. Mid-month, we say our goodbyes and he gives me roses and a sweet card. At the end of the month, I book my first flight to Dallas after Austin has asked me to move there.

July 2007: I have nightmares about Eddie G. and his ex-girlfriend Paige. I visit Austin F. in Dallas for the first time and enjoy it. I also get a job interview at a local martini bar, Duvic’s. Austin F. doesn’t want me to work there. I move in with Kirk Q. and Nicole E.

August 2007: I receive job offers from Guess and Duvic’s—accepting both. I make my first trip to Los Angeles mid-month. I have serious thoughts about not moving to Dallas. Angela H. sends me text messages about her parents telling her not to move there either. Late in the month, I have my first shift at the bar and meet Matt B.

September 2007: Late in the month, I cry over a fight with Austin F. when he tells me to “delete” him.

October 2007: I’ve been “talking” to Matt B. and write a story about him for my English class. I have decided not to move to Dallas or visit Austin any longer. I distance from Austin F.

November 2007: Austin F. sends me a Thanksgiving card that is ridiculously weird. He comes to town to visit his family for Thanksgiving, but doesn’t invite me to join him. I spend more time with Matt B., while my mom and her new boyfriend come to town.

December 2007: I graduate from LSU.

February 2008: I stand Austin F. up at Duvic’s and ignore his calls.

Introducing The Lifelong Project.

As I’ve mentioned before, I’ve had trouble all year kicking off this project with the proper momentum. I blame that only on myself—my overall laziness, my lack of motivation, and the amazing ability I have to let everything else in my life get in the way. Mainly, that includes handfuls of other writing gigs I have going. I do write full-time. After work, I often work on freelance projects—2 magazines and other random assignments. I manage my other blog, Witty Writer, along with a casual anonymous blog. So, when all of that’s said and done, do I really want to sit at my computer for more hours and type away? Honestly, not really.

I get discouraged by other writers who tell me they just LOVE, LOVE, LOVE to write. And I do, too! I don’t think it’s a lack of love, it’s just a problem of prioritizing. Obviously, I need to work and do freelance to make a living, so in order to spend more time writing for myself, I need to make better use of my time or cut out those things that aren’t pushing me toward my goal.

Enter: The Lifelong Project.

My uncle, Joseph Phillips, wrote a book called “The Lifelong Project” that takes project management tactics and shows you how to apply them to your life’s goals. As I read the book, I followed the instructions, created a binder, and made a strict plan for me to finish writing the memoir in a timely fashion.

This blog was a part of my plan.

So far, though, I have failed myself a little bit. Since there is no one around to punish me when I don’t finish my assignments on time, I haven’t been the first in line to finish them. As I said, I let other things get in the way. But, I also am just afraid. It sounds like a copout excuse, I know, but I am afraid of spending loads of time writing a book, only to have it rejected and never published.

But, as my dad always tells me, “The answer is always no until you try.”

I hope this blog {since I am paying for it} will keep me motivated—I have to write to keep it populated. I want to meet other writers facing my same struggles, and share my work to get some feedback as I write. So this week, I’m really making an effort to catch up on my assignments, and in all honesty, I’m not too far gone.

Hey girl, hey!

Hello my sweet friends! If you’re reading this, it’s probably because I told you to check out my brand-new project, The Bitter Lemon! As you can tell, I’m pretty excited about it.

One of my goals for 2010 was to finally (FINALLY) do something I’ve wanted to do for more than three years now—write a memoir. But while it’s always in the back of my mind, I’ve obviously never made the real effort to just write it already.

Sometimes, I do get unmotivated. But other times, I simply let life get in the way—work, freelance, blogging, relationships, a social life, and of course, reality television. I know, I know, I really have no excuse.

But here I am, and that should count for something, right?! I plan to use this blog as a place for me to keep notes, make lists, post chapters and little somethings I write all for my memoir, “How to Make Lemonade.”

No, I’m not authoring a book on beverages. “How to Make Lemonade” is my way of explaining my terrible, yet very funny, journey of life in the dating world as a twenty-something. Sometimes, my optimistic heart gets the best of me. Other times, I’m cynical and single with a sassy attitude to boot.

I’ve spent years analyzing the game we call dating, many of which has involved those familiar girls’ nights over tables of martinis…to no end. But I am determined not to get down over it. Instead, I want to share my stories, have a laugh, and perhaps make a little lemonade (with a large splash of vodka).

I would like to personally invite you to join me on my journey. Please, comment on my writing, or tell me your dating successes and failures. When drinks are concerned, it’s truly my belief that the more, the merrier!