Has anybody ever made it through a box of teeth whitening stripes in a timely fashion? I've been slowly working my way through my box of Crest Whitestripes for about three years. I can't tell if I'm making any progress. The feeling as if I'm having a mouth full of cavities filled with Cadbury Egg cream by a deranged dentist usually warrants that I stop using them. But when certain situations heighten my self consciousness, I resolve that pain is beauty, to grin and bear it. My in-laws visiting this coming weekend is what's prompting my current regimen. Because certainly they give a shit about my teeth? They are going to arrive, drop their bags, grab my chin and demand a smile.

Someone just shouted "have a good dinner!" as he waved goodbye. I think he meant to wish me a good day, but I really like that sentiment and will start using it. As if I don't already make situations awkward enough.

Bye! Nice to meet you! Have a good snack!

I got the nicest and only blog comment I've ever received from Anonymous after nearly 10 years of blogging. I know. Just what I needed -- more attention!

I've been blogging since 2003 and I always get to a point where I realize I've littered enough questionable and embarrassing sentences over the internet that I delete the whole damn site. I swear off blogging. But the little blogger inside can't quit and I always, ALWAYS start up again, like a hot minute later, not even enough time for the two people who read my blog to ask what happened -- though I want so badly for them to ask, to want me back.  Once I start blogging about blogging (like now) and imagining how much people who read my blog must hate me -- because I start to read old posts and I hate me -- I begin making plans and drafting notes to end my blogger life. Wedding posts: UGH. Talking about bodily functions all blase like it's funny and as if bloggers from all over don't try the same thing: UGH. Animals and Florida: UGH (though watching a man with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth straddling a gator is probably one of my favorite my only pleasant Florida memory). Being a whiny little bitch: UGH. This post: UGH.

Recently I was getting to the zenith of self blogger loathing. I was recognizing that I blog and read blogs, if not as a  means to imaginary friendships, at least to the end of the possibility of real ones. I've lived in Orlando for two years and haven't made a single friend outside of work. As cheesy as it sounds, I read a book by a woman who went on a year long quest to make a new BFF after moving to a new city and it inspired me. Maybe I wouldn't hate it here and maybe I wouldn't blog so much about my period if I had friends. I need to be proactive about meeting ladies. I can't expect for them to fall into my crumb filled lap while I write in my blog about writing in my blog about unfortunate white couches. So a few weeks ago I resolved to search for book clubs and running groups tomorrow, and then come tomorrow I pushed for tomorrow or the next day or the day after that or whenever I can spare a few moments from my pretty booked-with-nothingness (i.e. the Internet) days off.

But never mind about quitting blogging. That one bone thrown my way from a generous anonymous commenter has legitimized my attention seeking behavior. I won't quit. I have one person who liked one post after 10 years.

But actually I debated for awhile, and I'm still not 100%, whether it was really a friend or family member mocking me. Like she'd write me a nice fake comment just to take pleasure in my clueless response and subsequent longest post ever...Yeah, I'm still not sure. It could go either way. My new, permanent post tag is I'll delete this later and eventually I probably will.

Martin Short as Jiminy Glick was the best. Lately Eugenio and I watch his old clips whenever we need a quick laugh before bed because we've just watched something awful, like a movie Eugenio chose. We've watched this clip no less than five times. Andy Dick is perfect as a diabolical RM. I love his mannerisms.

"I guess so. I guess so."  LOL

I share this for the theatrics and humor, rather than the PETA promotion.

Sometimes I feel like after 27 years  I'm finally ready for the world and I have a strong desire to go back to pre-K or some early memory time to start living from scratch. Like I could really nail it this time. But then everything would play out differently and how can I predict it'd or I'd be any better, blah blah blah, but you kna'mean. I'll just start drafting letters to my former self to help guide her along the way, to remind her what a mess her former, older self used to be that she thought she could be of some service to the now younger, better version who is already eschewing the stuff she foreshadows. I bet she wouldn't blog.

Given that neurotic minimalism is my style -- the opposite of a hoarder, I'm a purger, bulimia aside -- I'm trying to build my humble collection of quality skirts, dresses, pants, and tops, as opposed to buying thin swaths of fabric labelled "dress" from Target and Forever 21 Too Old To Wear This and hoping the frock won't disintegrate in the dryer, but wearing it anyway when it does, until I use it to wipe down the counter as an afterthought before throwing it in the trash (true story). I want a few pieces of good quality clothing that I can wear perpetually, getting dry cleaned or hand washed occasionally, that don't look disheveled in my closet or on me for a change. I don't want to look like Little Orphan Hannie, one pulled thread away from neked, anymore, nor do I want to have a closet full of forgotten, trendy, never worn items. I'm all for functional materialism.

My birthday last week came and went leaving a stash of unexpected but greedily accepted cash from far away family and friends. Instead of making an indiscernible to the point of pointless dent in my student loan debt, I went the instant gratification route and bought new clothes, none from Target, almost all dry clean only, hopefully doing my benefactors proud.

At university, students in my college had to take a class that was basically business charm school. We learned how to dress and how to talk and how to be, in my mind at the time, manipulative douchebags. I rolled my eyes so many times, I'm lucky they didn't get stuck in the back of my head or worse, that someone didn't call me out on my immaturity. I always remember a phrase uttered by an annoyingly enthusiastic (and wealthy, in a privileged, lucky way as opposed to a picked himself up by the cheap, shoddy bootstraps by working at Pizza Hut and putting himself through college, more elusive way). "Dress for the job you want, not the job you have." The student speaker didn't assume I aspired to little more at that time than to scoff at privilege and conventionalism in my ratty dresses and broken flip flops, begrudging smug assholes who got jobs based on their chummy personalities, nepotism, and parent bought lifestyles. I eventually got over all that pointless, bitter resentment. And though I don't aspire to be a Minimalist Diva professionally, just usually, imma start living up to that once mocked grown-up dress-up idea. I'm no fashionista, but like SJP, this little orphan Hannie can graduate to bigger and better roles. "I couldn't help but wonder...is it time to dress the fuck up?"

My new theme song that plays while I'm prancing out the apartment (prancing being a euphemism for running frantically because I'm always late) in my new duds is that Reba Mcentire song. I mighta been born just plain white trash, but Fancy was my name. Prostitution connotations notwithstanding...or rather, withstanding, but metaphorically now.

An older gentleman, a regular patron, just told me, "Your face looks good today. You did a good job!"

I'm wearing makeup for the first time in a a very long while, mostly to offset the fact that my hair is greasy and gross due to the effort I'm taking, per a hairdressers urging, to wash it less.

Ever since I paired blue Wet n Wild eyeliner with varying shades of purple eyeshadow for my first makeup attempt in 7th grade -- a look I carried on for three entire years for lack of better friends (I hate every single person who encouraged this look) -- I haven't a clue what I'm doing.  Even after watching all those YouTube videos. Speaking of which, I just bought $30 foundation from Korea off the internet because some cute, articulate 15 year old recommended it. We both have acne; mine's worse. Ingrid, I'm trusting you, girl.

So I appreciate the compliment from this very genuine, couldn't lie if he tried, man in his 70s. This man whom I once attempted to help recover his forgotten email password. His established password hint read "mi novia," so I asked him, "Well, what's your girlfriend's name?" He said, "I forgot."

"You forgot your girlfriend's name?" I asked without even hiding my amusement.

"Well, I forgot which one." he replied in all seriousness.

Not because I take it this fella has seen his fair share of fresh faces, but more because I'll take any reassurance I can get, I truly appreciate the compliment and feel better about my powdery face with clown cheeks because sometimes when I look in the mirror, which I do a lot, I guess to make sure things are per usual, I see a prematurely aging four year old who got into her mother's makeup...or Britney Spears circa 2007.