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Archive for the ‘blog posts about blogging (how meta)’ Category

In case you keep coming here and wondering why I quit the project I’d pursued with such gusto, then you must be coming to the old site! Heads-up, dudes! My site can now be found only at: http://www.notthatkindofgirl.net

Also, have you stopped getting my site in your RSS reader? Bummer! You can go ahead and update to the new feed: http://notthatkindofgirl.net/feed

Probably should have posted this a few months ago. Anyway. Stop coming here now. It doesn’t exist.

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NTKOG #114: The kind of health-obsessed model citizen who, when she wakes up half-dead from ingesting various toxins, immediately jumps out of bed to sweat. them. out.

I am: a Proustian aunt when it comes to hangovers. Just give me a nice bed and I’ll take it to it indefinitely, praying for death to come.

I am not: even amused by the idea that there exist people who prefer the gym to boozin’.

The Scene: Bleary-eyed in Brighton, the morning of February 15, reeking of chocolate fondue and sweating straight Merlot. I didn’t think I drank that much during Anglophile’s and my little V-Day voodoo sesh, but all the mental holes in our morning-after recap disproved that theory. (“How’d I get into my pajamas?” “You changed after you made us listen to Usher’s ‘Burn’ fifteen times.” “I hate that song. Oh jesus, tell me you didn’t let me text.”) After Anglophile scooted on her merry way, I was prepared to take to bed, spreading peanut butter on homemade bread with my fingers and mainlining equal parts water and Hugh Laurie. Instead, I remembered a killer blog entry by the lovely kk about how to kick hangovers in which she suggests hitting the gym after you hit the bottle. What did I have to lose?

After I’d arranged a gym date with Sister and actually exited the apartment, the list of things I had to lose became apparent: permanent use of my retinas; my balance; control of the nausea dragon wrapping its tail around my stomach. Ugh. And that was just from walking to the T station.

By the time I got to the gym, I’d have placed even odds on my vomiting on the elliptical. Set the timer for 30 minutes; for the first five, I cursed the gods; for the next five, cursed myself; the middle ten, cursed friggin’ kk, that ho; and then — everything stopped being so bad. Remains of the Day was on TV! Brookline water tastes awesome! I am alive and healthy and feeling moreso every minute! Hell, after the elliptical, I jumped on a treadmill next to Sister for the sheer fun of it for twenty minutes.

The whole walk to my Sister’s place afterwards, I sipped water and cooed over the success of the project (“I feel great! I feel awesome! Wanna go to the zoo and race some llamas?!”). For dinner, we made healthy choices instead of indulging in usual hangover atrocities (brie and roasted garlic sandwiches, anyone?). And then the foundation started to crack. Got a splitting headache and the only medication my sister had on hand was Tylenol PM. Popped two of them and started home. Unfortunately, the drowsy effects of the medication kicked in while I was still half a mile from home, my heart slowed down to 45 beats per month, and I literally stopped three or four times to consider taking a nap on someone else’s stoop.

By the time I returned from this miracle hangover cure, I was fit only to take to my bed, cursing the gods. It’s just the natural order, I guess.

The Verdict: There’s no denying that this felt significantly less pathetic than my usual program of eating junk food and lolling around miserably, but exercise is most definitely not a panacea. I mistook the endorphin high for significant improvement. Right the frig not! Turns out exercise is only meant to be supplemental to a strict regime of lolling, napping, and misery.

Also, a TMI word about dehydration? Apparently I’d severely underestimated either the sheer degree of dehydration inherent to a hangover or the prolificness of my sweating, but I realized about eight hours after the gym that I’d drank 70 oz. of water and hadn’t needed to pee. Thank you, body, for delighting and horrifying me.

TMI Thursday! Lilu! Archives! Lovely!! Lady took a polar bear plunge with some Hulk Hogan impersonators. Good frig! Hero of the day.Alzyby  

And for more NTKOG brilliance, do read this hilarious post

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GUYS! It has already been established that I am unambiguously the worst dancer in the continental United States. Here’s where you profit from it.

NTKOG #102: The kind of loyal blogger who is so appreciative of her (badass) readers that she showers them in gifts beyond her means.

I am: broke.

I am not: above peddling my physical charms (ha!) for the masses to earn said gifts.

The Scene: Agganis Arena, Friday night, watching the Terriers men’s hockey team facecrush UMass. Near the end of the second interval, my favorite moment of the games: the dance-off for an iPod! I won one of these with my STELLAR flailings a few months back, during a not-so-packed basketball game, and — though this is totally pathetic to admit — I was hungry for another victory.

I will not confirm that I practiced my most horrifying dance moves before the match, nor that I donned my trusty fedora for extra stand-out effect. And any rumors that I deliberately sneaked into a less populated area of the stands so the camera would have an easier time finding me? Are vulgar. And, um, accurate.

I danced my spastic heart out and the camera found me right away — not that I knew because I was watching the jumbotron, oh no, I could just hear the difference in the crowd the moment I popped up on the screen.

The biggest proof that I truly am the worst dancer in the world? Not that the whole student section was on their feet shrieking and guffawing for my dancing skills — not that the camera shook from the cameraman’s laughter — not that the universe has given me not one but two iPods just to stop me from dancing. The real proof is that none of this surprises me.

I don’t know if 5,361 people have ever laughed at you — at you — while you just kept rocking your middle-schooler heart out, but I was doing it for you, guys. I was doing it for you.

HOW TO WIN A FRIGGIN’ iPOD NANO

Details: Brand new red 8gig iPod Nano — one of the sexy new ones with the big screens; gets radio and shoots video as well. Comes with earbuds and USB 2.0 cable. Although, full disclosure, BC alumni: it does have “Go Terriers! http://www.agganisarena.com” engraved on the back. But, dude, free iPod. Just pop for a cover if it bugs you.

How To Get Entries: For the sake of my Excel headache, please leave a separate comment for each entry type. And make sure all comments have a valid email address attached so I can get in touch with you if you win. Giveaway open to international readers as well (let’s be pen pals! mail me foreign candy!).

One Entry: Leave a comment telling me a song I should download on my own (very old) iPod.

Two Entries: Follow me in your RSS reader, then comment to let me know. If you were already following me, just comment to let me know that as well!

Two Entries: Tweet a link to this giveaway, then comment here with the URL. Maybe something along the lines of: “Win a friggin’ 8gig iPod Nano from @WhatKindOfGirl. Dude, how are you not clicking this link aready?! http://notthatkindofgirl.net”. Or, y’know, a less Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle phrasing…

Three Entries: Become a fan of my blog on Facebook by clicking here and hitting subscribe. Comment here to let me know you did it.

Five Entries: Blog about this giveaway, then comment here with the URL. (And total bonus point if the entry includes an awesome pic of you too being a terrible dancer.)

Giveaway ends at NOON on FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 12!

That way, you can get your cute red iPod in the mail right after the Valentine’s Day chocolate high wears off. So spread the word! Tell your friends and fam! I’ll be busy updating my resume to include “two-time award-winning dancer”…

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NTKOG #91: The  kind of classy, elegant woman who — not content with merely nodding approval at happy events — dispatches a proper written thank-you on lovely stationery through the USPS.

I am: grateful for all the awesome in my life, honest.

I am not: super diligent about actually putting it in words, though. Or at least not in my crappy third-grade cursive.

The Scene: Coffee table, my apartment, me working through a box of cute thank-you stationery. I purchased it when I moved in in September and set a personal NTKOG goal of actually getting through the box. Put two letters in the mail today and — bam! — it’s done. First time I’ve ever gone through a whole box of stationery, actually, and hopefully not the last. Although if I’m completely honest, I should have gone through the box of ten measly notes within my first week here. Thanks to my sister for concert tickets, various people for housewarming presents, owners of couches I’ve crashed on and parties I’ve attended — there’s a lot to be thankful for.

But these aren’t stories, so allow me to fill my humble space today (and not much of it, I promise) with a public thank you to one of the people I love most in this crazy, mixed-up world: one of my dear friends, and my bff’s boyfriend: Muscles.

Aside from the syphilis on the nose, this is an eerily accurate portrayal.

Sock portrait self-portrait made by Muscles (who is British and whom we can therefore forgive for not understanding the whole fold-over-the-toe-to-make-a-moving-mouth convention).

Muscles is an up-and-coming theatre manager and was, until recently, a Shakespearean actor (sometimes nude). He is also — in the Elizabethan idiom — a paragon of man. One of those insanely charming dudes who makes the whole room happier when he smiles, and could make a Buckingham Palace guard laugh ’til he got the hiccups. My first hint that Muscles was a prince among men was the day I realized my best friend liked him more than she liked me (THE NERVE!), and I didn’t even hate him for it. Although I did punch him that one time.

He was the earliest and loudest supporter of this silly blog, he always orders the best beers, and he’s totally my pick for benevolent leader if we ever get in a Lord of the Flies situation, ’cause dude could punch out a friggin’ bear. He’s also applying for a few prestigious MFA programs for Theatre Management right now and — I was wondering. I know there’s lots of really heavy stuff going on in the world right now, what with the AIDs and the orphans and the Haiti, but I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind taking just half a second to think: “I hope Muscles gets in!” Sort of an “I believe in fairies” situation? Because I’m a big believer: 1) in positive thought, and 2) that sometimes great things happen to great people, and that’s okay by me.

And if you are accusing me of writing this soppy, lame post just because Muscles had the foresight to send me a box of my very favorite Levain cookies yesterday, to that I can only say: you are suspicious, deeply untrusting, and, what, do you have cameras installed in my apartment or something?! (That said: send a thank-you card this weekend; hug the awesome friends you’re lucky enough to have.)

Oh man, all that emo crap. The other huge faction of people I have to thank — continually, continually, guys — is you for coming here and actually reading my namby-pamby prose every weekday. I crunched a few numbers and realized that as of now I’ve written over 100,000 words for this blog, about the length of To Kill A Mockingbird, but with far fewer racial slurs and smokin’ hot lawyers. I mean, holy shit, can we just talk about that for a sec? I’ve never in my life been able to stick with a project (cue a panning shot of melted figurines from the aborted claymation, sonnet cycles abandoned mid-rhyme, my senior honors thesis finished so fast there was literally blood on the pages), but by chipping away that this day by day, I’ve written something of novel length. Blows my dang mind.

So: 1) if you’ve actually read the archives or been here from the beginning, I just about want to smooch you; 2) I read blogs all day like it’s my job, and want to take a sec to make sure I’m reading yours. Do you run a sweet friggin’ blog that is totally bereft of stupid-clever comments by TKOG? If so, I will no longer stand for it! Heckle me in the comments section, please, so I can add you to my (bloated, oozy) googs reader and, subsequently, to my mornings. Don’t be shy!

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You guys! Because I am the most negligent blogger I know, I’ve committed a terrible faux pas and let a bit of housework pile up: A few amazingly awesome bloggers have nominated me for those ubiquitous blog awards, and I been a TERRIBLE OAF and not given proper credit where credit is due! So, thanks to:

Elliott of Cheesehead Displacement Syndrome, whose movie quote Mondays are always way too hard for me to guess, but whose Fun Fact Fridays I always look forward to. Like this one about the G Spot, which had me giggling at work.

Thanks to Tara at Wife of a Newly Wife, who’s basically so adorable I want to hug her and whose monthly anniversary posts about her (five-month-ago!) wedding are too cute to miss.

Thanks also to Dating Is My Hobby, whose thoughtful and “omg so true!” posts are a must-read for any other single girls!

Thanks to Sada at 30 is the new 13, about whom I can only say: even when there are 500 unread entries in my Google Reader, I still scroll the sidebar specifically to check whether one of those unread entries is from her. If so? It totes jumps the queue.

Callie at The Secret to Success, on whose archives I’m very happily binging even now.

Ali at My Travel Rambling, whose gorgeous photography and lush descriptions give this happy Bostonian a big ol’ case of wanderlust!

Okay, guys, not going to lie: these blogging awards all come with stipulations to name ten things that make you happy or seven dwarfs that signify  life fulfillment or your fifteen favorite consequences of the fall of the Ottoman Empire — whatever — as well as the requirement to re-tag a few bloggers. But since the format of my site makes reposting blog awards awkward (not that I don’t love receiving them! Hint?), I don’t want to bore you with a million lists.

A compromise: I’ve finally stopped being a total beast and updated my blogroll, on the bottom of my right sidebar. Go check out all those blogs (as well as the ones that awarded me!). Seriously. And you can go ahead and take that as a sign that I’ve tagged you, because obviously I adore you.

Okay, really can’t make up your mind? Blogs that I’ve discovered since the last time I awarded and are most on my mind right now: Nostomanic (Amber, I basically consider this post a let’s-be-besties proposal, dude); Restaurant Refugee (this post is the one that sealed the deal); Hyperbole and a Half (does everyone already read this? I’ll never think of “Apologize” the same way again).

Happy Sunday, dudes. Now I’m off to ride the T with no pants on.

[Edit: Oh my gosh, I am QUADRUPLE OAF WITH A DOUBLE SIDE OF BEASTLY! I completely forgot to thank Sadako at Dibbly Fresh for the Beautiful Blogger Award! This is doubly offensive as I spent much of Sunday going through her archives in honor of her one-year blogiversary! Click that link to see her own top ten posts, and might I add this one on iconoclastic chicks of ’90s pop culture!)

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NTKOG # 87: The kind of internet-obsessed blogger who feels the needs to meet complete strangers to discuss shenans like google pagerank and hit counts (and drink a lot of gin).

I am: prone to social-anxiety-induced panic attacks — big time — when meeting strangers.

I am not: sure, anyway, that I want to let who I am on my blog define me in my real actual life. (Oh who am I kidding. I totally do.)

The Scene: Dante, a swanky and really quite tasteful cocktail bar in a Cambridge Hotel. Emrlds put together an impromptu blogger tweet-up and – undaunted by the world-ending vortex potential of hanging out with other people who sometimes tweet about RSS readers – I messaged her psychedly about it all week. Never mind the fact that at her last tweet-up, in December, I skulked in the foyer of Cactus Club for a full twenty-five minutes before giving up the game and hyperventilating the whole way home. (I think there are medications for this?)

When I approached the bar, Emrlds was sitting alongside Julie, Petey Pumpkin, and Kristen — later to be joined by Susan. Bar seating; limited mingling; god someone get this girl around a few ounces of gin. I leaned into the bartender (who, point of interest, rather resembled Muscles) and requested something, anything, with a manly splash of Hendrick’s. Dude obliged me with a really quite excellent Aviation and once I got halfway through it, I felt almost up to meeting my peers.

And let me tell you guys: if you’re a blogger, there’s nothing more liberating than spending an evening in the company of your peers. Dudes who get things like taking pics of food and libations, being outrageous for fodder, and all the backstabby drama on 20SB – I mean, jesus, sign me up all night long. Emrlds and Peter had a multi-tweet exchange about Emrlds’ (excellent) drink while they were sitting three feet away from each other.

After a while, two other bloggers Steven and Alison walked in. “Who are they?” I hissed to Emrlds, “What are their blogs?” She lowered her voice and replied: “They’re tumblr people.”

Ah my friggin’ homeland. I love it. (And before you accuse me of webhost-ism, the marginalized tumblr people were completely cool. Don’t hate.)

Still, the whole site felt a little like a round of speed-dating (who are you? who are you on your blog? How long you been at it? What platform?) until – until. The night broke up very pleasantly, and when the girls begged off, Peter and I headed to the Cambridgeside Galleria to grab cigarettes slash restroom. On the way, we realized we were hungry and decided to grab a bite at Cheesecake Factory.

Hold the phone, guys. A hot gay guy and yours truly, fag-hagging it up at the most bourg eatery this side of TGI Friday’s?! Holy jazzhands, kids, I’m finally back in my element. Or back in high-school. Either/or.

Peter — who is one of the all-time great dudes — and I ended up having a beautiful ladies’ night, discussing vital and hilarious topics including but not limited to: our server’s hoohahs, why boys are dumb, and the stark haunting ladyhood of Barbra Streisand in Funny Girl. Siiiiigh. I’m in heaven.

The Verdict: Despite the fact that I had about nineteen and a half panic attacks on the way to the tweet-up (oh god, they won’t think I’m funny. I’m not as cute as I write – someone’ll say something! What if no one there reads my blog?!), this ended up being a divine night with some really quite outstanding dudes.

So much so, in fact, that I issue to you gorgeous Boston Bloggahs (and blogficionados) a solemn vow: let’s get the frig together the week after next to sing karaoke. Yes? No? You guys in?! If so, I’ll be the xanax-popping neurotic brunette belting “Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy”.

[Also, I never do this, but if you have a few minutes to remind yourself to be a better person, I thoroughly recommend you check out The Meanest Mom’s funny and beautiful entry today.]

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