Secrets Do Make Friends....

Hey girl heyy loyal Stay Blonde Ski Local readers! I'm Tami and I blog over at Friday Morning Buzz. Today Kaylin and I decided to share stories about our "secrets". Well, you might not know this about me--in fact, if you're reading this, you might not know me at all. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Tami, and I'm a total basket case.

Struggle bus. Front row.

You see, from the outside, I kiiiind of look like I have my shit together. I have a full-time big girl job (just got a new one, in fact). I take care of a rambunctious pup, two very particular felines, and one lovable piece of work I call a boyfriend. Most days I show up on time, get my recommended four servings of vegetables, and sometimes even put a few miles on my running shoes. But most of the time, under it all, I'm one hot ass mess.

Exhibit A: We're going out to dinner on a Friday night. Should be a blast, right? Wrong. I want Mexican. John wants BBQ (again). We go back and forth for a few minutes, and he gives in. Great, right?! Wrong again. Why don't we just do BBQ like you wanted, babe? Actually, I really don't want pulled pork again. I really want soft tacos. But, no, it's your turn to choose. But I reallllly want tacos!

What should be a mindless decision turns into a long, drawn out, torturous affair to which my boyfriend finally throws his hand up in the air says something like 'What do you WANT me to say right now?!'

The truth is, I have no idea. I really don't.

Take another example, after my first day of work earlier this week. The day had gone smoothly--perfectly, even. But when I got home, I just started to fall apart. Our landlord was there waiting at the door, wanting to get inside with a bunch of gear to finish painting a wall. The dog was jumping around like an utter madman, as if my calves had suddenly turned into juicy steaks he needed to devour immediately. The phone was blowing up with calls from my mom, John, and friends, checking in to see how my first day went. To top it all off, when I reached in the fridge to grab the ice cold beer I'd been dreaming about all day, the Landshark box was empty.

And I just lost it. Right there in the living room of our rental house, apropos of nothing at all catastrophic, I broke down in tears. Who does that? I do.

Is this a cry for help? Maybe. But more likely it's me looking for a little validation, for someone to throw back all the crazy I'm putting out there there and tell me I'm not the only one who will go to the mall, buy something, get home, decide I hate what I bought, go back to return it, and decide to keep the damn thing after all. Men are right. Women are crazy. Or maybe it's just me.

So that's my secret. Under this put-together office ensemble is a raving lunatic who spent fifteen minutes looking for her car keys and also probably forgot to put on deodorant. You're welcome.

If you're a little cray cray too, you can read more of my antics here.

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