Anyone who calls me knows that I am notorious for letting my voicemail inbox become cluttered. I don’t love the voicemails. Why? Well, mainly because I feel like they aren’t necessary. I saw that you called (thanks to that nifty caller ID) so I’ll call you back. I don’t need you to tell me to call you back, I will just do it. Promise.

At any rate, I have noticed recently that I’ve become a “voicemail rambler” and I don’t know why or when this happened. You know what I’m talkin’ bout. One of those people who just talks forever to your voicemail as if they are actually speaking to you. I’ve come across some voicemail ramblers that will actually ask you a question in the message, as if they totally forgot you can’t reply. My good friend Staci, bless her heart, is the ultimate voicemail rambler. It’s awesome. She will leave you a voicemail that is a minimum of three minutes long, in which she tells you who is driving like a maniac in front of her, what she just saw on a commercial, etc. It is one of those endearing qualities that I love about her, and no matter how much I want to press “7” to delete, I just have to listen to the entire voicemail because it’s so entertaining.

Lately, and certainly not on purpose, I find myself talking incessantly on voicemails. I noticed it last night when I left a message for a friend. I said the same thing three times, just in three different ways. Then, I did it again on a message for my realtor. I have to put a stop to this. Perhaps I should adopt the method that my friend Lauren and I used to use. It went a little something like this: “Lauren. Mandi. Call. Bye.” It addresses the person you called, tells them who you are, what you want, and gives a closing statement – all in about 2 seconds. Try it, folks.* Together we can end voicemail rambling.

*unless your name is Staci

One time, right after college, when I was living on the Isle of Palms with my girlfriends, we had one of those conversations where we discussed all the things we could’ve done, would’ve done, and should’ve done while we were in college. It reminded us of an episode of Sex and The City that we had watched (repeatedly, I might add – we had every season on DVD – including one season we “borrowed” from our guy friends because we figured guys didn’t have any business owning a season of SATC anyway) called, “Coulda, Woulda, Shoulda.” The list of things we talked about (and wrote down, like idiots) will never go public, as most of the things on said list were quite controversial. And although our coulda woulda’s were mostly about silly boys (and not about real life goals or plans), it was a fun night…and it still makes us laugh to this day.

While I was in Washington, DC, this week for work, I thought about the “coulda, woulda, shoulda” concept in a more serious way than before. Being there at 29, I realized that there was something that I wish I would have done, could have done, and should have done – but I did not do. And suddenly, it seems, the chance has passed me by. Even though the thought had crossed my mind before, this was the first time that I realized that I would never actually be able to accomplish something I had wanted to. This, my friends, was tough to take.

The first time I visited DC was on a trip with my mom, brother and my Aunt Betty. I was in the 8th grade, and I thought I had died and gone to heaven. The walking around endlessly to see every tourist spot imaginable was excruciating, and I can recall a pretty ugly argument between my brother and I outside the Hard Rock Cafe…but I left Washington with one thought: I will live here one day because I will work in one of these government buildings where all the “action” happens.

I’ve accomplished many things that I’m proud of, even surprised about, but I’ve never lived in DC and I doubt I ever will. (I mean, I guess could run for office one day, but then there’s that pesky list out there…and that kind of puts and end to that.) And even though I’m ok with that, it’s still a sad realization that I’m past the point in my life where I could go anywhere, do anything, and just let things fall into place once I got there.

Sigh, I’m all grown up now. Old and responsible. It’s not so bad, really, but I suddenly have the urge to be 21 again. Not for long, mind you, just a weekend. Charleston, anyone?

Holy moly, I did it again. I neglected to give a birthday shout out to one of the nicest, smartest, best dressed (and just great in general) guys I know (seriously ladies, your mama would heart him at hello), Ben T. My apologies – and Happy Belated Birthday!

Where? At the tanning bed. I know, I know, I shouldn’t go to the tanning bed. It’s dangerous, will give me wrinkles and make me look old before my time, etc. I don’t go all the time, just once a week, so get off my back already. Thanks.

Anyhow, if you sit around and wait your turn in a tanning salon long enough, you’ll see some interesting and unlikely patrons. I mean, lots o’ peeps get their tan on. Not only am I amazed at how there doesn’t seem to be an age limit on tanning, but especially by the men who go. This week, I saw a man in work boots come in and use the Ultra Bed. Is it just me, or do work boots and tanning beds not exactly mix? I respect that Manual Labor Man wants a tan, but I suddenly had a desperate need to know why. Does he have a tropical vacation coming up and need a base tan? Does he just like for his legs to be bronzed? Is he preparing for some sort of construction worker’s calendar photo shoot?

I really wanted to ask, but I sat silently and pretended to be focused on my BlackBerry.

Dear Miss California USA,
Let me begin by telling you that I am a lover of pageants. I am. I’ve loved them since I could say the word tiara, and maybe even before. I don’t particularly care for those creepy kid pageants where they give children wigs and false eyelashes, but that’s neither here nor there. The fact remains that I don’t hate the pageants.

When I saw you the other night, you were in my top three. I thought to myself, “That Miss California, she’ll be tough to beat.” Taller than a pine tree, flawless skin and makeup, the perfect shade of blonde and eyebrows…you, Miss Cali, had it all going for you. And then you spoke.

If only you had answered the actual question, I think you would have been fine. But instead, you began rambling about “your country” and “no offense” and whatnot, and you just didn’t really make a whole lot of sense. Here’s what my pageant coach used to tell me (and by pageant coach, I mean my mom, but it is still good advice): “Think about what they asked. Answer the question by using part of what they asked as a guide. Keep it brief.” I’m going to throw in some more advice for you. It’s called, know your audience. Most of the judges were not what we would call conservative. Especially Perez Hilton, who asked you the question. I mean, look at Perez. He’s not straight, sweetie.

Now don’t get all huffy, I’m not suggesting that you should have gone against your belief system while answering the question. I am suggesting that you should have and could have answered the question in an intelligent, articulate way and still have gotten your point across. If so, you might be rockin’ that huge tiara and living in Trump Tower right now. But, I’m sure Californians will welcome you back with open arms. Because California, of all places, has no homosexual population whatsoever. Best of luck.
Love,
M

This seems like a good time to tell those of you who may have “just tuned in” to my blog that there are a few things I do on the reg around here. They are:

• A Letter
• Today’s Yays
• I Love/Hate What You’re Wearing
• Song Lyrics That Fit My Life
• Does Anyone Else?

Up next, a letter.

After I signed a boat load of papers, they gave me the keys to this…

Confession: On someone older than 10 years of age, Lilly Pulitzer dresses make me woozy.

I don’t know if it’s the patterns, or the colors, or the combination of both – but her clothes make me feel like I might have a seizure.

Do you remember those books, the “Chicken Soup for the Soul” ones? I do, and while I don’t bust mine from 1999 out very often (or ever, I’m pretty sure it went in the yard sale pile a few years back), there are some things that will always be the “chicken soup” for my soul.

When I need a little boost, the following things lift me up:
-Watching the movie Someone Like You, because I think of the house on Rutledge Avenue in Charleston, and watching it over and over again with the girls.
-Saltines with thousand island dressing, because it reminds me of being at my Aunt Patty’s house after cheerleading.
-A golf cart ride, because it reminds me of being 13.
-My mama’s broccoli casserole, because it’s the best.
-The lake (any lake), because I grew up with one as my “backyard.”
-Watching Sex and The City, because that was just good television – and they had more relationship troubles than any of us.
-Nancy Margaret’s house, because I just feel better when I’m there.
-My dog, Wallace, because he’s always happy to see me.
-Gchat, because as silly as it sounds, I solve a lot of life’s problems on that thing.
-Being around my childhood friends, because even though I threw up on the playground in front of the entire grade, wore purple glasses and ugly prom dresses – they loved me anyway.
-Listening to music by John Mayer or Jack Johnson, because it reminds me of college.
-Finding quotes that fit something I’m feeling, because I’m not as eloquent as I’d like to be.

And because you know I love a video link, here’s a Sex and the City clip that makes me laugh every time I see it. It involves Rogaine and a chewed up pair of Manolos, so you know it’s good.

My posts this week aren’t all that great, but I’m not on a normal schedule. I got up at 4:00am this morning, ok? Give a sista a break.

Anyway, I’ve found the love of my life…

Hot damn, right? I heart golf.