Disclaimer: Before my friends get offended – everyone I know is cool.

A while back, I blogged about a makeup line called Edward Bess. Well, Mr. Bess has an advertisement out that includes all of his sisters – and it’s simply beautiful.
Second from the left is a former roommate of mine, named Bess (no, they didn’t name her Bess Bess, Edward’s “for real” last name is different that his “famous person” last name).

Sigh…she’s always been that freakin‘ pretty. Oh, and she lives in Charleston. Could you be any more envious? Because I don’t think I could.

I’ve got something to share with the men out there. It’s not pretty, but it’s the truth.

Here goes:
Most women are stalkaholics.

Yep, we will check your phone, we will check your email/facebook/computer history, we will drive by your house, we will look in your wallet, dresser drawer or pretty much anything we can get our hands on. And, before you go there with your shocked expression, let me just say this: if you’re dumb enough to have a password we can guess, then you deserve all the stalking we dish out.

I know this beautiful and otherwise stable woman who once checked her boyfriend’s phone records via his cell phone bill and called the numbers she didn’t recognize. Why? Well, simply put: because she was looking for something. Something that would justify her trepidation about the relationship. I know another woman who checked her boyfriend’s mail. His mail! What is this, 1985? Who sends anyone anything in the mail?

Naturally, if you trust the person you are with – there should be no reason to snoop. But, as women, we have a god given need to know everything. If you’re southern, you have an extra dose of the “need to know” – which can make being a non-stalker extremely difficult.

Being a stalkaholic is like any other addiction. Once you start, it’s very hard to stop. My suggestion, obviously, is for women to fight the urge to be nosey and just trust your guy. Don’t “fall off the wagon” and snoop. If you do, there’s no going back. You’ll find yourself going through his text messages and emails like a junkie. Junkies, ladies…they aren’t attractive.

I’m currently giving that whole non-stalking thing a whirl and so far, so good. Just don’t dare me to guess his passwords – because I do love a challenge.

yay for:
my brother and sister-in-law finding out that it’s a GIRL
a cute new skirt
meigs, who makes me laugh
low carb yogurt that i’m obsessed with
a super easy curly hair day
weather so good you can ride with your windows open and the music up
my mom’s birthday (it was tuesday)
thursdays
text messages with krissee
polka dot calendars
taking my dog for a walk on my lunch break
this mascara
a real housewives of nyc night
it being light outside when i leave work
wine and cheese plans tomorrow night
looking at weekend pictures for the 100th time and still laughing at them

This is going to be short, so I apologize in advance.

Feeling lost without The Bachelor on last night, I flipped through my “guide” until I saw that Fatal Attraction was on. It has been my personal belief for years that all men should be forced to watch that movie. If they did, they would understand that they only think they know crazy. Take what they think is crazy and multiply it by about 1000, and you get Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction.

It ain’t worth it fellas. It just ain’t worth it.

Friday night, some of my favorite ladies and I celebrated the upcoming wedding of sweet gal named Lauren A. She’s from South Georgia (yes, people in South Georgia actually specify what part of the state they are from) and has the accent to match – and is just as pretty as a picture. Her fiance? Well, folks, he’s a…Yankee. I’m not sure how this happened but, these two crazy kids fell in l-o-v-e, and Lauren’s fiance even convinced her to move to Chicago. It should be said that she hasn’t lost the accent one bit.

I wish I could give you all the details of the night (which included a limo ride with a driver named Cecil who had a salt and pepper mullet), but I can’t. I will tell you, though, that at times I truly felt like I was on a combination episode of The Hills and The Jersey Shore. It’s nights like this that remind me how very 30 I am, yet at the same time, that 30 is the new 21.

I’ll leave you with one of our toasts for the night: Thank you, Abe Lincoln. Without you, this union of North vs. South might never have happened.

• Blank has Diarrhea, Nausea, cold sweats, and back aches.
• Blank’s day just turned into a WAR PATH!!!! Ex-wives can be the most hateful, selfish, lying, THINGS this world could ever see!!!!!!
• Blank is trying to make babies but is being unsuccessful.
• Blank has a husband with smelly feet!
• Blank’s boss is a two face..back stabbin..sorry mother beep…
• Blank needs to shave her hairy legs today. lol.
• Blank is out of my meds. Hope I can get them tomorrow.

(Editor’s note: Most of these had mispellings, but I corrected them so you would recognize the words.)

I was in Georgia’s capital city on business yesterday. It will come as no surprise to anyone who is breathing that lots of conversations focused on budget cuts and revenue shortfalls. However, what may come as a surprise to you is how many people were talking about a campaign to change the state’s bird. What’s to talk about, you ask?

The campaign, called Flip the Birds, asks Georgians to sign a petition to change the State Bird to the Chicken. Yes, y’all, they want us to eat our state bird. The best part? It was created by a “regular joe” named Chris Cunningham, who is the owner/president of the WifeSaver restaurant franchise – popular, of course, for their fried chicken.

The videos on the Flip the Birds website really gave me a chuckle. I’m embedding one where they trash the current state bird, the Brown Thrasher. Forget about the problems of our world (and your own world) for one minute, and enjoy the silliness of why “The Brown Thrasher is Wrong for Georgia.”

If you want to hear more, visit the website.

Thank goodness those Orange County and Atlanta hussies are outta here. The “real” Real Housewives have returned! The lovable ladies from NYC will be coming into my living room every Thursday night for a whole season. The ridiculous drama and awesome one-liners from Bethenny began last week, and I’m already hooked (again).

On the first episode we had to endure Ramona walking around in a less-than-full-coverage bikini, which left me wondering…at what age does a bikini need to be replaced by a one piece? Ramona is well into her 40’s, and although she has a great body, I feel like the bikini was a bit much. I’m thinking I will cut myself off from the two pieces at 35.

In other news, I am still unable to comprehend 98% of what Kelly says, but judging by the puzzled glances of Jill and Luann, I am not alone.

Soul patches. I’m not a fan. I want someone to hold Apollo Anton Ohno down and Nair his chin. (He should also rethink the link of his sideburns, but I digress.)

Is anybody else with me?

Last week, I was sitting at home watching the news, when I looked outside and saw a man park his truck, get out – and head towards my front door. Being the chicken that I am (and having just seen a crime related story), I decided to not answer my door to the strange man. He knocked a few times, and Wallace barked ferociously back at him. I stayed out of sight, and after he was gone I called my mom to analyze who it could have been and what they could have wanted.

My explanation, of course, was that he was a serial killer looking for his next unsuspecting victim. He would probably ask to use my phone because his truck was “broken down” and I, being the kind hearted gal that I am, would’ve invited him in and been TOAST. My mom wasn’t so convinced, but she was glad that I didn’t answer the door to a stranger. I listened in elementary school, thankyouverymuch.

Three days later, I went out onto my front porch to make sure that it was dry from a recent downpour (side note: Lord, if you are reading this, it’s ok to send someone else some rain. Perhaps Arizona? And, also, I’m sorry about the language.). And there, right next to one of my rocking chairs, was an apple pie and a note. A welcome package from a church I went to the week before.

Christian women baked me a pie and had it delivered, and I thought they were trying to kill me.