Sunday, November 27, 2011

An Open Letter to...THE CHRISTMAS HIPPO!

Dear Christmas Hippo,

Well, looks like she asked and she did receive. She wanted you and only you would do, and now you sit in her garage. If I may ask, how often are you getting your promised massage? I bet not often, right? She can barely do her weekly chores of trash emptying and Grandma time. Gee whiz, buddy--I am sorry.

Listen, I heard about the chimney incident on Christmas Eve. That little child said Santa wouldn't mind, but we both know from the scars on your tummy that he minded alright. Not only did he mind, but that old man struggled! He had no choice but to enter through that dirty chimney hole! He's Santa! That's his thing! I know you're a Hippo, but let's talk logic here. It's hard to stuff a fat animal down a chimney! Yes, I called you fat. You are a fat water dinosaur! You belong in the water, not in a moderatly sized claw foot tub in a suburban two-car garage! You're a water dinosaur! DINOSAUR! OF THE WATER!

Chins up, Christmas Hippo. It will get better for you. Here's the plan. When that selfish little bratty girl goes to sleep this Christmas Eve, I'm going to break into her room, verbally shame her as she sleeps, grab a Fresca from the kitchen, find the garage key, enjoy the Fresca, open the garage, empty your tub, get another Fresca from the kitchen, enjoy half of the second Fresca, and get you the heck out of that 2-car garage. Meet me by the Hello Kitty bike Santa brought that selfish little bratty girl last Christmas that she never touched after she saw you standing there. I'll be the girl holding the two cans of Fresca!



Sunday, September 4, 2011

Oh, hi. I'm back.

Oh, hi. Yup, I'm back at the blog! Crazy to be back. Ha. Ya. Funny. (awkward silence) You well? Well, that's good, I guess. Me too. Right. Ok. Well. Hmmm...Alright.

....Are you mad at me? Are we in a fight? Mmmk, well I'm not even going to insult you with an apology this time. Summer happened. I was enjoying it. People drift apart. It happens. It doesn't mean I don't care about you. No really! Look, I know you're upset. All I can do is promise that it won't happen again...until next summer, or until I get really busy again. You understand, right?

....can we hug? Please? (Hug your computer. Do it. Do it RIGHT NOW!).....Wow, I know I feel better. Do you?

I love you. Keep reading. I'm not the girl who cried Blog, je promise.

Now, who's ready to hear my skewed perspective on the world?? Let's dive in!


Tuesday, June 21, 2011

Here comes the Debbie Downer...oh, and the Bride! Bum. Bum. BumBum. (RICE!)

When I was 5 my Mother’s cousin flew the whole family out to Seattle to attend her extremely lavish and gigantic fairytale wedding. As the flower girls, my sister and I wore matching white dresses that complimented our matching bowl cuts quite nicely. 5-year old Madde thought this wedding was fabulous because her dress was soaked in sparkles and she got a McDonald’s Happy Meal on the flight home. 23-year old Madde has evolved into think that this wedding and most weddings are pretty redic. 
You see when I turned 23 there was a definite gigantic shift in my life. Suddenly, without warning, my friends started getting engaged and popping out real, live babies! WHAAAT? Because my childhood bowl haircut screwed with my oxygen-intake levels, I have been left incredibly self-involved, and subsequently I can’t help but wonder what this whole wedding business says about me. Here I am at age 23, in what I’ve liked to dub my “Second Puberty,” being distracted by cute boys and playing the field, while my dear childhood friends have found their soul mates and are starting their families. It seemed like just yesterday the same friends were dressing like hussies and flaunting their foobs (future boobs) for any boy who has just sprouted 2 chest hairs. What happened?? When did we stop being little girls and start becoming women? 
(....Alright, let’s talk about the elephant in the room....Yes, I just nearly quoted a Britney Spears song, but stay with me on this one!)
Weddings are a big deal, I hear. Upon reflection, I realized that my 5-year old fabulous wedding experience was the only significant wedding I had ever attended, and the extent of my wedding knowledge stems from years of extensive Romantic Comedy viewing, and seeing “Bridesmaids”...Twice.   
My dear sister, with whom I shared the darling matching bowl cut, will be getting married this September, and the fam and I are beyond excited for her new marriage! We really like the boy, we really like her, we really like this wedding. She’s 4 years older than I and I still think...”Woah! You’re a baby! How are you getting married right now?” I had what Oprah likes to call an “Ah-ha! Moment” recently. A major “Ah-ha! Moment” that changed everything...for now. 
"Ah-ha" with me for a moment...

With weddings come Maid-of-Honor duties, gift buying anxiety, brushing up on the Chicken Dance pressure, and looking appropriate/ showering responsibilities. There are multiple levels of anxiety when it comes to wedding talk with my friends and fam. 
Level 1: 
Insane pressure that this one day has to be ultimate perfection, and all involved are responsible for facilitating the success of this event. This is the level in which you feel like the ultimate wedding planner and imagine reality TV show crews following you around and capturing all this high-stress drama. 
Level 2: 
Bizarre self-involved stress time in which you linger for a moment and wonder if YOU will ever get married yourself. I'm assuming this is a self-soothing mechanism that is the only thing that prevents level 1 from making your head shoot off from the stress of the flower arrangements. 
 Level 2.5: 
The level where you try to explain to your family and pals just exactly WHY you are NOT bringing a “plus one” to the wedding. At some point they will get this weird look on their faces and then say, “Don’t you have a fun gay bestie you could bring! You guys could wear matching outfits!” After crying from the judgement factor, you then consider bringing an actual straight man, but opt out of it because you’re not ready to explain to other guests how he’s NOT your boyfriend, just a friend, and then they proceed through the buffet line and talk about how they always figured you were a lesbian, and how someone had heard you were moving to Iowa very soon with your life-partner, Janet Thunderpaws.  
Level 3:
 The most selfish of all the levels. Here is where you wonder if your dear friends or family will still have time for you in their lives after they get married and become an old maid or father-like man. :) This level requires faith and trust that no matter how fabulous their new husband or wife is, you remain even MORE fabulous. And yes, it is a competition. 
At the end of the day weddings force me to put aside my cynical side for a day and really believe in everlasting love and adoration between two people who love each other. It’s easy to make jokes and be a Debbie Downer when it comes to love. Hell! I’ve devoted over 200 blogs to this very topic (excluding my recent blog about my belly can’t love a belly button...or can you??? I bet Janet Thunderpaws loves hers), but weddings are a time for optimism and the celebration of love. So, with the impending weddings of my dear love ones, I make this promise: I will celebrate all love. 
If my extensive RomCom watching research has taught me anything it would be this, 
You can’t truly love someone else if you don’t truly believe it exists. 


Friday, June 17, 2011

An Ode to my Belly Button

(Warning: I am about to over-share.)

I'm not sure if I was nibbled on by a bug or what happened, but my belly button has been giving me some grief lately.  Yes, my belly button. It upsets me. To deal with the angst, I offer you a very special blog entry....

On Ode To My Belly Button

Hey there little button man.
Hi. Hello. Bonjour. 
Look at how you sit there and stare at me with your little button eye. 
Staring. With. Your. Button. Eye
Yes, I'm looking at you in a mirror. 
That is the only way I can see you face to face. 
Like. A. Man. Button.

When I stare down at you from up here, it is like I am a bird. 
Flutter. Flutter. Fly. Fly. 
A bird that stares at belly buttons as she soars on by. 
Don't worry. I'm a friend, not a foe.
I shall not try to eat you like a tree mouse. 
Chompy. Chomp. Crunch party.

Belly button, you have always been there for me. 
I mean, where else would you be? 
Belly. Button. Convention. In. Santa. Fe. 
I'm assuming someone I know tied you to me when I was born. 
Twisty. Twisty. Tie, tie. 
Thank you for staying around for the party. 
Enjoy. The. Punch. 

I know sometimes I hide you from the public.
Sensible tshirts and legging tops have kept you my little secret. 
I wanted it that way. 
Secret. Belly. Button. Spy. 
I don't think poorly of you. 
You're a great pal. 
Always there to give me a squeeze. 
Belly. Button. Squeeze. Party.
If I could squeeze you like a navel orange...and make juice...
I wouldn't. 

I keep you lint free as a gift to you from me. 
I don't want you feeling like you're some type of second-rate citizen. 
You're important, just like all the other buttons. 
Staples. Easy. Button. Ain't. Got. Nothin. On. You

Never leave my tummy belly button. 
Stay with me forever. 

We'll get through this. 

Promise. Promise. Pinky swear. 

Thursday, June 16, 2011


Dear Dogs Hanging Out of Car Windows,

Nothing, I repeat, NOTHING can make me happier than seeing you guys hangin' out of the window of a speeding automobile. Tongues flappin' in the breeze, fur flying with wild abandon, a single doggie ear slapping against the car door frame. This is the picture of summer joy. 

I love how much you love that highway wind. I do worry about flying objects sometimes, but not for long. Why? Because when you hang out of that car window you give me all sorts of hope. And my biggest hope is that a semi doesn't fly by and smack your little dog head off, but that won't happen, right?? Give me hope, doggies. Give me hope. 

Sure, would I like you guys strapped in safe in the back seat of the car? 

Maybe. But if we held you down, how would you bring me so much joy on the highway? HOW WOULD YOU DO THAT? 

Keep pokin' your heads out of those cars, gang! I can't promise I won't run into you with my car because I'm so distracted by the adorability factor of the situation, but if I do run into you, forgive me, and when you get back from the vet, don't stop highway head pokin' outin'! 



Wednesday, June 15, 2011

"OMG!!! PUT YOUR FACE ON MY FACE!" The Tale of a Drunken Texter

So I went to a party held in a fort the other night (that's another story...don't ask. No seriously, don't ask). Perhaps it was the fort, perhaps it was the heat, whatever the perhaps may have been.. people were in fine drunken form. Some drunk chick drunkenly got my friends number that night and has continued with her drunkiness ever since. My response? Not cute.

Cellphones have been around for awhile, so you'd think people would have learned how to use them responsibly by now, but unfortunately there seems to be a grey-zone when it comes to drunk texting.

Drunk texting is Flirtexting's ugly step-sister. You know, that ugly little creature who is only let out of the basement after the dinner party guests have gone home for the evening. (Let me explain this metaphor for you. You see in this scenario the "ugly creature" is the drunk texter, the "basement" would be their soul or perhaps the bounds of their self-control, and I'm going to let the "dinner party" just be a "dinner party" because you can get super drunk at dinner parties.... if you're tacky, I guess.) 

Sure there are certainly situations in which the drunk text can happen, is forgivable and sometimes even charming, but those times are walking a very fine line. If you are sending me drunk texts from Bonnaroo while you listen to your newest fav indie band, Daddy's Little Kitten Fairy Bomb, and it requires me to have to put my phone on silent...we're in trouble. A picture text of you in a sombrero eating a corn on the cob? Cute. 12 pictures of a weird rash you found on your leg after running through a swamp? Not cute.

Drunk texting gets even more tragic when the combo of "vodka + cellphone + smitten-dom" is involved. People think that professions of love via text message with the statement "i'm super drunky...and i think you're all sorts of hot sauce!!! PUT YOUR FACE ON MY FACE!" makes it all ok. In some ways it makes it may make it worse. First, you can't say that you like someone to their face? Second, you have to be 4 vodka tonics in to have truth spew out of your blow hole? Third, putting your face on someone else's face sounds.....aggressive. This makes me sad-sauce--and intrigued?

I know what you're thinking.....Am I completely innocent of this drunken text messaging behavior? Certainly not. I enjoy a sensible cocktail buzz and reckless texting as much as the next girl, but there's a point when shame must set in. Do I enjoy my stock excuse "Ooooo supey sorry about that one! You know how I get with a few pinot grigio's under my belt! Woo!"? Certainly not. As the sender and recipient of these drunken text messages, I will say that their amusing factor just becomes a little awkward turtle sometimes.

The problem with the drunken crush texts is that eventually you will come face-to-face with the textee. And when those faces meet, they may not be face-ON-face. Why? Well mainly because you both feel supey awkward about what was said. The non-drunk one assumes that the drunk one knew exactly what was said in that text message, and the drunk one assumes that the non-drunk one will pretend like it never happened and/or profess their love to them back. It's a cycle of awkward turtle. And if that awkward turtle were mine...I'd set it free in the ocean where it didn't get cell phone reception.

Ladies and gentlemen of the world, may I ask one thing of you this summer! Please avoid cellphones and hard alcohol combinations, for they will only lead to regrettable decisions, awkward turtle faces, and possible pregnancy.

Monday, June 6, 2011

An Open Letter to...Women that Wear Bikinis as Street-wear!

Dear Women that Wear Bikinis as Street-wear, 

Ladies, ladies, ladies. As the sun has become a fixture in our daily lives, so have the winds of change that seemed to have stolen your clothes right off your body. Swimwear is appropriate for the following places: pools, beaches, tanning beds, prancing around your house and looking in mirrors after you've lost that 10 lbs you've always resented. Swimwear is NOT, I repeat, NOT appropriate for the following places: restaurants, street corners, grocery stores, the theater. 

The swimwear as street-wear phenomenon that seems to have taken over the nations youth (and sometimes the.... not so youth) is always a shock to the system when I'm walking into an establishment and remembered to bring my clothes AND put them on my body. 

Let's just think about this for a moment. Say for instance you whipped out your old lady underpants. You know, the ones you wear when your cute undies are in the laundry and you can't bear the thought of going commando! Let's say you whipped those out and wore them on a leisurely stroll down the street. What makes that so different from your bikini bottoms, ladies? The rip in the bum of the old lady unders? That weird discoloration on the left cheek fabric? The control top? Basically what I'm saying here is that when you wear your swim suit out as street-wear it is no different from prancing about in your jacked-up underwear. 

I'm just sayin....

On a separate note, I would also like to inquire where you got that suit because it's supey cutesies!


Summer lovin' had me a blast....Summer lo---wait,wait...why are you so awkward?

I'm baaaaaaaaaack!

After a short hiatus, I have returned to the blogsicles. Yay! 

I have been tirelessly out in this field researching all things love, boys, girls, questionables, chipmunks, awkward turtle situations, and many more! What did I learn in this field? Well for starters, wear sun screen. There's nothing more uncomfy than being burnt to a crisp while you're trying to get your flirt on.

So, won't you join me for my summer adventures in redic sitches and things I'll probs regret writing and putting on the internets? (I think it may be a summer of a lot of's hot out, you gots to save timesicles!)


xo, Madde

Wednesday, March 30, 2011

Balls in your face!

We're always told by our Mothers to "play the field" with men before we settle down. To try and test out all the possible superstar players before we sign onto the all-star team. As one who has no athletic skill to speak of, I find it supey challenging to "play the game".

I played softball once in middle school and the team decided I would be super strong way, way far out in the outfield. There I was, sun beating on my pale skin, nervous beads of sweat dripping from my tiny brow. My hand got super hot so I opted to take that leather paw off and place it on the grass where it would surely cool off. Suddenly...BAM!! a ball comes flying way, way far out into the outfield. I could tell by the disappointed looks on my teammates faces, this wasn't supposed to happen. Unprepared and so panic-stricken that pee streamed down my leg like Niagara Falls in a rainy season, I reached my piggy arms up to the sky...BAM!! BALL IN THE FACE! Fail.

The dating pool in your 20s is a lot like getting a ball in your face. I'm out in the outfield of the world, just waiting for a man to come around, after awhile I've taken off my leather paw because surely I don't need it, and then BAM! Balls in my face! Not literal balls...well....No, no, no. No literal balls are on my face out in public. Oh gosh, this metaphor has gone in a direction I could never have imagined. Jeeze.

Ok, what I mean to say is this: Men are like balls and I'm out in the outfield waiting to catch one. I become so distracted and bored when no balls come out in my direction, I take off my hand armor. Then suddenly out of NOWHERE comes a ball and I'm not prepared to catch it. It just hits my face. I'm just known as "Madde Ball Face" for the rest of middle school my 20s.

Basically what I'm saying is I need to learn how to catch a ball or else Ima get hit in the face.

Monday, March 28, 2011

An Open Letter to...THE CUTE OLD WOMAN WHO TOLD ME TO "F@#$ OFF!"!

Dear The Cute Old Woman Who Told Me To "F#$* OFF!",

Well, well, well, aren't we a Bitter Betty? Listen lady, you came to an interactive show that I was in and I was simply asking you where your "happy face" was? Those words coming out of your face are certainly not happy, nor are they respectful. For shame.

Where'd you get a mouth like that Toots? Ever heard of a little thing called the swear jar? Someone owes it $5! $5 seem a little steep to you, Mouth? Well perhaps you shouldn't have told me to "F*&@ off!" TWICE!

Ma'am, I am but a wee and lowly actor, working for scraps and my shift cocktail after the show, your words have cut me to the core. Interactive theater should be a positive and enlightening experience of human beings coming together to create a magical and inspiring environment of make-believe! I have a copy of the script and no where in the character descriptions page is a "cute old woman who crushes the dreams of a young actor by use of her potty mouth" ever mentioned!

Today I ask you to look in the mirror and ask yourself some questions like "What would Meryl Streep do?". I believe Meryl is a good role-model for you in your aged state. Meryl Streep would never tell a youngin' to "F*#@ Off" and neither should you.

God bless and F--WOOPS!.... God bless again.



Sunday, March 27, 2011

Me, Myself, and I: How to Date Yourself

Ooooo la la! Look! I got flowers this week! 

And who gave them to me? 
(Go on! Go on! Let your minds wander! Who do you think gave me flowers?? Ooo la la! Giggle giggle)

Well.....I'll give you some hints.

This person is kind, charming, funnyish, thoughtful, intelligent-ish, and sometimes adorable.

They like me a lot. They are lovable, capable, and gosh-darnit, people like them!

Who was it?


Yup, I bought those little daisies for myself! 

Who says you can't date yourself? I'm gonna do it! I'm just gonna do it! (Wait! Mmmk..I bet a lot of people say that's not ok. I retract that statement! No wait, no I don't. I don't retract that statement at all. Pretend like this parentheses never happened. Ugh. Now I've confused us all! You guys, I'm really sorry. I suggest you go back to the top of this blog post and start reading again, when you get to the part where I say "Who says you can't date yourself?" don't read the part in the parentheses. Just move forward. Let's just pretend this doesn't exist. Ok. Let's try this again.)

(TAKE 2)

Who says you can't date yourself? I'm gonna do it! I'm just gonna do it! There's so much pressure to find a mate, but how well do we really know the mate we already have? Me and myself: Celebrating our 23rd Anniversary on May 21st. 

So, I did a little self-reflection about me. Fun fact about me: I'm a naturally anxious human being. My friends, my pillow pets, my family, and even my doctor all think I should just chill out a wee bit. When I sat down and thought about Anxious Me, I realized I don't give myself enough lovin' (please quickly remove your mind from the gutter so that we may continue....have you retreieved it? Wonderful. Let's move on!). Sure, I eat well and I like to hit up the Y every once and awhile (When I can figure out how to use the stairmaster!!), but when was the last time I did something nice for me? 

I started trying something out, a little something here, a little something there, and you know what?? It WORKED! I wouldn't say Anxious Me is gone, but I have certainly chilled out a lot! 

So, how do you date yourself? Some tips:

1. Flowers: 
Buy yourself flowers and place them by your bed. When you wake up in the morning and smell the glorious smells of spring wafting from your bedside table, you can't help but be happy. 

2. Tea Dates: 
Take yourself out on a tea date! Go to your local Tea Garden with your favorite book and spend an hour reading and being fabulous. (If I may suggest a book title "Mr. FunnyPants" by Michael Showalter has changed my life. Pick it up.)

3. Smile Parties: 
Guess what! You got invited to a party! It's called a SMILE PARTY! And if you don't wear a smile to the SMILE PARTY, your ass is getting kicked out! When is the party? It's RIGHT NOW! Hope you have your smile swagger on! 

4. Sweeten Up! 
No one wants to date a Debbie Downer, even you! So sweeten up! I'm sure if a scientist did an experiment about people being grumpy pants, they would find that no one likes a grumpy pants. That's scientific research right there! So put a smile on your face and a song in your heart! Sweeten up! 

5. Do you like those shoes? Buy them:
Let us not get out of hand with this tip! I don't want you to end up homeless with a fabulous shoe collection, but if you see a pair that speak to you--purchase them. I guarantee that while you are dating yourself, your date will ALWAYS notice your shoes! (You know why? Because you're dating yourself!...and you bought them....Are you getting this yet?)

6. Never pass up a time to be fabulous:
It is a well-known fact that when faced with a date with another human being many people spend some time looking nice for that person. So why not look nice for yourself? Spring dresses or casual bow ties too much for you on a daily basis? Then let's start with a shower! Take one! Your self-date doesn't want a Stinky Sammy. 

7: Museums, Zoos, and Movies! Oh My! 
That new exhibit at the Minneapolis Institute of Art calling your name? Go to it! 
Baby animals being born at a rapid rate at the Minnesota Zoo? Go to them!
Want to see the new "Jane Eyre" movie and have a good cry? Go to it!
There is absolutely no reason for one to miss out on the fabulousness of the city around them because they are a party of one! Go out into the world and see the things you love! The great part about this? Invite others to double date with you and yourself!

So why is dating yourself so important? Because new men come and go, but you are with yourself forever. Get to know you! You'll like them a lot! 

An Open Letter to...Stairmasters!

Dear Stairmasters,

You deceiving little monster, you! Yesterday I decided to "shake things up!" at the gymsicles. What a mistake that was! There I was, standing in front of you like an idiot! Why you gotta be so hard to understand, Stairmaster??

I came to you for a session of bum-bum toning and all you gave me was a session of looking stupid in front of all the other gym-goers at the Y. Here's what truly blows my mind, Stairmaster. I ALREADY MASTERED HOW TO WALK UP STAIRS! I went to a prep-school for gods sake! Do you think we even needed to be taught stair skills at a prep-school? No, we did not. We were such smarty-pants they just ASSUMED we could walk up stairs.

I have been graduated from said fancy school for many years now, is it possible I forgot how to walk up stairs? No, it is not. So here I am, in front of a Stairmaster in my early 20s baffled at it's functionality. Here's why you're so tricky, Stairmaster. YOU'RE NOT ACTUALLY STAIRS! I came to you excepting something of a stationary escalator and all I got were two platforms that rapidly fell to the floor when I stepped upon them.

Stairmaster, let's make a compromise. I'll leave you alone and you actually do what you came to do...BE STATIONARY MECHANICAL STAIRS!

If you need me you can find me on the elliptical.



Sunday, March 6, 2011


Dear People Who Were ACTUALLY Raised By Wolves,

I'm really sorry about what we've been saying about you guys. Seriously, I'm really, really sorry. Please don't eat me, I said I was sorry. Put your fangs away, I'm apologizing for the world, you guys. 

I'm sure your wolf upbringing was really great, in fact--I KNOW it was a great. My mother certainly didn't teach me how to make a bed out of sticks, leaves, and the skin of a bear! That is really a life skill that you can take with you down the road. You've got a beautiful singing howl! Everyone in your choir thinks so. Your dad is really nice, a little bit of an attitude of "I'm so awesome 'cuz I'm a dude!!", but super nice. Your wolf family really prepared you for the world. 

So, I guess what I'm saying is I'm sorry. I'm sorry that everyone has spoken about you in such a negative way. I know it's not fair and I'm sure it makes you sad/hungry to eat people sometimes. I hope you can forgive the world and we can cut it out with this wolf hate-speech. 

Hey! Next time I'm having deer at my house for dinner, you should totes come over for a nibble! 



Saturday, March 5, 2011

Where's Lame-O????

"Where's Waldo?" books always chapped my hide as a young pup. I spent countless days, hours, and minutes of my youth searching high and low for a weird man dressed like a candy cane. Guess what....I rarely found him.

We were led to believe that Waldo was the "perfect man". For if he weren't perfect, why would we spend so much time looking for his stupid face?

 I looked high, I looked low. I looked for him in the ocean, I looked for him in the town square. I looked for him in Egypt, I looked for him in London. I was always looking for Mr. Waldo Perfect Pants! 

And then it would happen, there he was! I had finally found him! Hiding behind that monkey in the middle of the rainforest! There was Mr. Waldo Perfect Pants, himself! I had found him! Woo!! what? Do I just stare at him forever? The joy of finding him certainly couldn't last forever! I was forced to turn the page. Start a new journey with him. 

With each new page, I grew more and more frustrated. The more times I found Waldo and then awkwardly stared at him for an extended period of time, the more I realized how incredibly flawed this little man truly was. He was constantly on the run, couldn't make a commitment to me on any page, and wouldn't stop wearing that stupid-ass hat! Waldo wasn't perfect, he was just a lame dude with commitment issues and a bad wardrobe! 

When I look back at the books now, I'm far more interested in the characters that surround commitment-phobe Waldo. That handsome man selling fruit in the town square, or the man walking the 14 dogs through Paris. Waldo never brought me food, nor did he even suggest that he had an interest in animals! 

We spend our days searching for what we think the perfect man or lady is, combing through the crowds of gentlemen callers and adorable ladies, searching for that one person that we think is what we want and need! When we stop looking for that Mr/Mrs. Perfect Pants for just one second, we will stumble upon the ones who are actually the most perfect for us. The ones who's quirks are out in the open, the ones who aren't so insecure that they have to hide behind a fountain while you are putting yourself out there in the town square (in the completely non-prostitute way, of course!). And maybe, just maybe, if we're lucky enough...Mr. Perfect will be wearing an adorable hat! 

Wednesday, February 23, 2011

GUEST BLOGGER TIME! WOO! Emily Schmidt's "Awkward Times"

.....5, 6, 7 8! IT'S GUEST BLOGGER TIME! WOO!

*an improviser
*a smarty-pants
*an NYU grad (ooo la la)
 *a super funny lady
*my friend...jealous?

I'm super pumped to welcome Ms. Emily Schmidt to my blog today! You must think I'm a lazypants and don't like writing my own blog, but fear not, Judgey McJudgersocks...I just think Emily is super funny. Here's what's great about Emily, she actually went to college and got a degree in writing-related stuff. I ain't got no edumacation in that written word thang. No sireeeeee.

So please do me a favor and give a round of applause from your laptop for....EMILY SCHMIDT!


Awkward is playing dress-up in kindergarten and having feet too big to fit in your friend’s mom’s heels. Awkward is a fifth grader forced to listen to her elderly teacher talk about her miscarriage. Awkward is your freshman roommate trying to burn you with a lighter in the dorm elevator as a “joke” and so “you can know what it feels like.”

“Awkward” became a part of our everyday vernacular again some years ago, like those stupid tiny-heeled boots that make me look like a circus monkey. Everyone and everything was suddenly awkward. For those of us really and truly cursed with the inability to make correct social decisions, this is still painful. That was our word, really all we could cling to in the middle of the night - that, and our mismatched bedsheets.

Suddenly, it was perfectly acceptable for my genetically-favored classmates to apply the wrong shade of lip gloss and, “OMG it was SOO awkward!!” Is it? Is it really that awkward when I have to walk around un-showered and wearing a garbage bag for Newspaper hazing? Do you understand how greasy my hair gets if I don’t wash it every morning? Yeah. Let’s rethink.

Being awkward became hip, and that’s when events in my life got a little bit out of control. Hispters made things complicated when they introduced the everyday personal application of irony. Suddenly, I could buy a Betty White t-shirt instead of having to make my own with iron-on Google images. What was cool? What was weird? How is anyone who is normally socially disadvantaged supposed to navigate the irony?

What happened was that people started rewarding me for finding myself in awkward situations and it became funny - a novelty, like kids gathering around a fireplace to listen to their decrepit grandpa tell stories about the war (this never happened to anyone, ever).

My interior flow chart is permanently effed. Instead of appropriately avoiding bad situations, I head straight for them, as if they were free Jimmy Fallon mustache rides. Where everyone else would take a sharp left, back to start, I follow the arrows around the contorted map until even my therapist has no words for me.

It’s subconscious. If someone doesn’t want to be friends with me, due to whatever circumstance, it becomes my personal goal to make that person my best friend. I will go out of my way to say hi, invite them to events and generally create various uncomfortable situations. I don’t even realize I’m doing it until it’s too late. These, of course, make for funny stories but at what price? My dignity? Well...that’s long gone.

Really, it’s no one’s fault but my own. I was born this way, consistently taller and lurkier than all of my peers and ready with the most inappropriate comment possible. Maybe I should be thanking hipsters for making me and my actions more acceptable to society. Instead of being shunned, I’m now part of an elite group that will unwillingly sacrifice themselves for a truly awkward story.

So, I guess the next time you find yourself surrounded by TOO MANY attractive and interesting boys, all vying for your attention, be more delicate when choosing to describe the circumstance. That, my lady friend, is not awkward. Leave this word to those of us who, if ever in that situation, would accidentally bring up our periods with food in our teeth and find a way to deeply offend at least two of them. And then fall down while trying to get off the bar stool gracefully. That is the correct application of the word.

Monday, February 21, 2011


Traffic has been wacky these days and allowed me a lot of daydreaming time in the car. I have noticed an amazing new trend with drivers...NOSE PICKERS! I now present to you an OPEN LETTER TO NOSE PICKIN' CAR DRIVERS!


Whatcha lookin' for up there, folks? Gold? Treasure? Your keys? Your license and registration?

Whatever you're searching for--I can see you really digging from over here in my car. And let me tell you, it is intense what is happening over there. 

I suppose I can appreciate your private nose picking time. I would much rather have you digging in your car, rather than a table next to me at Chino, but I must say it's hard to sip on my Jamba Juice while I watch you scavenging for your breakfast. 

I commend your perseverance at stoplights, and even your multi-tasking abilities while driving, picking, and singing along to Katy Perry's "Firework". Well done, chap.

I wonder many things while I watch you at this stop light. May I list them for you?

1. Do you have a tiny dashboard kleenex kit you could use?
2. Do you sanitize your steering wheel before letting a valet park it?
3. What happens when you find what you're looking for?
4. Is this something you do alone, or just while the kids from the carpool are in the back of the van?
5. Have you considered tinted windows?
6. Is this a self-soothing method you use to deal with stressful traffic situations?
7. Do you know I'm watching you?
8. Do you care that I'm watching you?
9. Do you do this with hopes that it will encourage me to pick as well?

...and finally!


Mmmk. Just some thoughts for you. Happy picking!



If I were stuck in the snow, would you help me?

Snowpocolypse 2.0 hit the Twin Cities yesterday and today. 

Oh, joy! More snow(Booooo!)

There is a general unspoken rule among most Minnesotans when it comes to snow time. If you are in the vicinity of a person in a stuck car around blizzard season, you stop and help them. Today I experienced some of the most appalling behavior by some young gents EVER.

As my Jetta attempted to get out of a snowbank at the end of my ally today, I came upon 4 or 5 twenty-something dudes complete with snow-blowers and shovels. As I got down on my hands and knees in the snow trying to dig my way out, these dudes just stared at me. Finally I got up from the snow and asked to borrow one of their shovels. They threw it in my general direction and then continued to stand and chat by their pick-up truck. There I was on all fours, then on my twos, digging and shoveling. Not ONCE did these very strong men offer to even push the Jetta for a second. I dug for quite some time and then stuck the shovel in a snowbank by the car while I tried to drive out of the ditch sitch. As I sit in the car, foot pounding on the pedal, screaming at the Jetta to "just budge an inch!!!", I hear a knock on my window. One of the dudes stands at the window and says, "I'm taking my shovel back now. Peace out."

Yup. That's right. A petite blonde chick attempts to get her Jetta out of the snow for more than 25 minutes in front of 5 dudes that could have easily given her a shove, and they take their shovel back and go on their merry way. Trashy.

Here's the thing about this situation, I'm perfectly aware that it was not their "job" or "duty" to help ME out with my problem, but they were standing right there with their fancy snow machines for almost a half hour WATCHING me struggle, and they did nothing. No push, no dig, no words of encouragement as frozen tears sped down my cheeks. Nothing.

I have spoken in the past about the importance of being a gentleman, and today was an astonishing example of how it seems as though being a gentleman doesn't seem to matter to a large portion modern men. In the past week alone I have walked through doors with dudes who let it slam in my face, been called nasty little names by boys who clearly lack a filter, and just been glared at with some stink-eyes. It's really too bad and I hope that this is "just a phase".

To the gentlemen that I have in my life: you're goodies, stay that way, and a lady will swoop you up reaaaaal quick.

To the boys who would like to be gentlemen, but are struggling through your "douchey" phase right now: It's not cute anymore. Knock it off and put on a nice, clean shirt too.

Thursday, January 20, 2011

An Open Letter to...The Red-Headed Actress Who Made Kombucha Disappear :( Sad-faced

If you follow Madde Belle: A CLOSET CASE. you would know that I am currently in Kalamazoo, Michigan for the week with the fam. Kalamazoo, a quaint college town, truly is everything Frank Sinatra once told us it was (wait, was it Franky that sang a ditty about Kalamazoo? Who knows!)

Anywho, when traveling I try my best to keep my routines intact, which includes my weekly Kombucha Juice indulgence (fermented Chinese tea that smells weird funky, but makes me feel awesome funky!). Well wouldn't you know that my Kombucha was nowhere to be found in K-A-L-A-M-A-Z-O-O--and we have one person to blame...L-O-H-A-N. I now present to you my open letter to...The Red-Headed Actress Who Made Kombucha Disappear.

Dear The Red-Headed Actress Who Made Kombucha Disappear,

Not cool, lady-friend...not cool at all. Looks like you've "TRAP"ped us again. You see, just when I was becoming spirtually connected to my Kombucha juice, you just happened to violate your pesky little probation and blame who? My beloved Kombucha--when in actuality you should have been blaming it on the "aa-aa-aa-aaa-aaa-alcohol" (Thank you, Jamie Foxx).

MEAN GIRL Red-Headed Actress, I commend you on your sobriety now (for seers, good job!), but it was not Kombucha's fault that you were going out to the clubs and suckling on the nose candy and sippin' on Gin and Juice, was it? Kombucha had minimal effect on your sobriety level, yet the moment you pointed your finger their way, my presh kombuch was taken away from the stores for "re-formulation". And let me tell you something--he didn't come back the same man. No, no, no. He is simply a shadow of his former self.

There was a time this summer when I lost all hope and was certain that I would no longer  be able to look forward to an afternoon buzz from a beverage sold in the produce department of my grocery store, but somehow, by the grace of Jesus, Buddha, God, and Barbra Streisand-- they have returned. Well--sorta. Yes, they've made a return--but I doubt they will ever fully bounce back. Certainly no bounce to be found in the Michigan suburbs.

So here I am today.
No buzz, no fermentation, no nothin'.
I'm forced to drink water.
And I'm in Michigan.
Thank you very much.
Maybe you and your little car, HERBIE, could scooch on up here and bring me a Cranberry Kombucha fresh from an L.A. co-op. Think about it.



Monday, January 17, 2011

GUEST BLOGGER, TAJ RULER on "Sensitivity--has he gone too far?"

See this girl? Her name is Taj. She wrote a funny guest blog for me. You are about to read it...


I am just tickled pink to have guest blogger, Taj Ruler, on today's blogsicles! Taj is an improviser, ukulele player, funny lady, and a dear friend of yours truly. She is one of the funniest ladies that I know, and having spent many a wine-induced night of boy chatting with her, I trust her with the blog today. So I present to you Taj's thoughts on the fine, fine line of male sensitivity. In 5, 4, 3, 2,1---

Alright ladies, lets be honest with ourselves. We might all be strong, independent women, but we also want that special someone that we're with to be attentive to us. To hold our hands, to call us just to talk, to give us complements out of the blue, and to basically just treat us with respect. In other words, we would like them to be sensitive. 

Yes, a sensitive guy is wonderful. Having a guy treat us like we're pretty pretty princesses? What could be better! Whenever I think of my ideal guy, it's definitely on my list of adjectives that describes him. However, there is a thing as being too sensitive. It might seem hard to believe, but it's true. Yes, Prince McSensitive-Pants, I'm talking to you. So I've composed a list of don'ts that all you extra caring guys should heed warning to. Because these things might just push your princess back to her castle that's guarded by a dragon. (Note: These are actual things that have been done. I'm not just making this up.)

1. Don't write your own sonnets expressing your love for her every morning. Especially via text. 

2. Don't talk about your ex-girlfriend and how much she hurt you when she dumped you. Major turn off. You will not get into her pants that way!

3. Don't ask to be little spoon all the time! Your partner wants to be taken care of too! It's a two way street, yo! 

4. Don't have a picture of your mom in the bathroom. Family is important, and loving your mom is wonderful, but a picture of her in the bathroom? That's just creepy.

5. Don't write songs to say you're sorry. It might be cute when you first start going out to write a little ditty about how you like her. But then new hit singles like, "I'm sorry I dropped your toothbrush in the toilet" won't make it to the top 40 charts and it definitely won't hit a chord in her heart. 

These are just a few examples of things to avoid. Again, it is great for guys to be attentive, caring, and respectful, but also remember to have some back bone, too. Man up! Make us feel like princesses without becoming one of our ladies in waiting. 


Taj and I can be found in our new video blog "The Mittens and Buttons Sing-A-Long Blog" on the YouTubesies. And with our all-girl improv team, The Minneapples, around the Twin Cities droppin' the funnies. Look us upsicles! 

Marry me by the dumpster for a week, please.

(Please note that this may be the creepiest picture I have ever found on the internets. I'm sorry.)

When I was in elementary school we played this really fun game on the playground in which we married our classmates in an elaborate marriage ceremony by the dumpster. The students would peel themselves away from King of the Mountain, and waddle over in their snow pants as two of our classmates exchanged poorly written vows and rings made out of Laffy Taffy's from our lunch boxes. The couple was always the latest 5th grade crushes, excluding the time this one girl married this dead squirrel that had fallen from a tree and we had covered with a trash can during the ceremony.

As I think about it in my early 20s, I often wonder why I never got married in those elementary school weddings. I certainly had my fair share of 5th grade crushes who were certainly biting at the bit to marry me next to the dumpster, but I always opted out. Even to my 5th grade boyfriend who romantically gave me a $5 Caribou gift card because he thought I was pretty-ish.

 I have entertained the thought that perhaps I am not "the marrying kind", but as I watch my former playmates grow up and settle down with live-in boyfriends or marry the women they love, I wonder if perhaps it is not that I am not the "marrying kind", rather I have a very low tolerance for dating.

My childhood chums have put up with a lot of foolishness on their adventures in dating throughout the years, and I (ironically) have a very low tolerance for foolishness. (Ironic because I have been regarded as possibly one of the most foolish humans to ever grace the world with my foolishness. How foolish.) I have never been able to play the game of pouting my puckers around a good gent or doing my best mating dance at the bar. No, no, no, none of that for me. I'd rather stay at home snuggled in with my Pillow Pet than endure that sort of horror.

So my conclusion is this: I am sure sometime in my life I will be "the marrying kind", and the truth is at 22 I am far too fabulous to settle down quite yet. The "foolish" games of the 20-something dating scene are definitely not this gal's style. I will not be putting on any hoochie dresses and strutting my stuff through Cowboy Slims with "mY bEST giRLIES!!! xoxoxoxo" anytime soon, but perhaps I could make myself a little more bearable to date. I could even start by not laughing at someone who asks me out on a date (this may or may not have happened in the recent past...woops)! Yay!

.....who wants to exchange laffy taffy rings by the dumpster?

Saturday, January 15, 2011

Man 3G. Man 3GS. Man 4G. When am I eligible for an upgrade?

Whenever I itch my nose I swirl my itching fingers around my nose tip 3 times, and if someone were to ever come upon me while I was thinking they would find me with my tongue hanging out of the side of my mouth. That's my thinking face. I didn't come to know of these habits on my own--no, no, no, I was not-so- delicately informed of their existence. Now that I know about them, I'm extremely aware whenever they show their ugly faces.

We all have them. 
Perhaps you think yours are a lot less charming then my swirly nose itch, but I doubt it. 

As I took inventory of my last year, I reflected on my accomplishments, my embarrassments, my--other things that don't fit into those categories, and the men that have crossed my path like black cats.

I came to an astonishing realization: 

I have a "go on dates with different versions of the same dude over and over again" habit. 

How true this habit is. When I think about the dudes that have continually popped up in my life, the similarities they all share are pretty phenomenal. Shall I list some of them for you? 

1. He usually thinks he's  very funny. 
2. He has fabulous hair. 
3. He is goal-oriented.
4. He finds me mildly amusing sometimes.
5. He thinks very highly of himself.
6. He looks just like the one before him. (Please refer to the sketch)
7. He is supey Awkward Turtle. 
8. He is a journaler. (It's all about the journal with these boys. I don't get it.)
9. He likes himself. A lot. 
10. It's very possible he likes boys sometimes. 

That is just a tasting menu of their qualities, but it's pretty consistent with most of them. Now don't get me wrong, some of these things are fabulous! Goal-oriented, hair maintenance, but some of those are definite dealbreakers. So what makes us go back for different versions of the same thing? I'm not exactly sure, but it will require some soul searching from all of us--that's for sure! 

Friday, January 14, 2011

7 minutes of heaven in 20-11

I bet you made a New Year's Resolution list this year, didn't you? No, no, I'm not knocking on your resolutions--(remember my resolution was to be more POSITIVE this year?! To knock your resolution would be a perfect example of negativity, you d-wad!).

Anywhos. Resolutions. They can build us up, or break us down. One year  I resolved to be a dolphin trainer, that didn't work out for me in 1997--so I was let down for my entire year. Last year I resolved to write a blog on dating and romance as a 20-something. Lots of peeps read my babble in 2010--that was a good resolution last year. 

So what about this year? Well this year my best friend, Nick and I, have decided to issue a challenge to the world. I am happy to announce that 2011 will officially be known as:


That's right, peeps! I have issued you a challenge to aimlessly make out with countless numbers of people for 7-minutes as many times as you possibly can this year! After all--it IS 2011! 

Let me answer some of those burning questions you are having: 

Q. Do I have to be in a closet to partake in the 7-minutes of Heaven smooches?

A. Certainly not! Our ancestors have traditionally 7 minutes in heaven'd in some of our nation's finest closets, but with this new decade upon us, I encourage you to find other places to find 7 minutes of bliss! 

Q. Should I know my kissing partner before I spend 7 minutes with them?

A. Not necessarily. The world is your make-out oyster. Have at it! Mouths open, tongues out! Let's go, people! 

Q. Will I be timed?

A. Yes. I will be by each and every one of you with a stop watch, ensuring that you are only making out for 7 minutes. Anyone over 7 minutes will be issued a ticket and be expected to show up in court--LOVE COURT! 

Please feel free to leave any of your other questions in the comment box below. After leaving a comment please go find the nearest person and spend 7 minutes "M and O'ing". I will be checking on you soon. 

Wednesday, January 12, 2011

It's 2011 and I'm baaaaaack!

Well, well, well...look what we have here...I'm baaaaaack! 

Please let me start out by saying...

Happy 2011, my peeps!

I decided to let your hangovers fully recover before I whipped out the 20-11 blogsicles. Hopefully we've all put clean clothes on, showered the stank of rotten tequila off us, and at least attempted to regain our dignity. 

Well, I spent my holidays patiently waiting underneath the mistletoe for a smokin' hot man to accidentally trip on my strategically spilled egg nog mess and just happen to plant his face on mine. When those efforts proved unsuccessful, I abandoned the mission and dedicated my time to putting my face in my new furry boyfriends--

(They are pillows! But they are also PETS! Whaaaaat? Yes.)

So here we are--2011. Obama may have brought us change for the new millennium, but 2011 is going to bring us into this new decade in style. I'm feeling good about our chances here, people. Reaaaaallly good. 

So who is Madde, the Blogger, in this new decade? I think she's optimistic. It was recently brought to my attention that I am somewhat of a charming "Debbie Downer" type. I don't make vacations to Disneyland as miserable as Debbie, but I sure do love to point out those flaws in people. Woops! So Madde is going to make an attempt to keep it positive in the new year. Afterall, it's a new decade--why not usher in a new fabulous her!*

*Note: This is a New Year's Resolution. I make no promises. 

My horoscope says that 2011 is really the Gemini woman's let's rock it out, shall we?