I’ve hidden from the tumblr-sphere too much. Which is a shame, because it’s a nice way of keeping up with everyone and I can cuss more here than on facebook. Let’s see.
It’s finals week! The second since January. My school has 9 week terms, which is rough, but I think I’m leaning on the pros because if I were still in one of my classes from the first term, I’d hate life a little too much. Grad school Regan does all of her reading and talks a lot in class, but she still groans when 1/3rd of her classmates speak-up. She still procrastinates on her papers, but less so. (Turns out, when you do all of your homework, it’s easier to get As.)
Oh! And I’m moving back to Texas. This summer. In two months. The decision came down to “leave Missouri now” or “leave Missouri in 3-4+ years with additional costs and paperwork.” I’ve been itching to leave for awhile…so moving it is. Texas is equidistant to family, a better state to practice in, full of cities, and full of boys in cowboy boots and tequila.
I’ve learned that I have a do a SHIT TON of work and a have a great deal of patience before I will ever become a decent therapist, but the people in charge tell me I’m on a great path, so I’m trusting in that. Also, it turns out that therapists turned professors make for a special breed of professors. One in particular can pull an entire room to the brink of sobbing in all of three sentences in the middle of a discussion about the most mundane of topics. She shows up in my dreams to tell everyone else to stop fucking with me. It’s exciting and empowering to know that with enough time and experience that I can get similar super-powers.
I’m going to have to take a science class. I haven’t had one of those in many, many years.
No one tell 1989 Regan that 2013 Regan is no where near a real wedding dress. You can let her know that her bedroom is still pink, though.
This week marks the seven year anniversary of meeting my super, duper, far too handsome and charming for my own good crush. Also, the beginning of the longest “relationship” that I’ve ever had with a man. He writes the most delicious love letters and smiles at me in a very dangerous way. Nineteen more days until we meet again. Sigh. But really, those boots! That smile! Those hands! The mindless chatter about emerging markets! And baseball! And great cocktails! And the hand holding and the really, really dirty bits that I’m leaving out.
Sure, lots of it may simply be make-believe, but so far, having a fairy tale day or two every few months is far more exciting than any other option.
Did I mention his hands? And his boots? And the way that he holds my face as he kisses my forehead then the tip of my nose?
A pretty, 105lb, 17 yo hostess at your job tells you that you look like the kind of girl who played softball in high school. And you laugh and quickly reply “yeah, I do have that sort of sturdy build, don’t I?” Then she gets awkward and walks away.
It’s good that I can laugh, because if I were 17 I’d cry over it. But damn, I’m almost 30 and she’s right — I was really fucking great at third base when I was her age and a strong lead-off batter at that. At one point in time I could throw harder than my brother who is two years older than me and who was also pretty fucking great at baseball. Also also, I look awesome naked and even though no one has ever mistaken me for a young Kate Moss, I haven’t heard any complaints that I ain’t.
There’s a big point to be made about all of this, and I think I’ve kind of made it, but yeah. We don’t all grow-up to be ballerinas, right?
*and for the sake of full disclosure, I should probably mention that a dumb 17yo host thought I was still in high school. So there’s that?
If Taylor Swift did not slip Prince William a dirty note in that event where they were both singing, then our generation has lost. At life. I know I sound 13 and southern and straight and gross, but COME ON!
You’ve been dirty enough to date John Mayer, yer dirty enough to throw yourself at goddamn Prince William.
That is all.
1) Sure, the BoSox won the WS. Weirdo series. Still wasn’t as awesome as our win in 2011. =) Good job, though, kids.
2) I got into graduate school. So in exactly two years and a few months I’ll be a shrink. And my dream of being on a softball team called the Shrinky Dinks will finally be possible.
3) Back to Austin in a few days. Should be super awesome!
4) yay life!
You watch a gorgeous travel show on PBS about Peru while emailing a cowboy banker who’s working in Peru…probably raping the earth and cutting down everything beautiful to make the world’s richest people a little bit richer. Ugh. I need to bone a hippie to make-up for this, in a cosmic way.
Today I looked into the face of God and smiled, looked down, then nervously continued to polish wine glasses. Then the following conversation took place -
Me: Pssst. HEY…there’s a super hero sitting in the bar.
Co-Worker: Um…you’ll have to be more specific.
Me: The Wiz.
CW: Like Michael Jackson?
Me: No, stupid. THE Wiz.
Me: Ozzie Smith!
Me: OZZIE SMITH! THE WIZARD!
Me: The best short stop in the history of the world!
CW: Oh…um, like…that guy who beat out Sami Sosa for the homerun thing?
Me: YOU GREW UP IN ST. LOUIS! WHY ARE YOU THIS STUPID?!?
Single Topic Blog of the Day: 300 Sandwiches
The New York Post’s senior reporter Stephanie Smith’s boyfriend Eric has taken "Make Me a Sandwich" to a whole new level. After he jokingly told Smith that she was “300 sandwiches away from an engagement ring” in June 2012, Smith launched the blog 300 Sandwiches to document her journey of learning how to cook while earning wedded bliss. Today, after creating more than 176 sandwiches, Smith revealed her blog project in a column article on the New York Post, in which Eric was quoted as saying “[Men are] not complex. Just do something nice for us. Like make a sandwich.” Hat tip goes to Gawker!
Make your own goddamn sandwiches, Draco Malfoy. Also: lady, a marriage isn’t a prize to be won. Don’t get it twisted. UGH these people.
UGH HOW DID YOU RUIN A BLOG ABOUT SANDWICHES, DRACO?!DRACO IS THE WORST. ALTHOUGH… THIS DOES MAKE ME WANT A SANDWICH-FLAVORED BERTIE BOTTS BEAN.
Attention to Kirk for last comment.
(I thought this was Julian Assange.)
I literally SCREAMED WITH JOY when I saw her boyfriend’s hair. Oh my god. OH MY GOD. I can’t stop cumming over HIS INSANE HAIR OH CHRIST IS THAT A WIG? It’s dyed blonde, right? It has to be dyed. WHY IS IT SO LONG? WHY DOES IT START SO FAR BACK? Oh my god, my body is ready to look at THAT HAIR AGAIN OH MY GOD WHY IS IT SO STIFF WHAT COULD BE IN IT? OH CHRIST. OH SWEET JESUS. I can’t. That is too good. You guys. YOU. GUYYYYYYSSSSSSSS. I’m dead now. I came so hard, I died and now I’m looking down from Heaven AT THAT GUY’S PLASTIC HAIR OH MY HOLY GOD HOW DOES SUCH HAIR EXIST IN THE WOOOOOORRRLD? IT LOOKS LIKE A SHITTY LACE FRONT! IT LOOKS LIKE HE BOUGHT HIS HAIR AT CLAIRE’S AS A JOKE FOR A BACHELORETTE PARTY!
You know what? Do you think her sandwich blog was just an elaborate ruse to expose all of us to his hair? OH MY GOD I JUST SAW HIS JEANS HERE WE GO AGAAAAAIN…