My Type…


For a long while I was unaware that I even had a type. “Boy is my type” I’d say. I heard Pamela Anderson say it back when she was Pamela Anderson Lee and they still aired new episodes of Bay Watch and I thought it sounded cool – she saved lives on TV it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Anyway, I always had a general sense of what I was attracted to: broad shoulders, scruffy chin, athleticism, Ryan Gosling – the usual. But it wasn’t until the past few years that “my type” fully emerged.

Let me begin with a brief description of myself in high school… Remember how in junior high there were two types of kids? One was kind of chubby and a little bit big for their age and the other was the saddest, scrawniest thing you’d ever seen?

I was the latter until I was about 18, but with huge sunken eyes, braces, and eyeliner with no mascara.

Here I am 1st Day Sr. Year

Here I am 1st Day Sr. Year

Needless to say I was the pick of the litter in those days, and had to beat the dudes off with a stick.

...And on my 18th Birthday...

…And on my 18th Birthday…


But it’s no surprise that my type bloomed as late as I did, and now that I’m about three and a half years out of my awkward stage it’s becoming clearer and clearer… My type…




I love them.

I love the fiery armpit hair they have to offer, the one skin tone on this planet that’s paler than mine, and the fact that they freckle in the sun instead of tanning. They always have something else weird going on too like a speech impediment or a short thumb that I find adorable.

Now if you ask me, only three out of five men in my life worth mentioning were honest to God gingers but I guess the other two are grandfathered in on a count of their reddish facial hair and their:

A) freckles, or

B) Irish skin.

Potato, tomato – My mom never lets me live it down…

As a halfling, (they call me strawberry blonde but, in truth, I was a ginger baby)


DivaTotal DivaTotal Diva

I feel as though I need to stand up for my people and love them the same as if they weren’t a genetic abnormality. I honestly feel that I’m drawn to them as if fate brought our similar hair colors together. Either that or God really is playing the Simms with us and is purposefully trying to mate me with a pure bread so we make Him more little baby cupids.

Boom. Berry Blonde.

Boom. Berry Blonde.


Either way, here’s a list of hot gingers I’m throwing your way so you can catch my fire:

Jessica from True Blood

Jessica from True Blood

Owen from Grey's Anatomy

Owen from Grey’s Anatomy

Gettin' Some Ginger Lovin'

Work It.

Emma Stone - Duh

Emma Stone – Duh

Isla Fischer

Isla Fischer

Prince Harry

Prince Harry

Ron Weasley

Ron Weasley

Louis C.K.

Louis C.K.



The Cutest Irish Setter You Ever Saw

The Cutest Irish Setter You Ever Saw


And the list goes on my friends… The list goes on…









The Shame of Being on the Domino’s Email List


Ladies and Gentlemen, readers of my beloved rose, I am ashamed to admit what this title has already revealed: I am on the Dominos email list.


I know, I know. It’s sad but it has been something I’ve needed to face for some time now. I’ve unsubscribed before and I wish I could say there was a glitch in the matrix that somehow caused 2 of my emails to now be subscribers, but really, I just made more online orders.


Louis C.K. feels my pain, only his vice is the dreaded Cinnabon. Everyone has one Louis…

…And by the way, Dominos Cinna Sticks come with the same hot syrup… I think…

“You’re a man if you’re eating a Cinnabon. In that moment you’re a man… What you think I have integrity? I’m buying a Cinnabon right now. I’m buying a Cinnabon at the airport I arrived at… I’m 20 minutes from my house where I’ve got bananas and apples and shit. And I’m sitting on my luggage just fuckin’ eating a Cinnabon… With a fork and knife.”

The worst thing about Dominos is that the next day when it’s cold and hard and still on my floor because I’m too disgusting to get up after and properly dispose of it at a nuclear waste facility – I finish eating it. All of it.

And like how bad are your eating habits when your delivery guy has a third means of contacting you? Henry and I are practically dating based on all the intimate details he knows about me. He knows my cell, my address, what time I usually need my midnight snack, and just how I like it hot and fresh out the kitchen. All he needs is my social and we’re as good as wed.


One night a few weeks ago we saw him delivering to an apartment near the bars.  He gave us a ride home and Susan Freedman’s large cheese and a 2 liter of Fanta. He didn’t even need directions to my mom’s house he’d been there so many times before. When I got out I felt like I should thank him for dinner and kiss him goodnight.

Plus Mrs. Freedman is probably pretty ticked off that she never got her tasty late night treats so it’s the least I could have done given that I’ll probably never see him again once she writes her angry letter and he gets fired. And then I’ll have to forge a relationship with the new delivery guy, who you know won’t be nearly as good of a listener as Henry, and will probably be seeing other late night pizza eaters on the side.

Damnit Henry, Why!?

…Well… You have my information