<?xml version='1.0' encoding='UTF-8'?><?xml-stylesheet href="http://www.blogger.com/styles/atom.css" type="text/css"?><feed xmlns='http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom' xmlns:openSearch='http://a9.com/-/spec/opensearchrss/1.0/' xmlns:georss='http://www.georss.org/georss' xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1590025467098100783</id><updated>2011-04-21T19:08:56.512-07:00</updated><title type='text'>"Energetic" Child 101</title><subtitle type='html'></subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://marlizzle.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1590025467098100783/posts/default?max-results=100'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://marlizzle.blogspot.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><author><name>Marlizzle</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/15110994627044726294</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><generator version='7.00' uri='http://www.blogger.com'>Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>8</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>100</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1590025467098100783.post-8557316835132962571</id><published>2007-11-16T18:53:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-11-16T18:57:58.325-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Baby Steps</title><content type='html'>Today, as my mom was taking garbage out, Pierce followed her and persistently poked with her with a broom he was holding.  I walked after him and told him to come inside immediately.  His response was:&lt;br /&gt;"I know mommy.  I know.  I'm going to my room right now."  Are those baby steps on an upward progress curve?  I believe that's a big fat yes.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1590025467098100783-8557316835132962571?l=marlizzle.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://marlizzle.blogspot.com/feeds/8557316835132962571/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1590025467098100783&amp;postID=8557316835132962571' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1590025467098100783/posts/default/8557316835132962571'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1590025467098100783/posts/default/8557316835132962571'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://marlizzle.blogspot.com/2007/11/baby-steps.html' title='Baby Steps'/><author><name>Marlizzle</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/15110994627044726294</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1590025467098100783.post-3757274244390770790</id><published>2007-11-13T15:58:00.002-08:00</published><updated>2007-11-13T16:18:00.127-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Parenting Struggles.  I'm reaching out, folks.</title><content type='html'>So how does one handle an unruly, a defiant, a beautiful, a boy-child?  I don't know sometimes.  I feel as if I'm on a mommy island and the only thing that makes sense is my confusion, stress, anger, sadness, and guilt.  I hope that other parents read this blog and send me nice, big, life-saving packages of advice.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So my son likes to completely disregards my direct requests, which, of course, become orders, which of course remain disregarded.  This morning, for instance.  I tell him to stay on the cement porch while I do something in the front yard.  He's in his white socks and it's almost time to go to school.  Without blinking an eye, he steps off the front porch and proceeds to walk into the wet, dirty yard.  At this point a million different things are popping off in my head:  &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;I'll be done in a second.  It's not that wet.  I shouldn't stop what I'm doing because I'm almost done.  Why does he not listen?????  Son of a bitch!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;"Get back on the porch.  I just told you to stay on there.  You need to listen to what mommy tells you do."&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;His path has not deviated in any way, shape, or form.  I grabbed him and marched him straight to his room and locked him inside.  That's right, I locked him in from the outside of the door.  That was the mommy package from Ace Hardware: new locking door knob and a kitchen timer.  I, of course, installed the knob inside-out.  He's locked in and he proceeds to kick the door.  I finished what I was doing and came back inside for a "talk."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Do you know that being disrespectful and defiant will not get you anything but punishment from me?  Do you?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I don't care.  I'm not listening.  I don't care."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Okay, well fine.  When you get home from school, you're going directly to your room for &lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;another&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt; time out."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"No, I'm not."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"We'll see."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I picked him up, brought him home, and marched him straight to the room.  At first he began singing (showing me that it didn't bother him) and then he started to kick the door angrily shouting "Open up the door NOW!"  And then, folks, I hear scratching sounds on the wall.  I was not even tripping, though, he's quiet, so fine.  whatever.  After a bit, however, it became &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;oh no.  he is too quiet.&lt;/span&gt;  I went in to the room and lo and behold: crayon scribbles all over my wall.  I flipped out!  I told him that he was now going to stay in the room the whole evening and no tv for the rest of the day and tomorrow.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I heard through the door: "No one loves me.  I'm a bad boy.  No one loves me.  They all hate me.  I'm all alone."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And now I feel like absolute shit.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1590025467098100783-3757274244390770790?l=marlizzle.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://marlizzle.blogspot.com/feeds/3757274244390770790/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1590025467098100783&amp;postID=3757274244390770790' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1590025467098100783/posts/default/3757274244390770790'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1590025467098100783/posts/default/3757274244390770790'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://marlizzle.blogspot.com/2007/11/parenting-struggles-im-reaching-out.html' title='Parenting Struggles.  I&apos;m reaching out, folks.'/><author><name>Marlizzle</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/15110994627044726294</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1590025467098100783.post-2413875389047001944</id><published>2007-07-14T08:48:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-07-14T09:02:15.457-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Attitude of Gratitude</title><content type='html'>I recently watched a &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;dvd&lt;/span&gt; called "The Secret." The message in it was very zen-&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;uekelale&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"&gt;ish&lt;/span&gt;, but I did take something from it that I really liked and that was the idea of waking up with an attitude of gratitude. After I typed that, I &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"&gt;realized&lt;/span&gt; that it rhymed and is quite catchy. "Attitude of Gratitude" brought to you by &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"&gt;Marlizzle&lt;/span&gt;. Never one to preach without practice, I'm going to make a small daily list on this blog of the things that I'm grateful for.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;1. I'm grateful for the sweet taste of refrigerated left-over birthday cake. Not grateful for the calories. &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"&gt;Hmm&lt;/span&gt;...this was is a trade-off, and it appears that cakes fall in the realm of the in-between.&lt;br /&gt;2. I'm grateful that my son is so easily pleased with peanut butter and jelly.&lt;br /&gt;3. I'm grateful for "&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6"&gt;Shrek&lt;/span&gt; 2" because otherwise I would not have the time to update this blog.&lt;br /&gt;4. I'm grateful for the comic relief of Thursday night. Drinking+dancing+2 girls who met in anger &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7"&gt;management&lt;/span&gt; class=one of the most enjoyable times I've had in a while.&lt;br /&gt;5. I'm grateful that I'm alive and healthy and surrounded by the people that I love.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1590025467098100783-2413875389047001944?l=marlizzle.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://marlizzle.blogspot.com/feeds/2413875389047001944/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1590025467098100783&amp;postID=2413875389047001944' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1590025467098100783/posts/default/2413875389047001944'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1590025467098100783/posts/default/2413875389047001944'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://marlizzle.blogspot.com/2007/07/attitude-of-gratitude.html' title='Attitude of Gratitude'/><author><name>Marlizzle</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/15110994627044726294</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1590025467098100783.post-9117343561684027289</id><published>2007-07-10T08:25:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-07-10T08:33:22.548-07:00</updated><title type='text'>"It's my life, and it's now or never."</title><content type='html'>My mantra.  I always refuse to give up or give in, so I live in shifting worlds of anger, frustration, determination, and hopefully happiness.  Why do people have to suck, though?  Somtimes I wonder if I'm paying for the ills that I've caused towards others, but, god, those are truly far and in between.  And I felt HORRIBLE.  One would think that the stress and sadness that I experienced in my less than glory moments would've been enough penance, but no, of course not because then that would make my life un-complicated.  I don't think that my life is meant to be un-complicated.  Irony?  You want to hear it?  I've been trying to surround myself with people that I truly percieved (under a mf'in microscope, too) to be decent and respectable, but they still let me down.  I only ask for one thing in all my relationships: honesty.  Is honesty on a list of hard things to do somewhere?  I always believed that it was just easier to be up front and direct with people; apparently, it is not a sentiment that is widely shared.  So I'm back to my mantra.....&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"This aint a song for the broken-hearted...I aint going to just be a face in the crowd. You're going to hear my voice when I shout it out loud.  It's my life and it's now or never..."&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1590025467098100783-9117343561684027289?l=marlizzle.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://marlizzle.blogspot.com/feeds/9117343561684027289/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1590025467098100783&amp;postID=9117343561684027289' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1590025467098100783/posts/default/9117343561684027289'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1590025467098100783/posts/default/9117343561684027289'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://marlizzle.blogspot.com/2007/07/its-my-life-and-its-now-or-never.html' title='&quot;It&apos;s my life, and it&apos;s now or never.&quot;'/><author><name>Marlizzle</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/15110994627044726294</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1590025467098100783.post-7242805314986677369</id><published>2007-07-09T02:26:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-07-09T02:37:28.543-07:00</updated><title type='text'>"Great Potential" that Went Nowhere...</title><content type='html'>It's 2:27 am and I'm trying to bore myself to sleep...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm frustrated.  People confuse the hell out of me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;To elaborate... &lt;br /&gt;I went on two great dates with a (seemingly) great guy and we had a third in the works and nothing.  That last part is not a tipo.  Two dates+one in the works=nothing. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A description of date one so that you guys don't think that I'm delusional.  We had sushi and went bowling.  Sushi+bowling=great fun!  The dinner was very enjoyable.  The conversation was flowing, lots of toasts to "meeting new people," sitting side-by-side, and I thought to myself, "Hey, this online thing isn't so bad.  This guy is nice."  Big. Happy. Face.  And then the bowling was even better.  Playfully we challenged one another.  When he would get a strike, he would jokingly pat my shoes to make sure the laces were tied.  He asked me questions like, "Hey, teacher, what kind of bowling advice would you give to a mere mortal," and I'd say, "That's easy.  The key is to aim your bowling ball towards the alley, and watch as it bounces out to hit a strike."  Awwwww.  We were so cute.  The evening ended and he asked me what my days off were.  SCORE!  Or so I thought.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Date two... to be continued.  I have to sleep.  :)&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1590025467098100783-7242805314986677369?l=marlizzle.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://marlizzle.blogspot.com/feeds/7242805314986677369/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1590025467098100783&amp;postID=7242805314986677369' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1590025467098100783/posts/default/7242805314986677369'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1590025467098100783/posts/default/7242805314986677369'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://marlizzle.blogspot.com/2007/07/great-potential-that-went-nowhere.html' title='&quot;Great Potential&quot; that Went Nowhere...'/><author><name>Marlizzle</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/15110994627044726294</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1590025467098100783.post-3893889319656145142</id><published>2007-06-16T21:31:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-12-10T02:19:07.419-08:00</updated><title type='text'>A CL phone conversation.</title><content type='html'>"So what did you do today?"&lt;br /&gt;"Worked. You?"&lt;br /&gt;"Oh, I did something really exciting! I signed up for martial arts. I'm really excited, but a little nervous too."&lt;br /&gt;"Nervous? Why?"&lt;br /&gt;"Well, you know... It's a contact sport. Actually kinda combative and violent. I'm not really used to that sort of thing."&lt;br /&gt;"Girls and martial arts is hoooooottt."&lt;br /&gt;"Ummm. Ok. I never really thought of it that way, but ok." &lt;em&gt;He sounds kinda pervy...&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Do you know what I think is one of the hottest things around?"&lt;br /&gt;"Uhhhh. No" &lt;em&gt;WTF is he leading to?&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;"&lt;/em&gt;A girl headlocking a guy with her thighs. In a scissor lock. I would die happily that wa&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7xMTKXnI-0I/RnS84nYeNrI/AAAAAAAAAAk/Dli22P6NHmE/s1600-h/110_F_326492_cW2hVIbtCVn6G3Dfp7m5ktC0fx7HDW.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5076890360783713970" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 136px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 78px" height="81" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7xMTKXnI-0I/RnS84nYeNrI/AAAAAAAAAAk/Dli22P6NHmE/s320/110_F_326492_cW2hVIbtCVn6G3Dfp7m5ktC0fx7HDW.jpg" width="167" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;y."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;WTFFFFFFFFFFFFFF&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Ok." &lt;em&gt;This shit is getting weird now.&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;"&lt;/em&gt;Yeah. One of my friends was into mixed martial arts, so I went onto 'You Tube' and looked for videos on that kind of stuff. I ended up finding one with MMA women fighting. It was so hot. They were getting each other into scissor locks and stuff like that. And I'm not the only guy who found it hot. There were like 30,000 hits."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;NEXT.&lt;/em&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1590025467098100783-3893889319656145142?l=marlizzle.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://marlizzle.blogspot.com/feeds/3893889319656145142/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1590025467098100783&amp;postID=3893889319656145142' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1590025467098100783/posts/default/3893889319656145142'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1590025467098100783/posts/default/3893889319656145142'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://marlizzle.blogspot.com/2007/06/cl-phone-conversation.html' title='A CL phone conversation.'/><author><name>Marlizzle</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/15110994627044726294</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7xMTKXnI-0I/RnS84nYeNrI/AAAAAAAAAAk/Dli22P6NHmE/s72-c/110_F_326492_cW2hVIbtCVn6G3Dfp7m5ktC0fx7HDW.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1590025467098100783.post-5742640670183314342</id><published>2007-06-09T20:31:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-12-10T02:19:08.092-08:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>Kjerste is mean. Really, really, REALLY, mean. I'm posting again because I feel majorly peer pressured. :(&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So. This is the first of a series of posts chronicling my adventures of online dating. And not just any online dating folks, &lt;strong&gt;&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;Craigslist&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/strong&gt; online dating. This experience has the potential to be weird, uncomfortable, gross, humorous, shocked, and hopefully, eventually great.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7xMTKXnI-0I/Rmt6RHYeNpI/AAAAAAAAAAU/th1juLI--ZQ/s1600-h/old+man.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5074283839621052050" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7xMTKXnI-0I/Rmt6RHYeNpI/AAAAAAAAAAU/th1juLI--ZQ/s320/old+man.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7xMTKXnI-0I/Rmt51HYeNoI/AAAAAAAAAAM/n_Op1mVfrrw/s1600-h/dorky.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5074283358584714882" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7xMTKXnI-0I/Rmt51HYeNoI/AAAAAAAAAAM/n_Op1mVfrrw/s320/dorky.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I figured what the hey, if I can find a great laptop (even though it fell off the arm of my couch and broke. That, of course, was not the seller's fault) and a great &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;lawnmower&lt;/span&gt;, I should be able to find a great mate. Let the dating adventures begin.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Before I begin to regale you with tales of my mishaps, I will give you a laundry list of the qualities I'm looking for in a mate. My sister says that I should stop "over-analyzing" everything and that my list is not practical. To that I say: I'm not looking for an easy piece of ass. I'm looking for a husband and an eventual stepfather for my little boy. I'm analyzing &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"&gt;erthing&lt;/span&gt; and with a microscope, too.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And, now, without further ado. &lt;strong&gt;The LIST.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;br /&gt;1. Honest&lt;br /&gt;2. Intelligent&lt;br /&gt;3. Funny&lt;br /&gt;4. Spontaneous&lt;br /&gt;5. Adventurous. This one ties into spontaneous.&lt;br /&gt;I don't want: "Hey, I know it's 11 o'clock, and this is kinda out of the blue, but we should totally go to &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"&gt;MacDonald's&lt;/span&gt; and get a M&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"&gt;cflurry&lt;/span&gt;." I &lt;strong&gt;do &lt;/strong&gt;want: "Hey, I know this is kinda out of the blue, but we should totally drive up into the mountains, find an isolated swimming hole, and go skinny dipping!"&lt;br /&gt;6. Attractive, but not &lt;strong&gt;too &lt;/strong&gt;attractive. I would rather not have to worry about every female within a five mile radius lusting over my man.&lt;br /&gt;7. Athletic. And, no, a guy is not an athlete if he's great at watching sports on t.v.&lt;br /&gt;8. Tall. I know this is nit picking, but I need the height. Men under 5'10" need not apply.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;**He must love kids. &lt;/strong&gt;This one is not even ranked because it is non-negotiable. Pierce and I are a package deal.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"&gt;Ok&lt;/span&gt;, that's enough for now. Stay tuned for &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6"&gt;M's &lt;/span&gt;(&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7"&gt;mis&lt;/span&gt;) adventures in CL dating.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_7xMTKXnI-0I/Rmt6sXYeNqI/AAAAAAAAAAc/qu-9WK_u7Qk/s1600-h/Transvestite.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5074284307772487330" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_7xMTKXnI-0I/Rmt6sXYeNqI/AAAAAAAAAAc/qu-9WK_u7Qk/s320/Transvestite.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1590025467098100783-5742640670183314342?l=marlizzle.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://marlizzle.blogspot.com/feeds/5742640670183314342/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1590025467098100783&amp;postID=5742640670183314342' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1590025467098100783/posts/default/5742640670183314342'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1590025467098100783/posts/default/5742640670183314342'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://marlizzle.blogspot.com/2007/06/kirsten-is-mean.html' title=''/><author><name>Marlizzle</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/15110994627044726294</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7xMTKXnI-0I/Rmt6RHYeNpI/AAAAAAAAAAU/th1juLI--ZQ/s72-c/old+man.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1590025467098100783.post-3548403056666652395</id><published>2007-05-27T23:39:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-05-27T23:53:56.161-07:00</updated><title type='text'>I'm tired....</title><content type='html'>My eyes are completely burning and I still can't sleep. Has that ever happened to you? If you can't sleep and you're reading this boring post, it should help you sleep. Okay, so this past week I'm sitting in the Dr's office asking them WTF is the matter with me that I can't get my ass to sleep and she hands me a pamphlet.  Turns out that there are bunch of sick, twisted MF's out there. I'm normal. Who knew?  According to this bomb pamphlet (it was so colorful and had cartoony graphics, probably to help those of us whose eyes are completely swollen and tired of carrying around the louis vuitton bags hanging below them that we need extra color and cartoons) people are most sleepy between the hours of 2-4 pm and 1-6 am, and yes, that is when I'm most tired.  11:51 and I'm still awake.  SHITTTTTTT.  And a little off fact that it listed was that Benjamin Franklin felt that sleep was over-rated, which is why he only slept four hours a night. That was one sick mofo because I don't care if you're a so-called genius, saying shit like that is plain weird.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1590025467098100783-3548403056666652395?l=marlizzle.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://marlizzle.blogspot.com/feeds/3548403056666652395/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1590025467098100783&amp;postID=3548403056666652395' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1590025467098100783/posts/default/3548403056666652395'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1590025467098100783/posts/default/3548403056666652395'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://marlizzle.blogspot.com/2007/05/im-tired.html' title='I&apos;m tired....'/><author><name>Marlizzle</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/15110994627044726294</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry></feed>
