Excuse the Soapbox.

I was discussing my new friend Stacy who thinks I'm out to get all psoriasis stricken people with my old friend and co-worker Andrew. Andrew says, "Well. You do call yourself a princess on the blog."

Andrew has never read my blog. Nor, apparently, does he understand the finest form of humor -- sarcasm.

I hate to keep blathering on about my hate comment, but it got me thinking about judgments and how insanely wrong people can be while believing that they are right.

As you guys know, I've been attending Al-Anon meetings on and off since this past February and it's taught me so much, but what stands out the most was this one woman who shared in a meeting. Obviously these are anonymous meetings and I would never betray that, so I'll give you an example of what happened, without actually relaying any factual details.

Being the daughter of a parent who was habitually late for everything, I am a huge stickler for promptness. So, when I attend my meetings I'm usually one of the first to show up. This sucks because I hate that feeling I get when I'm alone in a room and the others start showing up. I don't know how to handle it. Is it okay for me to just be silent? Do I have to make small talk? What if I'm in the meeting leader's chair and I don't know it? So much to deal with. However.

I also get to watch every single member of the group enter the room and -- up until this particular incident -- pass judgment on each of them. Usually these are mainly guesses at what their qualification is for being in the meeting ... a drunk boyfriend, a heroin-addict father, parents who were fabulous and threw great parties but were secretly chugging nail polish remover in the closet during the afternoons.

The last time I did this -- without mentally reprimanding and correcting myself -- was at one of my favorite meetings. A woman walked in and here's what my judgmental self saw: a girl wearing expensive, trendy clothes, carrying a fantastic bag that most likely held the keys to the cute convertible something or other that her rich daddy bought her. Her reason for coming to Al-Anon was that her Mom had taken to liking her Creme de Menthe a little too much ever since rich daddy hit his midlife crisis.

Of course, during the meeting this woman shared. An hour prior to the meeting she had escorted her severely drug addicted husband to rehab, again, after having to drag him onto a plane to return from their vacation in order to do so. This woman was broken and sad and I felt such shame and disgust at myself.

In a book I read a woman who had overcome her own addictions said that she makes a point to be kind and gracious to every single person she meets, regardless of how they behave towards her. Because, she had been on the edge. And she had been pushed over it by a stranger more than once. You never know what is going on inside a person. Yes, that guy may be sleeping on the train because he's nodding out from heroin. Or he may be exhausted from working a 19-hour shift to pay for diapers and daycare.

Yes, of course, I still catch myself making snap judgments about people I see on the street, but the point is, I catch myself. And I feel like that's a step in the right direction.

Feet Fit for Royalty

Okay, so it’s totally that time again, where both my fingers and my toes are in desperate need of some pampering. I am in the habit of trying to convince myself that I can wait three weeks before I need a new manicure/pedicure. I can not. Now I know this might seem strange to you dear readers, (and Nat that means you because I realize you’re the only one who reads this), who probably do not include a manicure/pedicure as one of your living expenses, though some of you should. Not to name names, HC, but I know you need a pedicure more than you need a TV. I haven’t seen you in forever but I would bet money that your feet are hideous.

The point is I’ve spent the better part of the morning attempting to determine where The Princess and I will be getting our pedicures done tomorrow. Yes, I’m at work, but I can multi-task people. You might have noticed I didn’t say mani/pedi, mainly because I hate how it sounds. I also hate FroYo (frozen yogurt, retarded yes?). Mani/pedi is a nails on the chalk board word to me, and I hate it. But let me tell you something, I understand why they invented it, typing, saying, and reading manicure/pedicure a million times is annoying. Well too bad, you must suffer with me or offer me an alternative that doesn’t sound like my name is Blair and I live on Park Ave, okay?

Wait, what was I talking about? Oh, yes, so The Princess (she insists on the capital t, I know, I know) and I are IMing about where we are going to go. You know I want the ideal place, affordable luxury. You know the one where I’m treated like the royalty I am but that won’t make me feel guilty for spending all my money on my feet. I’m sort of a poor royal you know, the kind you here about in US Weekly. Well, The Princess apparently does not have time for these decisions today; in fact she somehow thinks her little breakthrough/melt down with her mother entitles her to leave such important decisions up to me. And I quote, “listen. i'm still reeling from mom and my wine hangover. i can't talk you through your manicure/pedicure drama.” (All, please note even when The Princess is not being helpful she still uses manicure/pedicure.)

Let’s not dismiss the importance of this decision though, because ultimately this is my appearance. And I’m nothing if I’m not shallow. As I told the girl from the Gay Rights organization who was asking me for a donation as I left Barnes and Noble, “I would make a donation but I just spent all my money on fashion magazines. I know. I’m shallow.”

The Princess is a Pea Brain

HRH here. Now let me just say, the Princess certainly got my day off to a good start. Really, I mean it serves her right for not only throwing her crap into my locker, but for believing that said locker number belongs to her. Hello cheap ass, if you want a permanent locker I suggest you pay for one.

Frankly, it was all brilliant, and I plan on tracking down the guy who answered the phone this morning and making him my new gym bff. I also can't help but think about the reaction of the person whose locker it really was. I mean the locker room is a weird place for Candid Camera. And with a combo number that suggest heavy usage of pot, I can't help but wonder if it involved a few, "is this my locker. i swear this is my locker." moments.

In my defense, the combination to my lock is my birth date.

Can't wait to get to the gym and see how this one works out. Honestly, I think the Princess is just going to great lengths to get out of doing cardio with me. Last night she didn't bring any sneakers. Coincidence, I don't think so.