Blog Swap Thursday - Limited Edition

She had me at Corn Nuts. She. had. me. at. Corn. Nuts.

As human beings, we inherently want to connect with others. Well, most human beings. I am not talking to you cranky, cranky people who seem to hate everyone else right now.

I’ll get to you another day.

Whether it’s that sweet woman at your grocery store checkout whose smile is one of recognition and greeting when she sees you. Whether it’s a friendly wave to your neighbor in the morning, as you both are hurrying out of your garages and apparently late to work (again). Whether it’s the nice gentleman at the McDonald’s drive through who knows you all too well. Enough to say, “How ARE you? You don’t look like yourself today.”

Which indicates something is very, very wrong with my, I mean, YOUR family’s diet.

These connections, along with the strong and much more complicated ones with our families, friends and co-workers test us on a daily basis on the kind of people we are.

The kind of people we want to become.

In the blogosphere, there are many of us who have “connected.” It’s odd and sounds a little bit loony. If I had heard myself saying this before I had started blogging, I would have said, “Well it kind of sounds like a cult.”

And it IS. Only better. And we don’t make people drink freaky punch.

I have connected with many wonderful people - but one woman in particular has been a ray of sunshine for me every day. Our connection was instant and our "bloggy" friendship has grown over the past few months. She lives in sunny San Diego, while I live in dreary Washington D.C. She is blonde, I am a brunette. As bloggers, some of us are guilty of needing a lot of validation and support - she is the first one to be there to cheer you on. I get there too.

Just later. I’m usually the last one.

She is really funny. I am usually really angry. She helps balance my bitch out.

She is the Yin to my Yang.

Without further ado, I introduce you to my friend Monique, aka Surferwife. She has the good fortune to have many more celebrity sightings than I do. I have seen Newt Gingrich. She gets to meet Rob Lowe. I was once at a bar, and Fabio kind of elbowed me in my ribs by accident. She got a menu thrown at her head by Keanu Reeves.

I think we know who got the better deal.

May you grow to dig this chick as much as I do. Become a follower. Followers are good. BTW, she doesn't surf, because it's too wet. Not to confuse you. However, she IS training for a triathlon and will be kicking some butt and taking names.

Check out the beautiful blonde below and just try not to fall in love with her.

She had me at Corn Nuts. It still makes me teary eyed.

And I am making a guest appearance at her blog today. This is called a blog swap. It’s like a wife swap but a lot less confusing for our husbands.

This is a post from December, 22nd. It's a letter to Chelsea Handler, another favorite blonde of mine. You can find more of this gold by clicking back to her site.

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Chelsea. Have your people talk to my people.

Dearest Chelsea,

I had a really bad day yesterday, Chels. And you were at the epicenter of it all. Super crazy, right? See, it all stems from how much I really, really like you. Though I really like Kim Kardashian too, but that's neither here nor there at this point of our relationship. Maybe if you toned down your likeability, my fragile heart wouldn't be in little Chuy sized shreds on the ground. I don't know.

Here's how it goes, imaginary BFF.

I got myself an early Christmas present. Tickets to your last taping of the year. The husband and I, beside ourselves with excitement, start our pilgrimage from San Diego up to your neck at about noon. For your 3:30 taping.

I know your tickets say first come first serve. As your faithful BFF, I read, re-read and triple read what my responsibilities were. We arrived an hour early and got in line. Your buddy in the brown jacket, whom I'm pretty sure is a relative of Jay-Z, told us that Chelsea Handler said we probably weren't going to get in. You know why? There were a lot of VIP's enroute that have priority over us.

Chels, I told him that when you laid your bloodshot eyes on me, a miracle was going to happen and everyones lives would transform for the better. I told him bottles of sugarfree Belvedere *see how closely I pay attention to you and your vodka preferences?!* would rain down from the sky and all would turn right in your world.

Jay-Z Jr. told me, 'Good luck with all that.'

So we waited. And we prayed there was a gigantic pile up on the 10 so your special vips (read word as vip, not V.I.P., thanks) couldn't make it. As we neared the metal detector and I saw your big, fancy Chelsea Lately sign I just knew you would come running out, frantically looking for me. You would whisk my husband and I inside and you would beg me to be on your round table, between Heather Long Boobs and that red hair fro guy.

I waited, Chels. I waited and you never came. It was the weirdest thing ever. And then Jay-Z sent us home. At FOUR PM. I know you know the nightmare that is the 405 freeway at FOUR PM, right? You could have at least given me a bottle of Belvedere to suck on during my THREE HOUR DRIVE HOME.

Instead, we stopped at Starbucks. And I let them put whipped cream on my drink. And I forgot to tell them nonfat. What a fatass, blubbering mess I was in your town. Pretty sure I still have traces of a whipped cream stache on my lip.

So, my dearest. I have a few requests to ask of you for my troubles and to keep me screaming Team Chelsea from my San Diego rooftop.

1. You can totally hire me as a writer for your show. And if you think me being a mom will get in the way of my loyalty to you or my new job, I will give said kids away. I don't eff around, Chels.

2. You can invite me back as your special vip and let me sit in your chair with you while you interview. Thank God vodka is smell free. Not sure I could handle the alcohol smell oozing from your pores.

3. Please be a follower on my blog. Chels, it's the little things you could do to keep me obsessing over you. Don't forget, I devoted 7 hours of my life to NOT see you. Don't feel guilty or anything though, ok?

4. Say my name on the air. Just randomly say Monique. Even Surferwife will work. NO wait. Make Chuy say it. I can't imagine he will be able to pronounce either Monique or Surferwife and that will make for a good skit.

Well, Chels. You did let me see a really hungover Loni Love walking to her car. Yeah, she was tired and beat down looking. Poor girl. I also got to see Ross Matthews and sure enough his voice was as annoying in real life as it is on TV. And Robin Thicke. He drove away in his Porsche convertible with his lame ass white scarf blowing in the wind.

So, to sum it up. I went from a giddy fan to a depressed, fat Starbucks drinking loser in a span of 7 hours and I did it all for you, Chels. To have your eyes fall on this blog entry would make it all better. And to have you fulfill one or all of the above items on my wishlist would improve the quality of many lives. I promise you Chelsea Handler. We are a couple of thirty something, blonde, bitchy girls that are a match made in heaven.

Vodka shots and kisses,
Your BFF Monique
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See what I mean about her being special guys? Anyone who can write a love letter to Chelsea Handler is pretty freaking cool with me.

Monique, you are the only person who loves Corn Nuts as much as I do. When you wrote this post ("What the F am I Really Eating?") on what happens to be my favorite snack - I knew I had found a new friend.

Hello Yin. It's me, Yang.

Here's to keeping it riz-eal, homegirl.