Charming Accounts

Take Two

2009-09-14T14:04:00.003-05:00

It's been almost two years since I've blogged... For shame.

I'm not exactly sure why I stopped. I think I started growing and changing and didn't know enough about myself to write clearly in a journal, let alone express things to the world [wide web].

But it's recently hit me: I'm never going to know everything about myself. And that's the point. But writing a blog can help me figure it out. (...and, to be embarrassingly honest, seeing Julie & Julia might have given me the nudge I needed.)

So... I'm back!* Older, wiser, snarkier. I may not know everything about myself or life in general, but I'll have a heck of a good time trying to work it out. I hope you'll join me!

*Julia Child recipes not included.

I've Been Really Bad at This Blog Thing

2007-12-03T16:26:00.000-06:00

Note to Self: Get better.

Delightful Barry

2007-10-25T10:22:00.000-05:00

There is nothing in this world that makes me more uncomfortable than pulling up beside a homeless man standing at an intersection with a cardboard sign. Not because I'm nervous about what he'll do, but because I simply feel awkward and...helpless. Helpless because as much as I want to help this man, I know that my handful of odd change truly won't make a difference in his life.

So I tend to get flustered. Do I busy myself with my cell phone in an attempt to ignore him and therefore feel like a bitch? Or do I stare out at him from the comfort of my car like he's an intriguing museum exhibit? Neither option feels right.

This constant dilemma causes 90 seconds of red light to feel like eternity.

But as trite as it may be, to every rule there is an exception, and my exception is Barry.

Barry is an older black man who roams a three-block area near my office building. With a single glance, it's apparent that he's suffering from some kind of mental illness. All day long, he lopes up and down the sidewalk and grins like he hasn't a care in the world. But he doesn't just stop there.

I haven't figured out how he does it, but every few days, Barry has a new prop. One day he'll be dancing on the corner wearing a motocross helmet, the next he'll be happily sqweeging people's windshields while they're stopped at red lights. I've seen him wear a cut-open rubber chicken, an old-fashioned bowler hat and rubber gloves with a surgeon's cap. (I'm still waiting to see a lampshade...)

Because I pass his intersection several times in a day, Barry now recognizes me. Most of the time, if I'm stopped at the light, he'll tap on my window and wave enthusiastically to me. His genuine, smiling face can truly make my day.

Barry delights me. Despite his hard circumstances, his upbeat attitude never seems to waiver. To Barry, the world is a party and he obviously sees himself as the life of it.

Barry makes me feel both blessed...and ungrateful for my blessings. No matter what petty worry is on my mind—credit card bills, work stuff, relationship problems—it takes a single smile from Barry to snap me back to reality. Strange to say, but I honestly wish I was more like him.

Minus the rubber chicken hat.

Pops Rocks

2007-09-21T11:12:00.000-05:00

Last night, I called my dad to vent about adult responsibilities (read: car maintenance) when we somehow got on the topic of youthful tomfoolery. And he started telling stories.

When my dad was my age, he played in a popular local band with none other than Dennis Haskins of Mr. Belding fame. (It's true. I've seen the pictures of Mr. Belding sporting bellbottoms and hair.)

Their band apparently had quite the cult following and they therefore "had an easy time with the ladies" (I didn't ask for specifics). Since the band members lived together, the party usually moved to their place after the shows ended and the bars closed.

Sometimes they'd legitimately be tired and want the groupie roadwhores to just go home. So instead of being upfront and simply asking the ladies to leave, they came up with hilarious schemes to discourage any more partying. My personal favorites are 1) drooling beer out of their mouths and then pretending to seize, 2) dumping buckets of water into the toilet while making horrible vomiting noises and 3) setting off the fire alarm.

No wonder I've been a troublemaker since day one. It's in my blood.

Balancing Act

2007-09-20T23:50:00.000-05:00

The thing I’ve struggled most with in my twenties is faith.

There. It’s been said.

I realize that while religion isn’t exactly the coolest thing to blog about, it’s probably the most controversial. Honestly, I respect whatever your feelings and opinions are on the topic. Maybe you have the fire of the Lord in your soul and want to tell the world. Or maybe you think the Bible is an out-of-date book that fits better in a library than your lifestyle.

I personally fall somewhere in between.

Since as far back as I can remember, I’ve balked at religion. I was the "bad girl" with skinned knees who talked too much and laughed too loud during boring Sunday School lessons. I snuck random things (hair clips, artistic doodles, etc.) into the offering plate and made faces at friends when we were supposed to be praying. I loved asking teachers impossible questions I knew would make them flustered. (How do we know the Bible really is the word of God? And if God really created the world in seven days like it says, why do we have dinosaur bones?)

Truthfully, despite growing older, I haven't gotten a lot better. (See: perfect example.)

In it's simplest form, most religion spouts that in order to achieve an idyllic afterlife, our worldly lives must be lived piously and according to specific guidelines. Yet youth tends to laugh in the face of authority, whether from worldly parents or a heavenly God. When you’re young, life is intoxicating. It fills you up so completely that you can barely fathom a future where excitement isn’t enough. Your life revolves around new experiences and instant gratification. Life isn’t meant to be lived by rules; it’s meant to be explored—boundaries pushed, limits tested, self discoveries made.

Needless to say, I am NOT a religious person...I never have been and probably never will be. But as I've gotten older, my faith has become increasingly important to me. Yet my mid-twenties oftentimes causes my faith to be an elusive thing. Right now, life is wonderful. It's invigorating and exciting and it makes me feel invincible. As a result, my faith sometimes falls to the backburner...yet even when dim, it's always there.

Honestly, young people who are uber religious tend to scare me. (You know the ones. The kids who stay in and do Bible journals on Friday night when the rest of their peer group is playing beer pong.) I'm not saying it's wrong, just...odd.

I think there should be a healthy balance. Your twenties should be raucous and thrilling. You should be a little selfish and make a few mistakes. You should question things, including your religion.

In short, my faith serves as a guide on respecting myself and respecting others. It's always there to buoy my spirit when I stumble and lose myself. But will I still occasionally be found beer in hand, dancing on stage somewhere on Broadway? All signs point to yes.

Singleitis, Part II

2007-08-30T15:32:00.000-05:00

Marrieds setting up non-marrieds is a never-ending cycle of awkwardness. I swear.

Last week I received a random email from a friend of my aunt (different friend, different aunt) saying that she works with a guy who she thinks would be great for me and wondered if I'd be interested in meeting him.

Sigh.

I knew she was just trying to be nice so I hesitantly told her that I wasn't completely opposed to the idea...but that if it was awful, she'd owe me.

The next thing I know, she's copied us both on an email saying, "Rachel...meet Clint. Clint...meet Rachel. Happy chatting!"

Fuck.

Luckily, we both seem to have good senses of humor because our subsequent emails to each other joked about where our situation would fall on a scale of 1-10 on the awkward meter and whether it's better to be a pro-wrestling fan or a Pacman Jones fan. (Thoughts?)

The most recent email I received was a request to actually meet in person. Which is a whole different ballgame...possibly a whole different sport. All I know about this Clint person is that he's tall, blonde, does triathlons and (based on his emails alone) is intelligent and quite witty.

But he could be a train wreck in person...

I'm leaning towards meeting him. Maybe for drinks after work (strategically planned because if it goes well, we can stay for dinner...but if it's horrible, I can beg off early to do laundry or some such mess).

And looking on the bright side, if it is a train wreck, I'll have a fantastically awkward story for the history books.

The Early Bird Gets Firm

2007-08-28T12:41:00.000-05:00

Let me start off by saying that I am not a morning person. At all. My alarm is often proceeded by cursing and thumping of pillows. If there were such a thing as sleep competitions, I'd be a world champion.

But (woe is me) my evenings have gotten so chock full o’ social activity that my options have been whittled down to 1) work out early or 2) get fat. And considering that I lean more towards "vain" than "lazy" on the personality barometer, option #2 really isn't an option at all. Therefore, I’m revving the treadmill before the sun is up at least three days a week.

The first two weeks of my lofty early morning exercise regime were hell. My alarm would go off and I’d honestly decide I’d rather be dead than dragging myself out of bed. The drive to the gym and the first few minutes spent there weren’t much better.

But now that I’ve surpassed a month of sweating my ass off pre-sunrise, I’m actually starting to enjoy it. Especially the peaceful drive to the gym on silent, deserted roads.

The morning gym is a completely different place than the evening gym. The people who work out in the morning gym are no-nonsense, get in, get your shit done and get out types of people. They don’t wear cutesy matching spandex outfits and parade around the weight room like it’s a runway. They don’t spend half their time flexing in the mirror and talking to their buddies about supplements. They don’t force me to overhear their inane cryptic letterspeak conversations (OMG! WTF?!) as their grossly exaggerated implants heave in indignation.

Every once in awhile, the early morning non-gym-bullshitters are infiltrated by what I like to refer to as the “The Vains” (who stick out like Dennis Rodman at the Alabama State Fair).

This morning, the presence of a platinum-haired lady in FULL makeup caused me to snicker. There she was, amongst the serious exercisers, wearing lip liner. Lip liner! I mean, come on lady. The gig is up. We KNOW that you must’ve gotten up even earlier than necessary to apply a layer of thick makeup that’s just going to run down your face and cause stains on the public towels that we’re all forced to use.

I may be vain in the sense that I’ll sacrifice precious sleep for a toned body, but thank GOD I’m not insecure to the point of caring what I look like in a state of extreme sweat. The world already has one Workout Barbie. It doesn’t need another.

Sooie!

2007-08-21T18:01:00.000-05:00

Sunday night I braved the Wilson County Fair. (I use the term “braved” very loosely because who am I kidding? I live for the kind of kitschy redneck experiences county fairs offer...)

I sadly grew up in a city that didn’t have fairs so they are a relative novelty. Despite my mature(ish) age, I relate to the bevy of sticky 8-year-olds whose faces light up as they skip through the colorful gates.

The entire fair experience is almost seizure inducing. The sights and smells are garish, yet awe-inspiring all the same.

Within the four-hour time span we spent strolling the fairgrounds, I watched people make fools of themselves under “hypnosis”, cheered for the 4-H kids showing their prize pigs, bought a foot-long corn dog from a midget, counted 17 pairs of jorts (jean shorts…“jorts”), rode two very intense rides and got headbutted by a camel at the petting zoo.

But the most classic fair moment of all happened during the pig race at the “Hogway Speedway”. As they were all coming around the second turn, two of the pigs stopped mid-race and started humping. They were honest to God going at it hardcore with a hundred plus kids watching in complete shock. To the point that the track operator had to step in and pull the frisky lovebirds apart for the race to continue.

I swear I laughed for ten solid minutes.

I know, I know…8th grade called. It wants it’s sense of humor back.

Pervy Purvis

2007-08-08T15:32:00.000-05:00

A friend recently sent me a link to an online sexual predator database that magically generates every registered offender who lives in your area.

With a little trepidation, I typed in my address and held my breath as the page loaded. I half expected a little red flag to appear on top of MY house as the friendly, animated representation of my creepo landlord/neighbor. Thankfully, my house was clear (I guess the hiring of hookers and attendance at swingers parties doesn't quite qualify you for this particular website's elite).

With my immediate worries relieved, I commenced clicking on the colorful flags surrounding my neighborhood.

Now, I realize that sexual abuse is no laughing matter, but the sexual abusers' mugshots are pure comedic fodder. Seriously. These men are the singularly most strange-looking group of individuals I've ever laid eyes on.

I was happily clicking and snickering away when the mugshot of the man directly south of me stopped me dead in my tracks:

HOLY HELL. This guy is the ultimate poster child for sexual predators.

1) His god-given name is actually (and quite fittingly) Larry Purvis.
2) Did he intentionally make that face or is it what he looks like all of the time?
3) Why the fuck does he have a surgical mask dangling from one ear?

Although definitely disturbing, I have NEVER laughed so hard in my ENTIRE LIFE.

C-C-Changes

2007-08-02T16:19:00.000-05:00

I've officially completed my first week at my new job and couldn't be happier.

I'd been missing a creative aspect in my life for awhile now, so when the opportunity for both a title and salary increase popped up several weeks ago at an advertising agency, I jumped at the chance.

It's been an absolute blast. I work with some of the coolest and wittiest people I've ever met and thankfully for me, my personality has blended right into the mix. Even though we work hard, the office environment rarely resembles a "work place". It tends to feel more like a college dorm hall.

We pull childish pranks and shout good-natured insults across the office like we're punch drunk 19-year-olds at 2:00 a.m. And if the dorm reference isn't clear enough already, there's been talk of purchasing a Wii for the conference room...

My first day on the job, my co-workers installed a Nerf basketball hoop on my office door and set my internet homepage to Playgirl.com. But that's just the tip of the iceberg.

I've probably laughed more in the past week than I have in a month. Within the last five days, I've shot coffee out of my nose approximately three times and have literally rolled around on the floor, tears streaming down my face at least once. It's out of control.

And with perfect timing, loud farting noises are echoing from the president's office as I type this. He's literally hooting with laughter and yelling that we all need to download the Whoopie Cushion synthesizer to our desktop.

All I lack is a shower caddy and a mini-fridge and I swear it could be freshman year all over again.

Day Brightner

2007-07-19T16:05:00.000-05:00

This email was waiting for me in my inbox this morning:

File under "random": I found your blog about Stella Mae. I've thought about being a big brother for a few weeks, but was worried it might quickly turn into a commitment rather than something I looked forward to doing. I just want you to know that your honesty and openness sealed the deal, and now I feel guilty for not getting on the ball sooner. So thanks.

It's kind of nice to feel like a positive influence.

Rocked

2007-07-18T15:46:00.000-05:00

Yesterday a very lucky friend won tickets on the radio for the Augustana/O.A.R. concert at the Ryman. Because he's awesome (or maybe because I am...wink, wink), he invited me to go with him.

All in all, the show was fantastic. Both bands are amazing live and put on great performances. But I came away from the evening with a few observations...

1) Three out of the five Augustana band members wore ridiculously skinny jeans and severely v-necked (women's?) shirts:

I'm sorry, this isn't a good look for ANY man, but especially not for an under-developed "rocker" who spent his formative years playing guitar in a dark basement.

Dude, please keep your bird chest to yourself and your groupies. Oh, and if your pants cause me to wonder if you have to tuck your junk behind you to zip them, you should probably go up a size. Just a suggestion.

2) With that being said, there really is something about a man rocking out on a musical instrument, standing in a pool of stage lights. Generally I gravitate towards the All-American kind of guy and am probably the last person to sleep with someone simply because they're famous...but when Jerry of O.A.R. played that sax with his rippling muscles... Whew.

3) I am old. Seriously OLD. I swear out of the 4,000 people there, my friend and I were one of maybe 25 adults who didn't need a fake ID to stand in the beer line.

The minute we walked into the place, I felt like I'd accidentally stumbled my way into a high school field trip. Little pubescent people ran through the auditorium, shouting to their friends about their summer vacation plans. You could almost smell the mixture of false self-importance and zit cream.

My old age truly hit home while standing in line for the bathroom and overhearing a peppy cheerleader type tell a slouchy rocker type, "I'm 15 and a HALF."

It took everything I had not to belly laugh. Mainly because I so clearly remember those long-ago days of enhancing your age in an effort to appear more mature. Like those extra six months make any real difference.

I suddenly realized that from here on out, I'll probably want to do just the opposite. Someday, I'll be one of those 56-year-old women who are "39 and holding" or other such bullshit. Never again will I pump up my age to impress a boy.

Although, the thought is actually quite funny. I think the next time someone asks my age, I'll smile sweetly and reply, "24 and three-quarters" just to see what happens.

Confession

2007-07-13T15:36:00.000-05:00

I've been so busy this summer that my involvement in the Big Brothers/Big Sisters program started to become an afterthought. As horrible as it sounds, instead of actually looking forward to spending time with Stella Mae, she'd become just one more obligation to fit into my hectic schedule.

Although I love her dearly, Stella Mae can sometimes flat wear me out. She has more energy than I ever thought possible and likes to ask questions over and over and over--especially when it comes to buying her things. In the past few months, I'd begun feeling more like a glorified babysitter than a mentor actually making a difference in a child's life...

And then everything changed in an instant.

I promised Stella Mae a week ago that we'd hang out last night. Every single day leading up was met with calls and garbled text messages from her guardian's phone making sure we were still on for our "play date". (Needless to say, it became annoying.)

I picked her up promptly at 5:30 as promised (but not before she sent me three texts), and thought to myself that I'd have her home in a couple of hours and be off the hook for another few weeks (terrible, I know).

Because I didn't feel like doing much, we just headed to my house where we cooked dinner together and played with my dog in the backyard. Later that evening, while watching marathon episodes of Hannah Montana, Stella Mae asked if she could see my cell phone. I handed it to her and she promptly started snapping pictures of everything in the room.

After taking a picture of herself, she looked at it and proclaimed, "Dang! I look drunk!"

I sat stunned for a second and then asked her how she (at 9-years-old) even knew what "drunk" meant. She replied in the quietest voice possible, "My daddy gets that way a lot."

In that instant, my heart completely broke for her. I had no words to make things better so I simply scooped her into my arms. She nestled against me and we sat like that for awhile, as I mentally railed against the world's unfairness.

That night when I dropped her off, instead of bounding out of my car like she normally does, she sat quietly for a few moments before saying, "Rachel...you make my life seem good. You know?"

I cried the entire way home.

Those childlike words from a hardened 9-year-old made everything worth it. I know I'll never be able to replace an absent drunk father, but damnit if I'm not going to do my best to try.

Lucky One

2007-07-12T01:29:00.000-05:00

On the rare occasions that I have shitty days or feel sorry for myself, writing is the only thing that truly grounds me. The simple act of recording my conscious stream of thought allows me to understand myself better than most.

Tonight was admittedly rough. I was completely disregarded by someone I cared about and the worse part was that everyone with us seemed to pick up on this, despite my attempts at cheerfulness. My smile was bright and my jokes were on target, but they somehow saw through my facade. I do realize that their insightfulness is a sign of true friendship and am grateful, but their well-meant hugs and whispered reassurances did nothing but make me feel small. So despite their protests, I received their last rounds of hugs and said my goodbyes. As I walked away, I simply felt...numb.

After unlocking my door and greeting my exuberant puppy with a mixture of love and relief, I suddenly felt drawn to my laptop. So I cued a favorite soulful artist on my iPod and sat down to a blinking cursor. I stared at the screen woodenly for a few minutes as indistinguishable thoughts and feelings poured through my mind. And then, as quickly as they arrived, everything settled and I was simply left with ME.

The freshly blank page provided nothing but clarity. Gone was the self-pity and self-doubt and in their place was simply the green-eyed girl who always sees silver linings in thunderclouds. The smart-aleck girl with the juvenile sense of humor who loves her friends to a fault. The girl with a soft spot for the neglected, but an (ironic) intolerance for the closed-minded. The girl who oftentimes speaks before she thinks, but still desires to make everyone feel included. The girl who unwaveringly knows that her respect and love are valuable and will therefore disappear the moment they are taken for granted.

So despite whatever is going on in my life, the ability to write causes me to feel blessed. It causes problems/worries/insecurities to fade into the background as I reintroduce myself to my true self. Somehow, that tiny blinking cursor manages to reach straight into my soul and reminds me that no matter what the circumstance, that green-eyed girl is going to not only prevail, but will more than likely throw her head back and laugh in the process.

Kindred Spirits

2007-07-10T20:28:00.000-05:00

It seems that my appreciation for family grows with every year that passes.

I spent last week in the North Carolina mountains with 50 of my closest family members. This annual reunion is a tradition which has been in place since I was 8-years-old and is miraculously still going strong.

I loved the reunion as a child. My cousins and I made crafts, played hide and seek, teased each other mercilessly and basically had a bang up time. But in typical surly, pre-teen fashion, the family reunion spiraled out of my favor as soon as I hit the middle school social scene. The thought of missing a single glorious afternoon flirting with boys at the neighborhood pool to be forced to wear matching t-shirts for things like "potluck night" sent me into a prickly bitterness. My family was lame, my cousins were dorks and the world was completely and utterly unfair (of course).

But as I got older, my viewpoint shifted. The reunions slowly morphed from excruciating endeavors to tolerable obligations to enjoyable vacations.

I now look forward to my annual reunion with fervor—it's the only time all year that the people I love most in this world are gathered together in a single place.

This year was no exception. As I approached the familiar town limit sign, joy welled up to the point of almost bursting. The minute I parked my car and flew up the familiar steps, I felt completely at home. My favorite cousins were waiting and within minutes, we fell into our natural repartee as if a year’s time never separated us.

One afternoon, after laughing until gasping for breath, sprawled side-by-side across the floor of the “cousins’ house”, I looked around at the faces surrounding me and felt truly thankful. For the first time, it hit home that these amazing people were mine. I belonged to them and they to me.

They’d been there through my bout with scrunchies and bike shorts, my too-cool adolescent attitude and mean-spirited practical jokes. They’d seen me at my absolute worst and loved me anyway.

Despite our obvious differences, their faces and spirits somehow reflect my own. Within these unique individuals lies my home away from home. Within these unique individuals lies not only my identity, but absolute proof that I’m one of the luckiest girls in the world.

Despite still being made to wear matching reunion t-shirts at the age of 24.

SINtillating

2007-06-28T22:38:00.000-05:00

This might be the most judgmental thing that has ever come out of my mouth, but I have to say it...

I've come to the conclusion that I'll automatically have nothing in common with the type of female who lists under the "Favorite Books" section of Facebook, Myspace, etc. any variation of, "I really only like magazines! Oh, and the Bible!"

Ugh. The old Cosmo/Bible combo irritates me beyond belief. It's so oxymoronic, it's almost laughable.

50 Ways to Please Your Man...and Jesus!

Get to Know His Erogenous Zones...and Eternal Salvation!

Now, don't get me wrong. I have nothing against having faith and being open about that faith. And I'm definitely not saying that you can't have a passion for both makeup and the Lord.

However, I DO have a problem with flaunting your faith in an effort to appear "good" or "deep". And that's just what those types of profile descriptions convey.

Call me crazy, I simply have a hard time believing that someone who can't bear to occasionally pick up a John Grisham or David Sedaris or even Jennifer Weiner is actually an avid reader of a monstrously thick book that was written thousands of years ago.

And I'm now done with my bitchiness. At least for the time being...

Oh, and for those gearing up to send bitter emails, I'll beat you to the punch. Matthew 7:1 has been dually noted.

Singleitis

2007-06-27T12:10:00.000-05:00

If there's one thing worse than a blind date, it's a blind date that you're unaware you're being set up on.

One of my aunt's best friends lives in town and occasionally invites me over for dinner and cocktails with her family. Considering that a) they're amazing and b) they live down the street from Keith Urban and Nicole Kidman, their dinner invitations are rarely declined.

Monday night, I'd been invited for Tex-Mex and homemade margaritas and arrived promptly at 7:00. I knew that something was up when the very first thing Mary said when she answered the door was, "Oh good! You look cute!"

I arched an eyebrow and asked what she was up to, to which she responded, "Oh, nothing really. I just invited another friend for dinner. I think you'll like him!" I groaned and told her she'd owe me if I ended up having to babysit a train wreck.

My "date" for the evening arrived shortly thereafter and proved to be a 29-year-old investment banker who was cute, if not a tiny bit shy. Luckily I can talk to a fencepost so conversation flowed nicely...and I only caught him looking at my chest a total of three times.

But STILL. I'd arrived under the auspice of being fed a good meal and getting to lounge on the couch with Mary and a bottle(s) of wine to discuss work, men, books we were reading, places we wanted to travel, etc. NOT to make small talk about the house Mr. Banker Man just bought in Green Hills and what we both did for a living.

I don't know what it is about older married people, but most seem determined to "cure" everyone they know of the "singleness disease". Like we're all somehow wasting away without the presence of a significant other and they are our fairy godmothers, come to rescue us from a life of perpetual loneliness.

Christ. If I had to bet money, I'd say Mary probably gave him my phone number. Maybe (fingers crossed) he's smart enough to realize that since I didn't give it to him personally, he shouldn't call. But for the next week or so, a random number flashing across my cell phone screen might cause minor panic.

I Scream

2007-06-25T16:43:00.000-05:00

I know this should be filed under "C" for "Crotchety", but I've just about had it with the friendly neighborhood ice cream vendor.

Firstly, why the HELL is there an ice cream truck tooting up and down Music Row in the first place? I can't imagine there are enough well-dressed professionals flying out of their offices clutching grimy dollar bills at the first sound of music to warrant it's presence. It needs to relocate to Brentwood or Belle Meade...or really anywhere other than here.

Secondly, whoever designed the damn thing must have been downright malicious. It plays the most excruciating track of carnival calliope music, punctuated by the occasional (demonic) little girl voice shouting, "HELLO!"

The first time I heard this, I thought it bizarre, yet amusing. But because it's returned every day since, I'm on the verge of doing something drastic.

Since I'm on the top floor of my office building, I have the unique advantage of a covert airborne attack. And believe me, I've thought of everything from homemade water balloons to borrowing my ten-year-old neighbor's paintball gun.

To be honest, at this point I'm not sure if I'll be able to sustain enough self-control to carry out a premeditated attack. I'm on the brink of just slamming my window open and screaming expletives at the offensive vehicle as it toots down the alley.

And just like that, the silly little childhood rhyme has a whole new meaning...

Dirty Laundry

2007-06-18T22:28:00.000-05:00

I think the best part about growing up is recognizing change in yourself.

It's somehow both thrilling and grounding to experience random life moments that make you step back and observe just how different you've become.

I feel like I've been doing this a lot lately. It can happen during small moments such as a catch-up phone call from an old high school sweetheart or big moments like passing your two-year anniversary from college graduation.

To that end, I truly believe that a main life goal for every individual should not simply be to change, but to better oneself in the process. But it's hard. It's oftentimes much easier to adapt to your shortcomings and bad habits than it is to fix them.

A former shortcoming that I've struggled with is control. My parents divorced when I was young and all I've known is a single-parent household. My mom worked hellish hours and as a result, I had little choice but to grow up faster than my friends. I remember doing the laundry at the age of 9 and was cooking dinner by the age of 12. (But before you paint me as a poor Cinderella, I definitely played just as hard as the other kids in my neighborhood. I rarely missed marathon games of Capture the Flag and threw snowballs at cars with the best of them. I had as much fun, but simply more responsibilities than my carefree peers.) I assume that because my mom relied so heavily on me at times, it created in me a deep-seeded craving for perfectionism. For a while, I was all she had and I therefore felt I had to be The Perfect Daughter to compensate.

This perfectionist streak can at times be a positive thing. I tend to excel at whatever I put my mind to and rarely settle for less than the best in both myself and others. But when not kept in check, this need for control can, in turn, control me.

It ran rampant my very last semester of college. My entire life as I'd known it was changing and I felt lost. I felt like my big, scary grownup future was out of my hands and the only way to make myself feel better was to minutely control the comfortable (but fleeting) life I had. So I made perfect grades. And when I wasn't in class, I helped edit our alumni magazine and was a reporter for our campus TV station. I volunteered. I nannied for the cutest family ever. I headed up several campus organizations, including one that required I sometimes travel with the baseball team. I exercised religiously. I strived to be a true friend to my sorority sisters and a supportive, amazing girlfriend to an overwhelmed law student.

I tried to be everything to everybody and lost myself in the process. By the time graduation rolled around, I was exhausted. The day I walked in my cap and gown, I weighed less than 100 pounds. I had no hint of a disorder; it just proved impossible to eat enough to keep up with my hectic lifestyle.

Graduation came and went and I was left with mere shards of the "perfect" life I'd created for myself. College was over and it stung to realize that nothing I achieved there meant anything further than excellent resume material. I was jobless, homeless and directionless and for the first time in my life, I had to learn to let go and accept the unknown. It was either that, or drive myself slowly insane.

So I did. I woke up one morning and decided that life could be simpler and much more enjoyable if I adopted the attitude that everything eventually works out for the best. I won't lie, it's definitely been an uphill battle. But now that I'm finally reaching the peak, I look back and marvel on just how far I've come...on how much more I love myself now that I'm not taking her so seriously.

I still backpedal occasionally. Last night, my normal mature self slipped and I acted embarrassingly childish. I proved far less than perfect and as a result, I spent an hour and a half of my evening running at full speed on the treadmill. I didn't stop until my t-shirt dripped and my mind went blank.

The difference between now and college is that I can instantly recognize this kind of behavior for what it is before it takes over. The very moment I stepped off the treadmill, I laughed inwardly at myself. I knew in an instant that because I'd felt imperfect and lacked control, I exerted ultimate control over my body by pushing it to the limit. But in that moment, with both my heartbeat and Michael Jackson ringing in my ears, I chose to feel exhilarated rather than turbulent.

I see positive change in myself, which must mean I'm growing up. I can honestly say that I'm a better person today than I was two years ago as I fell unbelievably short of my superhuman goals. And I hope that two years from now, I can look back at this very post and recognize how much progress I've made to becoming the person I want to be.

It's taken awhile, but I've finally grasped that that person, that ideal girl, will never be perfect. She'll be warm and caring, generous and inclusive, good natured and laid back. But she'll still sometimes say the wrong things and laugh at inappropriate moments. She'll still be a messy eater and a sucker for a dare. She'll still be snarky and, at times, brutally honest.

And hell, if she just so happens to have fantastic legs due to frustrated miles logged on the treadmill as she learned to accept herself, that would be a major bonus.

Um...EW.

2007-06-14T23:42:00.000-05:00

I'm not sure what it is about old men on vacation, but a little beach action tends to bring out the dirty in them.

Last night, the minors and I went to eat at a popular seafood restaurant right on the beach. The wait to get a table was an hour and a half so we decided to kill time at the outside bar and enjoy the sunset over illegally purchased drinks (a la me...don't tell). I politely asked the 45-year-old man sitting next to me if he could pass me a menu so we could look over the appetizer selection when he (no joke) wiggled his eyebrows and asked me how I'd repay him.

EH?! Did he actually expect I'd leap into his lap and suggest I service him in the bathroom to thank him for his immense kindness? Please.

Later on, as we were leaving the restaurant, a drunk man "bumped" full-frontal style into my cousin and looked her up and down before I elbowed him out of the way and said, "she's 18...and you're pathetic".

I realize that most of them are just having a little fun and are harmless, but it's still annoying. Especially if they have small children in tow while walking down the beach and they STILL wink at you in your bikini.

For whatever reason, it seems the go-to phrase for creepy old men is, "Hey Ladies" (with exaggerated eyebrow wiggle and/or fake "gun" cocking). But tonight, I discovered the ultimate comeback to such lechery...

While strolling through an open-air market after dinner, the minors and I (surprise, surprise) received the go-to "Hey Ladies" from a group of mafia crime boss look-a-likes. Rather than rolling my eyes and huffing off, I tossed sweetly over my shoulder, "Hey Daddies...or should I say Granddaddies?" And then I grinned.

The stunned (but slightly amused) looks on their faces were hysterical.

Funny how they spent the day at the beach and it wasn't until nightfall that they got royally burned...

Drama Mamas

2007-06-11T23:13:00.000-05:00

For the first time in my life, I can solidly say that I wouldn’t go back to high school for anything.

Several months ago, my aunt asked if I would like to accompany my 18-year-old cousin and several of her friends for a week in Destin. Never one to turn down a beach trip, I agreed.

We arrived last night and within 10 minutes, it looked like Seventeen magazine vomited its contents all over our house—colorful swimsuit tops, makeup brushes and bottles of nail polish strung haphazardly throughout the rooms. Squeals and girlish laughter rang out as we claimed sleeping arrangements and marveled over our entire week of freedom.

After semi-unpacking, we ordered pizza and lounged on the porch for several hours, talking about boys (of course), college fears and catty cliques. When I wasn’t giving sought-after advice, I simply sat back and marveled.

The conversations ranged from “oh my god, I can’t believe he’s dating a sophomore” to “can you believe she actually wore that to prom”? They obsessed about whether they should call him if they hadn’t heard from him by Thursday and whether they’d fit in at their chosen colleges.

The main thing that struck me was their intensity…everything was either amazing or tragic, there wasn’t much in between. Looking back, I know I was the exact same way at their age—I truly felt like my world would stop if a certain boy didn’t call or if another girl wore my exact dress to a dance.

Being thrust back into such a juvenile viewpoint at the ripe old age of 24 has been eye-opening. It makes me feel silly to think I spent so much time obsessing over things that plain didn’t matter, for worrying so much about what other (less amazing) people thought of me.

Listening to their angst over trivial problems has made me incredibly grateful for my current age and wisdom. It took me awhile, but I’ve finally learned that it’s exhausting to stress about things over which you have no control. (If he doesn’t call by Thursday, fuck him…you’ll find someone who will. If another woman shows up in your dress, simply laugh and compliment her good taste.)

It’s now our second night at the beach and I’m already on drama overload. So after returning from a late dinner, I grabbed my laptop and a glass of wine and headed out in search of solitude.

I can hear their distant high-pitched chatter from my cozy lounge chair by our pool and it makes me smile. It makes me smile to think how absolutely carefree they are, to think of the amazing college adventures they each have in store, to think of their complete naivety as to how great life is after high school.

It makes me smile to think how much I once resembled them and just how much I’ve changed. It makes me smile to be able to feel completely and utterly content.

Parental Supervision Required

2007-05-23T18:26:00.000-05:00

There's great benefit in having a nursing student for a roommate. Namely, she gives great advice on how to shorten a cold or can stitch up a gash from a veggie chopping accident while I'm passed out from the sight of my own blood.

But the best part of ALL is the fact that she works in a health clinic and has fantastic stories about the redneck patients she sees.

Most of the time, the stories are funny. Like the one about the large woman who wore jeans with two perfect-circle holes in the butt and had a boy in tow named DeWeese (bahaha). Or the one about the man who had to come in because he'd stuck one too many household objects up his poop hole.

But last night, she told me a story that's almost too horrifying to believe. I know this is going to make me sound 75, but what the hell is wrong with kids these days?!

Yesterday my roommate had to perform a pelvic exam on a 12-year-old girl because she'd been caught having both regular and anal sex in the bathroom at school.

(Yes, you read that right. When my roommate told me, I dropped my toothbrush and almost passed out and chipped my teeth on the sink.)

I know this is too much information, but when I was twelve, it was a BIG deal when the sluttiest girl in 7th grade went to second base...and that's just a little fondling.

Apparently, this sexually active preteen was both angry and scared to death of the exam. Um, hello? A little Q-tip swab is nothing in comparison to a penis in your butt. Ugh! It makes me want to shake her. In my opinion, a 12-year-old isn't mature enough to be dropped off at the mall, let alone having sex. What is she possibly thinking? And does this mean that MY kids will be having sex when they're five?

But here's the kicker. After my roommate gave her the whole spiel about abstinence, safe sex and birth control, the girl asked if birth control tablets come in CHEWABLES.

I may not be an expert, but I know that if you have a hard time swallowing a birth control pill (or want it in a fruity flavor), chances are you shouldn't be having sex. Period. End of discussion.

Now go to your room.

Wrestling With "Reality"

2007-05-09T18:37:00.000-05:00

For whatever reason (perhaps this blog?) I recently received an invitation to a closed casting call to be on the next season of The Bachelor—I apparently have what “they’re looking for”. Whatever that means.

My first reaction was total disbelief. I definitely belly laughed and then wondered which of my goober friends pulled the prank. But after a little research, I discovered that the individual who contacted me really IS a casting agent for ABC.

I’ve polled a lot of my friends and every single one of them thinks I should audition. (Whether they think I’d do well or just want to tell people their friend is “famous” is unclear...)

My thoughts on auditioning are mixed. On one hand, it could be a great experience. When else would you get the opportunity to fly to exotic locales and drink loads of champagne on yachts? But on the other hand, every time I’ve ever watched The Bachelor, it’s mainly to laugh at the silly drama of all the stupid hookers. I can’t quite wrap my head around the thought of BEING one of them.

The only way I can come up with solving this dilemma is the classic pro/con list:

Pro: Free vacation. (Hell yes.)
Con: Telling my boss why I need three weeks off work.

Pro: Fantasy trips/dates.
Con: Putting up with (probably annoying) women tagging along on said fantasy trips/dates.

Pro: Being on TV. (Or is this a con?)
Con: My ENTIRE FAMILY watching me make out with a dude on national television.

Pro: Being one of the only cool, down-to-earth girls in the show’s history.
Con: Living in the same house with Barbie look-a-likes who think Oscar Wilde is an edgy designer.

Pro: Free booze.
Con: Being craftily edited to look like a snarky bitch on national television.

And…we’re back to square one. I’m torn. This is of course all assuming that I even make a call back, which is doubtful. The casting agents could just think I’m “nice”…

I’m opening the floor for your opinions/advice/hysterical laughter.

To Bachelor or not to Bachelor?

The Season

2007-04-30T22:56:00.000-05:00

It has officially begun.

Yesterday, I received my SEVENTH wedding invitation in the mail.

Don't get me wrong, I love attending weddings. They provide the unique opportunity to drunkenly gorge yourself on fluffy cake while dancing to live bands and shamelessly flirting with other "unweds".

But this is where my attraction ends.

For whatever reason, I was never the little girl to dress-up and play "wedding" with her friends/dolls/siblings/anything that would cooperate at the "alter". I was too busy playing kick the can with the neighborhood boys, building houses for caterpillars and skinning my knees.

To this day, while some females light up during discussions of flower arrangements and dress cuts, my eyes tend to glaze over. While other females gush over cake stands at bridal showers, I can be found gazing out the window, wishing I was driving through the sunshine with wind whipping through my hair and Stevie Nicks crooning over my speakers.

I often feel like an outsider in the world of nuptials. Like an underdeveloped middle-school boy who's friends have become interested in girls overnight; he gets the attraction, he just doesn't feel it himself. Come ON guys! What's the big deal? They're just stupid GIRLS.

Maybe your mind frame changes when you meet that person who you want to stand beside at the alter. Maybe a "first dance" to a sappy, overused love song isn't so heinous when you're dancing with your perfect match. Maybe flower arrangements and dress cuts suddenly become synonymous with hope and happiness.

Or MAYBE, if I'm honest with myself, the only thing I'm truly looking forward to about my (very) future wedding is calling my mother in the midst of frenzied wedding preparations to ask if Port-a-Potty rentals will put us over budget. And then giggling as her head explodes in complete disbelief.

The Best I'll Ever Be

2007-04-25T22:13:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I said goodbye to the greatest man I’ve ever known.

My incredible granddad died unexpectedly last Friday at the age of 84. And left me shell shocked. I’m sure it’s no coincidence that my last blog post was about my love for him. If I had only known at that Easter lunch that that would be the last time I’d see him alive, I would’ve stayed for days. But instead I’m left aching to hear more of his stories. Stories that will now never be told.

My grandfather was my rock. He was one of the greatest men in the greatest generation our country has ever seen. He lived and breathed integrity. He was gentle, yet commanding. Respectful, yet vivacious. Mirthful, yet deep. He’s been the best example, the best champion, and the best friend a girl could ever hope to have.

As funerals go, his was…nice. Over 500 people came to pay their respects which was powerful to see, to know that he’d touched that many individual lives. Unfortunately, I spent the entire time feeling as if I was trapped in a fishbowl. All I wanted to do was lie in my high school bed and sob like a little girl, but I dutifully shouldered my responsibility as his oldest grandchild and welcomed his guests. I received countless hugs from virtual strangers and tried to ignore their curious stares. As if I was a battered car wreck victim being hauled into an ambulance on the side of an interstate instead of a heartbroken young woman who’s entire world had shifted overnight.

But this story isn’t all sad. Whatever your beliefs are concerning an afterlife, the strangest thing happened to me on the way to his funeral. Something that lifted me up and forever tinged my memory of him with wonder.

I left Nashville Monday morning in a cloud of misery and dread. I knew that as soon as I arrived home, his death would fade from being dreamlike into stark reality. About 45 minutes into my trip, one of my tires blew out on the interstate. I have no idea how, but I managed to guide my car to the shoulder without hitting anyone.

I sat stunned on the side of the road for a few moments and then laid my head on the steering wheel and sobbed. I couldn’t believe that such shitty luck happened on that particular day.

Just when I’d managed to pull myself together and had started out on my hike to the nearest gas station, an older man pulled up behind me in a giant moving truck.

I’m sure I looked a mess—helpless, windblown and tear-streaked. But he gave me a kind smile and in an almost unintelligible stutter, asked if he could be of assistance. I resisted the urge to throw my arms around him and simply asked if he could help me change my tire. Because I already felt like the most pitiful thing in the world, I refrained from telling him where I was headed…

In no time flat (ha!) he got me back on the road. I burbled my gratitude and offered to compensate him for his efforts, but he just smiled. As he climbed into the cab of his truck, his stutter fell away and he said clear as day, “just consider me your guardian granddad”. And with a wink, he drove away.

I stood on the side of the road in silence as a chill crept up my spine. Then I threw my head back and laughed. Coincidence or no, it was perfect. It made me feel both exhilarated and protected, just like I did as a little girl when he would toss me into the air and then catch me in his strong arms.

Robert Clay Evans, you will be missed. Missed in a way that aches and forever feels empty. But in subtle ways, your spirit still lives on. It lives on in good samaritans willing to help the helpless. It lives on in your surviving family members who will tell your priceless stories for generations to come.

It lives on in your oldest granddaughter’s heart as she continues to be your biggest fan.

Oldies But Goodies

2007-04-15T16:28:00.000-05:00

Several years ago (as shameful as this is to admit), I viewed visits to my grandparents' house as a necessary chore filled with mind-numbing questions. (What classes are you taking? Have you been to any fun dances? Are you sure you're getting enough to eat?)

I'd answer their questions robotically, all the while hoping my grandad would slip me some "gas money" on my way out the door.

But as I've grown older, I've begun viewing visits with them more as a refreshing pit-stop instead of just a speed bump on my fast-moving social calendar.

I can spend hours listening to their stories while attempting to catch glimpses of what they might've been like at my age. During rare moments, their gray hairs and wrinkles are stripped away and I'm left feeling like I'm chatting with close friends. Friends who straight up make me LAUGH.

Remember in Steel Magnolias when Clairee says, "If you can't say something nice, come sit next to me"? That's my grandmother to a tee. Especially in church. (If that woman doesn't stop showing off half her bosom, my Sunday School class just might nickname her "Trudy the Tart"...bless her little heart.)

While I have the utmost respect and awe over the great lives my grandparents have led and there is admittedly no other couple I'd rather swap gossip or old stories, it's hard not to laugh at their absolute bafflement of modern technology.

For the simple fact that I'm under the age of 50, I've been deemed their personal technology wizard. Every time I visit, they have questions about "the intranet" and lists of numbers that need to be programmed into their cell phone.

Last weekend while home for Easter, I decided it was high time they became a little technologically savvy themselves. So in a crash course of the 21st Century, I introduced them to their PICTURE PHONE (which they didn't even realize they had).

In several minutes flat, I'd snapped pictures of every family member in the room and set them to appear when each individual called. And if that didn't flabbergast them enough, I took a picture of them on their phone and text messaged it to my phone.

Judging by their amazed reaction, you'd think I set fire to the living room carpet with my eyeballs...

In the days following my "cell phone sorcery", I received multiple whispered phone calls from my grandmother to the effect of, "Can you please call me back? I'm at the Senior Center and want to see Doris' stunned face when your picture appears!"

Next up? Mastering the universal remote.

Bless their little hearts.

Team Player

2007-03-23T11:55:00.000-05:00

In an effort to recapture my youth, I've joined an adult kickball league. The season started last Wednesday and so far, it's been a blast.

There's nothing quite like rolling out your cooler and lawn chairs and sitting under the hazy evening sky while watching grown ass men make fools of themselves.

Glints of athletic glory-days-gone-by shine in these out-of-shape, overgrown boys' eyes. These are the athletic scholarship rejects, but that fact doesn't interfere with their ability to slam powerful line drives like it's their job. Their self worth is wholly dependent on their number of runs scored...

Which is really too bad considering my team is going to CRUSH THEM. Buahahahaha! We've put together the best of the best and actually have a practiced strategy to ensure wins. Plus, we have the best kickball team name ever created.

It's...wait for it..."Rubber Balls and Liquor."

Dirty, but hysterical. And continuing with our theme, our jerseys have personalized drinks emblazoned on them instead of our own boring names. (Hello. My name is: "Hypnotiq".)

Despite the marketing genius behind our team's theme, it was a tad embarrassing to actually order the shirts. When I called a local screen printing shop to place our order, an old man answered the phone and asked in the most pleasant voice possible how he be of assistance (gulp).

"Um, please don't judge me by this, but I need 14 shirts with our 'Rubber Balls and Liquor' logo on the front and individual names on the back. Starting with number double zero, name 'Buttery Nipple'..."

Lawd, do I know how to make my mama proud or what?

Ridin' Dirty

2007-03-20T16:16:00.000-05:00

About six weeks ago, I got rear-ended downtown. (I'm shocked that I didn't post some long-winded rant about sassy bitches who can't drive, but nada.)

Basically, she hit me, then threw me an attitude...which I threw right back. I'll see your huffy temper tantrum and raise you one snarky battle of wits.

To make a long story short, while our insurance companies haggle out who's fault it was (hers), my cute little Volkswagen is sitting in the repair shop. Luckily, State Farm is providing me with a rental car at no charge.

Because the rental company was short stocked the day I picked up my car, I had my choice between a tiny station wagon/tennis shoe-looking thing or a regular sedan. I opted for the sedan and chuckled when the man at Enterprise handed me keys to my brand new Chevy Impala...holla! (I definitely asked whether spinners and tinted windows came standard, or were an extra charge.)

It amuses me to no end to cruise around in this absolute boat of a car. It's like a full-size sofa on wheels with a ride so smooth a crater wouldn't rattle gramp's dentures (or Nelly's grill). An added bonus: it has a stereo system to rival the best of them.

And hey! At least it's not a minivan!

Belawha?

2007-03-14T14:47:00.000-05:00

This past Sunday was absolutely gorgeous so Stella Mae and I postponed our movie plans to take my dog to the park.

When I picked her up, Stella Mae informed me that she's not allowed to go to the park by her house because people fight there, so we opted for a safer park in my neighborhood.

Little did I know just how much entertainment we were in for...

We pulled into the parking lot just in time to hear a shrill battle cry and witness several dozen adults (in medieval costumes) charging each other. Stella Mae sat agog as swords clashed and men fell to the ground. All I could think was, "Great! She can't go to her park because people fight there and yet here we are, surrounded by men with 'battle axes'".

Surprisingly, Stella Mae wasn't put off. She opened her car door and moved closer to the fray.

We sat together for awhile and watched in utter fascination as armored men took stabs at each other with foam weapons a la 7-year-old boys. In typical 9-year-old fashion, Stella Mae asked me a million questions about the spectacle before us. (The funniest was, "Are they playing Lord of the Rings?!") Unfortunately, I couldn't answer a single one.

So to fulfill both of our curiosities, I went home and did a little research. I discovered that this wasn't just a play club for nerds, but a highly organized National Medieval Combat Society called "Belegarth". The actual name for what they do is "LARP" which stands for Live Action Role Play. Apparently, these people create character personas and interact in a fictional version of the Dark Ages.

In case you ever want to partake, you can learn how to fashion vampire fangs out of denture material here and can buy your perfect LARPing garb here. By the way, according to one website, "LARPing isn't just a game, it's a way of life." (And to find out how much of your life LARPing has consumed, you can take the purity test here.)

After overhearing a middle aged man screech, "INCOMING ARCHER", Stella Mae proclaimed, "I think these people are a little weird...I bet they didn't have many friends when they were in school."

Wow. She probably doesn't know the half of it.

Pooptastic

2007-03-06T13:06:00.000-06:00

After glancing out my office window this morning, I couldn't help but notice a filthy red car in our neighbor's parking lot:

Upon closer inspection, I realized that the white spots were not unfortunate paint splatters, but rather a shitload of bird poop. (Pardon the pun.)

Whoever drives this mess either a) lives in the middle of a bird conservatory or b) is a lazy slag who hasn't washed their car since the Reagan administration.

It made me laugh, so I thought I'd share.

Death by Saccharine

2007-03-05T16:11:00.000-06:00

Last night, after a marathon spring cleaning session, I collapsed happily on the couch just in time to catch a minute of Grease: You're the One That I Want.

Dear God, this show is absolutely awful. Basically, dippy wannabe actors and actresses are vying for starring roles in the new version of Grease! on Broadway. A good percentage of them are half-witted middle class Americans who quit their day jobs as nannies and mechanics for a shot to be famous.

Despite their plastic smiles and chipper personas, I KNOW their 1982 Datsun's are sadly filled with cigarette butts, Egg McMuffin wrappers and dated high school playbills.

Granted, Grease! in itself is a little cheesy, but this reality show competition is like The Mickey Mouse Club on crack. You don't believe me? Here's a snapshot:

If you can stand anymore, THIS contestant definitely wins the cheese prize:

My only "vote" is that this Austin fellow needs a swift kick to his dangly bits.

Sock Shock

2007-02-28T23:18:00.000-06:00

Since today showed the tiniest hint of spring, some friends and I decided to ring in our lunch breaks on the deck of a popular tex mex eatery in Nashville.

In the midst of gabbing and soaking up the sunshine, a guy friend of mine casually mentioned that he needed to start going to the tanning bed to get a “base tan” before summer officially starts.

I almost choked on my queso-covered chip.

Firstly, because this carefree guy is the last person on earth I’d imagine gracing the threshold of a tanning salon. Secondly, because…I don’t know…he has a penis?

Because I’m naturally curious and don’t often think before I speak, I blurted out, “When you go, do you cover up your junk?” (Eloquence personified.)

He informed me that after one bad burning experience, he now uses a SOCK.

I know I’m being sexist to think it’s strange/creepy for men to lay in tanning beds, but the mental image of a man lying bathed in blue light, wearing tiny baby goggles, rocking a 1990s Red Hot Chili Peppers cock sock makes me giggly…and a little ill.

Unavoidably from now on, whenever I see overly tan guys at the gym, I'll be suspicious as to exactly WHERE their socks have been...

Can You Hear That? I Think It's a Calling.

2007-02-27T00:26:00.000-06:00

Since as far back as I can remember, I’ve been told that I have a “gift”. At first I brushed it off, but my own moment of self-realization came in the 7th grade when Mrs. Napolitano sobbed awkwardly in class after reading aloud a poem I’d written. And scared me.

Unfortunately, it’s taken me a long time to appreciate this so-called “gift”.

It actually started as something I resented. In middle school, I would’ve given anything to spend my summers flirting with boys at the neighborhood pool instead of attending writer’s camp with the most socially awkward, acne-ridden pre-teens my state had to offer. From there, it merely guaranteed me star English student status in high school...and then provided an extra income as paper-writer-extraordinaire in college.

Ironically, now that I’m officially done with school and the foolish mandatory writing assignments, I ache to write.

If I’m upset, it’s the only thing that truly soothes me. If I’m angry, it’s the best way I can express myself. If I’m joyous, I’m simply drawn to my computer to effervescently burble my thoughts.

The trouble is, the popular idiom says, “write what you know”. Well, that’s wonderful for the Augusten Burroughs’ and David Sedaris’ of this world. But despite being raised in a broken home, my childhood memories are filled with dance recitals, birthday parties and sunshine. I know comfort. I know love. I know a relatively charmed life.

Not long ago, while pouring through Me Talk Pretty One Day, for a split second I actually found myself wishing I’d been born with a debilitating lisp or a lazy eye; had a manic depressive mother or severe drug addiction…anything that would set me apart from the scores of middle class humdrums overtaking our country.

Sick, right? I know. But strangely, I can’t help it. I was born to be a writer and a writer I’ll be. My smooth-sailing past just ensures I’ll have to dig a little deeper to separate myself from the pack.

Hair lip or no, I’m determined to be brilliant.

Laugh Out Loud

2007-02-23T16:36:00.000-06:00

I saw this on my way to Knoxville yesterday and HAD to slow down to take a picture:

Who says truck drivers aren't gentlemen? At least he said please...

Ring Fever

2007-02-21T17:20:00.000-06:00

Several days ago, a girl I know from high school got engaged. She’s thrilled and I’m happy that she is…but the whole thing troubles me. Mainly because she has been so desperate for her boyfriend to propose that she booked a church in advance—twice. When confronted with the fact that by having to push him down the aisle, he may not be right for her, her response was, “But I don’t want to have to start over.”

Are you kidding me? A beautiful girl is scared to “start over” at the impossibly young age of 24? Is she so scared of being ringless for a little while longer that she’d sacrifice the rest of her life’s happiness by settling for the wrong man?

I honestly don’t know what it is with young women in this country—especially those south of the Mason Dixon. Too many seem to be operating under the misconception that their life will officially begin or that they will have “arrived” as soon as they have a ring on their finger.

Reality check: your life is happening in the here and now and by focusing your hopes and dreams on a fictional fairytale marriage in the future, not only are you setting yourself up for major disappointment, you’re wasting what precious time you have here by not enjoying it to the fullest.

A good friend of mine called off an engagement the summer after we graduated. Thankfully, she had the maturity and decisiveness to see that the relationship wasn’t right and ended it before they got in too deep. It takes a strong woman to openly admit a mistake and then fix it—and I have nothing but respect for her as a result.

Considering the scary statistics about marriages lasting in this day and age, I can’t figure out why anyone would want to rush into it.

Right now, marriage is so far off in my future it’s almost laughable—the thought of planning a wedding makes me break into hives. At this point, all I know is that I’m going to hold out until someone incredible comes along…someone who makes me unable to imagine my life without them.

Bottomline: it’s just a ring. Granted, a pretty, sparkly ring…but still just a ring. What sense does it make to sacrifice your independence, happiness and future for something you can easily buy for yourself?

Home, Sweet Home

2007-02-17T20:33:00.000-06:00

In light of my friend’s recent loss, I decided to come home for the weekend to spend a little time with my family. I don’t get to see them often so it’s always a treat…and always interesting…when I do.

Priceless highlights of this trip:

1) My mom definitely said (in front of several family members), “Now, I don’t mean to pry into your personal life…but I’ve seen so many news stories about the bad side effects of the birth control patch that I hope you’re not using it!”

Wow, thanks mom. My sex life is exactly what I want brought up in front of my grandfather.

2) This afternoon I was drug to a women’s luncheon at our church and forced to make small talk against my will.

While sitting with my grandmother and some of her friends, the topic inevitably turned to my love life and lack of husband. (Since they were all happily married by the ripe old age of 19, my singledom at 23 makes me seem “adventurous” and “saucy”.) Because she rarely monitors what comes out of her mouth, my grandmother asked at top volume, how many "young bucks" I’d "seduced" lately.

The fellowship hall fell silent as everyone turned and looked at me. I tittered nervously, proclaimed that “seduce” was a very strong word and wondered how long I could hide under the table without being missed.

3) At dinner tonight, my dad told me a funny story about his experience in the waiting room at the local Ford dealership. He said he was sitting on the couch next to several men, feeling like he’d walked straight into an episode of King of the Hill, when the “white trashiest” woman he’d ever seen walked in wearing a lace top…with no bra. To quote, “You’d think those poor men had been in lockdown for 25 years the way they reacted over Bobbi Jo’s saggy nipples. I had to excuse myself to the restroom so I wouldn’t throw up in my mouth.”

I laughed so hard that I choked on my beer. And then desperately hoped to never hear my dad utter the word “nipples” ever again.

Reasons to Be Dateless on Valentine's Day

2007-02-15T16:19:00.000-06:00

Reason #1:
Good Friends

Reason #2:
More Good Friends

Reason #3:
Free Pitchers of Beer

Reason #4:
Acting Like Goobers in Public...

Reason #5:
...And It Being Acceptable

Reason #6:
You Don't Have to Choose Just One. Holla!

Valentine, Schmalentine.

2007-02-14T16:30:00.000-06:00

As awkward as this is to admit, this is my first official Valentine's Day without a boyfriend/admirer since uh, high school.

Truthfully, I've never cared much for this holiday, even when I had a suitor. I think the root of my dislike started in the 2nd grade when a wretched little boy named Trey gave every single person in our class a Thundercats Valentine BUT me. (And now he's fat, so...in his face.)

Because of the absence of a beau this year, I'd been dreading the big V-Day a little more than usual. But when my alarm went off this morning and I stumbled into the bathroom, I met my own gaze in the mirror...and GRINNED. And then laughed out loud because I'd fully expected to feel dread.

And it's been uphill ever since. I've gotten flowers, cards, candy and my email has been flooded with sweet messages. Granted, no boyfriend...but I've never felt so loved. (Life lesson perhaps?)

To top things off, as soon as I get off work I'm heading out to celebrate with an amazing group of friends over trivia and 2-for-1 beers.

Because when you get right down to it, nothing says "Happy Valentine's Day" quite like fried food, free pitchers and whipping ass with your random knowledge...

Gramnation

2007-02-12T23:27:00.000-06:00

Like the rest of the pop-culture crazed country, I sat through hours of last night's Grammy entertainment. Not to be insensitive, but when it came to the long-winded tributes and boring performances (read: James Blunt), thank God for Tivo!

The only thing that truly struck me (in between fast forwarding) was the uncanny resemblance between certain Grammy stars and other famous faces.

Exhibit A:
The drummer for The Police (who sounded like they were performing karaoke at a dive bar):
...looks like a strangely anorexic version of THIS man:
Exhibit B:
While some might argue that this man was hot during his "Your Body is a Wonderland" days, now...notsomuch:

...he unfortunately resembles this freak-of-nature:

Exhibit C:
Personally, I'd rather listen to my landlord's porn tapes than James Blunt:
Which is why I cackled gleefully upon discovering his resemblance to Napoleon Dynamite:

Slightly uncanny, no?

The only other thing I took away from watching the Grammys was the burning desire to see Justin Timberlake perform live. So in a fit of ill-repressed longing, my roommate and I impulsively purchased tickets to his March 16th show in Nashville.

Which means that in a little over a month, I'll be among the sea of irritatingly rabid females vying for a place in his pants as he does this:

The groupie whores can scream, salivate and storm his tour bus all they want. The only reason I'm going is to watch that boy DANCE.

The Grass is Blue

2007-02-08T00:12:00.000-06:00

Naively, I’ve always assumed that my parents would be here indefinitely. I’ve never existed without them…I wouldn’t know how to begin.

The past week has been nothing but a lesson in how much I personally take for granted. In the last several days, two of my friends’ fathers have died. My inner self rages at the fact that I’m not old enough to have friends with dying parents…but I am. Strangely, I am.

When did this happen? When was the exact moment where I turned from a blissfully comfortable youth to an adult who’s expected to say the right things when a friend calls, lost and brokenhearted over someone I’ll never be able to replace?

I’m driving to Memphis today to scoop up a shattered friend and hold her close to my heart. And I’ve never felt so helpless in my life. I’d give anything in this world to make things okay for her, but I can’t. All I can do is be there. To listen, to hold her, to stand with her at the graveside as she says goodbye to the most important man in her life.

I can’t even begin to fathom what she’s going through. And I’ve tried…but it’s like trying to imagine being colorblind or paralyzed. You can’t comprehend until you yourself have been there.

I just can’t dream up a life without my wonderful father. To not be able to call him when I hear a funny noise from my car. To not be able to tell him a joke I know will make him belly laugh. To not have random phone calls from him just to "check on his favorite big city girl". To not be able to run to him if a stupid boy is careless with my heart. To not have him walk me down the aisle when I meet that one boy who isn’t.

The song that’s been constantly running through my head says it better than I could ever hope to try:

I just can’t make it one day without you
Unless I pretend that the opposite’s true
Rivers flow backwards
Valleys are high
Mountains are level
Truth is a lie
I’m perfectly fine
I won’t miss you
And the sky is green
And the grass is blue

Blind(ish) Date

2007-02-02T14:31:00.000-06:00

My mother is officially a nutjob.

Yesterday, she calls me at work and the first words out of her mouth are, "I hope you don't hate me for this one..."

Never good.

She then proceeds to tell me that a young guy in her office saw my picture on her desk and asked if I was her daughter. She told him yes and that I live in Nashville, am gorgeous, intelligent and witty (I'm assuming the last part...)

He then tells her that he has brother-in-law in Nashville who is amazing and somehow single...

And now the two are in cahoots to set us up on a blind date.

After being informed of this fact, I emitted a loud groan and told her that if she wanted to try her hand at becoming a yenta, she should visit the nearest synagogue and leave me out of it.

Being my typical mother, she ignored my complaints and told me to hear her out. She goes on and on about this fabulous guy who is in his late 20s, has a loft downtown, loves dogs, yada yada yada.

Then, almost as an afterthought, she adds, "Oh, and he plays hockey...for the preda...?"

"You mean the PREDATORS? As in, the team holding the top spot in the NHL western conference?"

"Yep! That's the one! We've already emailed him your picture!"

Lawd. My mother's done gone and set me up with a bonafide professional athlete. It's unsettling.

Being a hockey player, I'm just hoping he has all of his teeth. If he has less than two thirds, I swear I won't speak to my mother for a week.

Danger Zone

2007-01-30T00:34:00.000-06:00

This new MacBook might be a bad thing.

It's almost 1:00 in the morning and I'm laying on my bed, happily humming along to Ben Taylor while playing on the internet.

For the last hour, my dog has given countless exasperated sighs because I'm keeping her up. But who needs sleep when they have wireless internet? That you can access while being horizontal?

(If I begin to look like a meth addict in withdrawal, please intervene. I may come at you like a spider monkey, but I'm sure I'll thank you...someday.)

Spotlight Hog

2007-01-28T21:15:00.000-06:00

I'm not sure why, but after three adult beverages, I am magnetically attracted to stages and microphones. They're like homing beacons. My peripherial vision completely shuts down and all I can see is the magnificent stage before me, cast in an angelic glow (cue trumpets).

Last night was no exception. The minute I walked into Wannabe's, I burned with desire to get behind that karaoke mic. Luckily, the DJ bumped me up and I didn't have to wait long, but it felt like an eternity.

When I'm in this mind frame, I also tend to make friends with everyone. Which is why I found myself singing multiple songs with random people like I'd known them forever. All it took was a simple finger crook from someone singing and I was on that stage in a heartbeat. (Several times without an invitation.) I sang some cheesy country song with a bachelorette party, a rap song with a group of college dudes and a power ballad with a gay black man. And loved every minute of it.

This morning, some friends and I were laughing about the previous night's adventures when someone brought up something I had no recollection of. Confused, I asked where I'd been when it happened. The response back was something to the effect of, "Um, I think you were singing that John Mellencamp song with that old dude."

Niiiiice.

I've decided that I need to ease up on this chummy performance behavior. Because it's just plain not nice to take over when someone has been waiting patiently for their favorite song to be played.

It just makes it hard when despite crashing his song, the gay black man begged me to stay and sing the "Summer Nights" duet from Grease with him.

Fuel to the FIRE.

The Computer Elite

2007-01-27T13:56:00.000-06:00

This is officially my first post on my brand new MacBook. And it's amazing.

Last night, I went into the Apple store, found the nearest hipster dude and told him that I was going to buy a computer from him. His face lit up at the easy sale and he walked me through the specs. Fifteen minutes later, I left the store excitedly clutching my (gulp) $1,500 investment.

In true geek fashion, we had some friends over last night, but I spent most of my time sitting at our dining room table gasping in delight and yelling at them to "come look at what my fabulous Mac can do!"

This MacBook has pretty much made my life. It's got everything I could ever need...including Photoshop. (Which means that there might be some hysterically altered pictures of my friends floating around the internet soon.) After playing on it for several hours straight, I can't see why anyone would intentionally choose a PC. Blech.

I had a conversation with a guy several weeks ago that pretty much sums it up. I mentioned that I was in the market for a new Mac and he straight up said to my face, "Oh...you're one of those."

THOSE? Excuse me?

So I straight up said to his face, "Oh, do you mean cooler than you? Because yeah, pretty much."