Team Player

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

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?

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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."