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.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Singleitis
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.
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.
Monday, June 25, 2007
I Scream
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...
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...
Monday, June 18, 2007
Dirty Laundry
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.
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.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Um...EW.
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...
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...
Monday, June 11, 2007
Drama Mamas
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.
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.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Parental Supervision Required
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.
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.
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
Wrestling With "Reality"
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?
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?
Monday, April 30, 2007
The Season
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
The Best I'll Ever Be
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.
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.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Oldies But Goodies
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.
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.
Friday, March 23, 2007
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?
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?
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
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!
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!
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, March 05, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
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...
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...
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, February 23, 2007
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...
Who says truck drivers aren't gentlemen? At least he said please...
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
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?
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?
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
