I know it's been awhile but, alas, the start of the school year has arrived which means the end of my freedom and my sanity. It has been a wonderful summer but I will now return to the world of incorrect courses, teenage meltdowns, and- worst of all- a regular schedule. As this summer comes to an end, I have taken some time to reflect on the awesomeness of my favorite season. John and I did a lot- camped, canoed, tanned, ate, slept, and spent a lot of quality time together and with our dogs. During this quality time, I have come to realize something that I must have known all along- my four pound yorkie Rudy is one bossy bastard. Anyone who has come into contact with Rudy can probably attest to this fact in some way, but it is only when you spend hours on end with this dog for days at a time do you come to fully appreciate his full-fledged attitude problem. I will outline some of the telltale signs in this post.
When I heard that Rudy was born and available for purchase, it was the happiest day of my young 24 years. I had been waiting for a yorkie to come available from this particular breeder since high school and year after year I was disappointed. When I finally arrived at the breeder's house to meet Rudy, he came to greet me as a tiny little puffball full of energy. It only took a few seconds for me to fall in love with him, and I quickly agreed that he needed to be mine. The only problem was, I couldn't take him home for another two weeks. The breeder was nice enough to hold him for me and I counted the days until me and my little dog baby could be reunited.
The day I went to pick up Rudy to bring him home was highly anticipated. When I arrived at the house once again, the breeder had everything packed up and met me at the door with a look of what I can only call relief on her face. She told me, "We've had a lot of fun with Rudy and we are sad to see him go. You need to watch out for him- he has a bit of an attitude." Inside my head I thought, "What in the world is she talking about? There is no way that this little ball of love could ever be anything other than perfect." Her husband proceeded to tell me that when Rudy gets an "attitude" I need to force him on his back, look him in the eyes, and show him who's boss. Yeah right, whatever dude.
The next few weeks were full of me and Rudy getting to know each other. He was PERFECT. Except for when he peed on the carpet. And pooped in the house. And used his adorable little (sharp) baby teeth to chew on my cabinets. And peed on me. And BARKED. And humped me and my roommate over and over. Other than that, our relationship was proceeding swimmingly. After awhile, my roommate moved out and Rudy and I were on our own together for the better part of a year. We went through a major move together and I found myself confiding in Rudy a lot. This apparently gave Rudy a big head and he decided that he he could be the boss of me. A perfect example- any time I would talk to my mom on the phone, Rudy would sit on my stomach, stare at me, and grumble at me. These grumblings would be snotty little growls where he would shake his head like a sister and occasionally stamp his foot. Not kidding. My mom would ask, "What is that noise" and I would have to tell her that Rudy was upset with me for being on the phone and ignoring him. Rudy was swiftly moving into the role of my abusive, possessive boyfriend.
As time moved on, Rudy further proved to be king of the world. He prances around like he owns any place he is in and even manages to prance when he runs. If Rudy happens to fancy a bit of food that you are trying to enjoy, you better watch your back. That dog once dragged an entire piece of pizza out of my mouth when I was already biting it and also ninja jumped up to the height of a coffee table to take a huge bite out of a Foltz's bakery role. Right in front of my dad. This dog has no shame.
When John gave me Zoey, Rudy temporarily went into Doggy Depression. If Rudy had an E! True Hollywood Story made about him, this section would have really sad music and someone like Doctor Drew would talk about his suicidal ideations. Rudy lost his prance and became a shell of his former self. Zoey quickly grew to twice his size and bullied him constantly. I can remember a time when we were at the lake and Rudy was walking slowly down a hill in a wide open space. Zoey decided that she was going to run down the hill and instead of running around Rudy, she ran OVER him. Rudy had met his match.
As Rudy and Zoey got used to each other, Rudy's attitude started to come back in full force. It is hard to get used to Rudy, but he had a special bond with John's roommate Jason and I think that he helped bring Rudy out of his funk a little. Rudy may even have a framed picture of Jason over his bed if he could. Rudy started grumbling again, Rudy started barking again, and Rudy started stealing food again. Good ol' Rudy.
The past two years that John and I have been married, Rudy has grown comfortable in his permanent surroundings. As I write this now, I am in bed and Rudy has been standing beside the bed for going on 25 minutes, whining and growling and begging to come up with me. I'll give him one thing- the dog is persistent. He would stand on his little toothpick legs until one snapped off if it meant that he got his way. I hope Rudy's spirit never breaks again because I would hate to see him go down that hopeless spiral of a few years ago- I'd just appreciate it if he would quit bossing me around once in awhile and thank me for putting food on his table. Until then, I will continue to care for him and succumb to his demands. He's my best bud and that's the way we roll.
Monday, August 9, 2010
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
The Southwest Party Plane- Vegas Version
My husband and I do not consider ourselves frequent fliers. I would say that I frequent an airplane about as much as I frequent my OBGYN- once a year and the experience does not usually make me swoon with excitement. Little did I know that when we booked the 7 am trip to Vegas out of Midway, we were in for the strangest mile high experience thus far in our short lives.
Has anyone flown Southwest lately? Apparently, they have what is known as an "open seating" policy which means as soon as you set foot on the plane, you knock down anyone in your path in order to score the best seats as close to the front of the plane as possible. I was confused when I boarded and the first thing I saw was a scared looking flight attendant cowered in a seat about midway up the aisle. I smiled tentatively at her and asked, "Do we just sit wherever we want?" to which she nodded at me and softly whispered, "Good luck." As the jostling ensued and we dodged people flinging their belongings into overhead compartments, we finally slid in to two seats at the VERY back of the plane by what John affectionately likes to call "the shitter." Perfect. Not five seconds later, an older African American lady who looked to weigh about 50 pounds slid in to the seat next to me which completed our back row.
As John and I were getting settled, we heard the commotion of what could only be a group of rowdy, Vegas-bound girls boarding the plane. By the way they were carrying on, you would have guessed that this group of girls was there for someone's 21st birthday or a skanky bachelorette party. As I peered over the seats to get a good look at the group, I was surprised to see that these were not girls but "ladies" of at least my age or older. And they were annoying as crap. They were all bent out of shape because they couldn't sit together. Word to the wise ladies- when you are flying on an airplane, you are NEVER going to get a group of 10 seats together. Unless your flying with P. Diddy. Then you better expect to either be putting out or signing up for the marketing team involved with his latest name change to get those seats. Either way, these women were NOT going to find ten seats together on this flight. As they complained loud enough for the whole plane to hear, our male flight attendant walked up to them and said with a laugh, "Just sit down." When they did not oblige, he said "Seriously, sit down. You'll be together at the end of the flight." Daaaang- I liked this guy already. When the group of women STILL could not find a place to sit, the testy flight attendant got on the loudspeaker and said, "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to this wonderful Southwest flight from Chicago to Las Vegas. The captain is all ready to depart, we are just waiting on YOU to find your seats so we can get moving." 200 heads immediately whipped around to glare at the group of misfit women still arguing over their seats which moved them along a tad faster. If we would have been smarter, the rest of us passengers would have rearranged ourselves to let them sit together so we wouldn't have to endure what came later.
Once everyone found their seats, the same male flight attendant (we'll call him Jeffrey) came to do a final check on our part of the plane. Jeffrey was an older gentleman in his late 50s wearing a Southwest airlines button down shirt and khaki cargo shorts. He was balding with glasses and had on a sweet pare of Nikes. I wondered if he had flown with Southwest so long that they started letting him wear whatever the hell he wants because the other flight attendants were all wearing the standard uniforms. Upon seeing Jeffrey, John leaned over to me and said, "Look, we have a male stewardess." Thank God Jeffrey didn't hear him say that. He probably would have peed in our Diet Cokes.
Our row of three checked out OK with Jeffrey but upon further inspecting the row in front of me, he took issue with the African American gentleman in front of me who was apparently traveling with a cane. He very nicely asked him to stow his cane in the overhead compartment until the end of the flight. To which the gentleman replied, "No, I have to have my cane." Poor Jeffrey had to argue with the man for a good five minutes before the man finally agreed to let the man next to him (whom he did not know) hold on to it for him only AFTER the woman sitting next to me (who must have been his wife) slapped the back of his seat and said "Shut it, Harold!" I feel bad for the man sitting next to Harold who was then the appointed cane bitch for the rest of the flight. If only Southwest would assign seats, then that man's WIFE would have been able to hold his cane. I'm just sayin'.
We FINALLY found ourselves in the air and on the way to Vegas a short while later. The first part of the flight was pretty uneventful, but that was only because the captain had not turned off the seatbelt sign yet. As soon as that seatbelt sign turned off, all hell broke loose. Not in a terrorists-taking-over-the-plane type of way, but more in a daddy-said-we-could-leave-our-seat-and-so-we're-never-sitting-back-down-again sort of way. Poor Jeffrey and his crew had to weave through people to give out snacks and drinks because about three different groups of people were just hanging out in the aisles. Jeffrey finally approached our group to get our drink orders and before he could get to us, Cane Man in front of me snagged his arm and demanded an apple juice. Jeffrey kindly explained to Cane Man that it wasn't his turn, but Cane Man wouldn't listen. Jeffrey finally told him to hold his horses, took the next group's orders, then returned to Cane Man's row. When he finally looked at Cane Man and asked, "Now sir, what can I get you?" Cane Man replied, "Nothing." Buuuuuurn. Jeffrey brought Cane Man an apple juice anyway.
Much to no one's surprise, one of the groups taking up the aisles was the same group of women who couldn't find seats and delayed our takeoff. They were spread out between the last six rows of the plane. Unfortunately, the loudest in the group decided that she didn't need to leave her seat, she would just yell her conversations loud enough for her scattered friends to hear her, as well as everyone flying within 50 miles of us. I am going to call this girls "Breast Pump" because that was all she talked about. May I remind you that at no point did this woman talk to me, but I learned that she has an 11 month old baby who was staying with her parents during the day and her "poor" husband at night. This lady also had to pump every four hours or she would "dry up." Breast Pump further assured everyone within 9 rows of her that she would be dumping her milk since she drank like a sailor all through our 4 hour flight. There was a point in our flight that we were going over the mountains and hit some bumps that Breast Pump literally yelled out "TURBULENCE" and ducked under her seat. This lady had to have been at least 33 or 34 years old.
As I watched (and tried not to listen to all of this unfold), I noticed that there were other similar groups around our plane. Not far up from Breast Pump's group was a group of five guys all holding drinks and standing in the aisles checking out any girl that walked by. Like they were in a club. I mean, I understand that a 4 hour plane ride is the perfect place to pick up girls- you strike up a conversation, figure out where she is staying, and if you want to hook up with her later on in the trip, great- if not, you never have to see her again. Unless she is on your return flight- it's a chance you just have to take. To see this stuff in action was a little bit mind boggling.
There FINALLY came a time when the captain turned on the fasten seatbelt sign again and everyone was mercifully directed to their seats. This also meant that Breast Pump couldn't order another bloody mary which meant that she was able to pass out and leave us in peace for the remainder of the flight. Aside from the lady snoring beside me, the rest of the flight to Vegas went off without a hitch.
As we approached the airport, the captain welcomed us to Las Vegas to which their were resounding cheers and applause from Breast Pump and her group. As we taxied into the gate, I realized that all of this nonsense had occurred in the wee hours of the morning and it was only 9:00 am Vegas time. We had a long day ahead of us.
The flight there was a great setup to our awesome time in Vegas. I have to say that although Southwest's open seating policy isn't my favorite thing in the world, I feel like Jeffrey and the rest of the staff are the perfect fit for what has to be endured on that airline. I recommend the Southwest Party Plane to anyone- just leave your breast pump at home.
Has anyone flown Southwest lately? Apparently, they have what is known as an "open seating" policy which means as soon as you set foot on the plane, you knock down anyone in your path in order to score the best seats as close to the front of the plane as possible. I was confused when I boarded and the first thing I saw was a scared looking flight attendant cowered in a seat about midway up the aisle. I smiled tentatively at her and asked, "Do we just sit wherever we want?" to which she nodded at me and softly whispered, "Good luck." As the jostling ensued and we dodged people flinging their belongings into overhead compartments, we finally slid in to two seats at the VERY back of the plane by what John affectionately likes to call "the shitter." Perfect. Not five seconds later, an older African American lady who looked to weigh about 50 pounds slid in to the seat next to me which completed our back row.
As John and I were getting settled, we heard the commotion of what could only be a group of rowdy, Vegas-bound girls boarding the plane. By the way they were carrying on, you would have guessed that this group of girls was there for someone's 21st birthday or a skanky bachelorette party. As I peered over the seats to get a good look at the group, I was surprised to see that these were not girls but "ladies" of at least my age or older. And they were annoying as crap. They were all bent out of shape because they couldn't sit together. Word to the wise ladies- when you are flying on an airplane, you are NEVER going to get a group of 10 seats together. Unless your flying with P. Diddy. Then you better expect to either be putting out or signing up for the marketing team involved with his latest name change to get those seats. Either way, these women were NOT going to find ten seats together on this flight. As they complained loud enough for the whole plane to hear, our male flight attendant walked up to them and said with a laugh, "Just sit down." When they did not oblige, he said "Seriously, sit down. You'll be together at the end of the flight." Daaaang- I liked this guy already. When the group of women STILL could not find a place to sit, the testy flight attendant got on the loudspeaker and said, "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to this wonderful Southwest flight from Chicago to Las Vegas. The captain is all ready to depart, we are just waiting on YOU to find your seats so we can get moving." 200 heads immediately whipped around to glare at the group of misfit women still arguing over their seats which moved them along a tad faster. If we would have been smarter, the rest of us passengers would have rearranged ourselves to let them sit together so we wouldn't have to endure what came later.
Once everyone found their seats, the same male flight attendant (we'll call him Jeffrey) came to do a final check on our part of the plane. Jeffrey was an older gentleman in his late 50s wearing a Southwest airlines button down shirt and khaki cargo shorts. He was balding with glasses and had on a sweet pare of Nikes. I wondered if he had flown with Southwest so long that they started letting him wear whatever the hell he wants because the other flight attendants were all wearing the standard uniforms. Upon seeing Jeffrey, John leaned over to me and said, "Look, we have a male stewardess." Thank God Jeffrey didn't hear him say that. He probably would have peed in our Diet Cokes.
Our row of three checked out OK with Jeffrey but upon further inspecting the row in front of me, he took issue with the African American gentleman in front of me who was apparently traveling with a cane. He very nicely asked him to stow his cane in the overhead compartment until the end of the flight. To which the gentleman replied, "No, I have to have my cane." Poor Jeffrey had to argue with the man for a good five minutes before the man finally agreed to let the man next to him (whom he did not know) hold on to it for him only AFTER the woman sitting next to me (who must have been his wife) slapped the back of his seat and said "Shut it, Harold!" I feel bad for the man sitting next to Harold who was then the appointed cane bitch for the rest of the flight. If only Southwest would assign seats, then that man's WIFE would have been able to hold his cane. I'm just sayin'.
We FINALLY found ourselves in the air and on the way to Vegas a short while later. The first part of the flight was pretty uneventful, but that was only because the captain had not turned off the seatbelt sign yet. As soon as that seatbelt sign turned off, all hell broke loose. Not in a terrorists-taking-over-the-plane type of way, but more in a daddy-said-we-could-leave-our-seat-and-so-we're-never-sitting-back-down-again sort of way. Poor Jeffrey and his crew had to weave through people to give out snacks and drinks because about three different groups of people were just hanging out in the aisles. Jeffrey finally approached our group to get our drink orders and before he could get to us, Cane Man in front of me snagged his arm and demanded an apple juice. Jeffrey kindly explained to Cane Man that it wasn't his turn, but Cane Man wouldn't listen. Jeffrey finally told him to hold his horses, took the next group's orders, then returned to Cane Man's row. When he finally looked at Cane Man and asked, "Now sir, what can I get you?" Cane Man replied, "Nothing." Buuuuuurn. Jeffrey brought Cane Man an apple juice anyway.
Much to no one's surprise, one of the groups taking up the aisles was the same group of women who couldn't find seats and delayed our takeoff. They were spread out between the last six rows of the plane. Unfortunately, the loudest in the group decided that she didn't need to leave her seat, she would just yell her conversations loud enough for her scattered friends to hear her, as well as everyone flying within 50 miles of us. I am going to call this girls "Breast Pump" because that was all she talked about. May I remind you that at no point did this woman talk to me, but I learned that she has an 11 month old baby who was staying with her parents during the day and her "poor" husband at night. This lady also had to pump every four hours or she would "dry up." Breast Pump further assured everyone within 9 rows of her that she would be dumping her milk since she drank like a sailor all through our 4 hour flight. There was a point in our flight that we were going over the mountains and hit some bumps that Breast Pump literally yelled out "TURBULENCE" and ducked under her seat. This lady had to have been at least 33 or 34 years old.
As I watched (and tried not to listen to all of this unfold), I noticed that there were other similar groups around our plane. Not far up from Breast Pump's group was a group of five guys all holding drinks and standing in the aisles checking out any girl that walked by. Like they were in a club. I mean, I understand that a 4 hour plane ride is the perfect place to pick up girls- you strike up a conversation, figure out where she is staying, and if you want to hook up with her later on in the trip, great- if not, you never have to see her again. Unless she is on your return flight- it's a chance you just have to take. To see this stuff in action was a little bit mind boggling.
There FINALLY came a time when the captain turned on the fasten seatbelt sign again and everyone was mercifully directed to their seats. This also meant that Breast Pump couldn't order another bloody mary which meant that she was able to pass out and leave us in peace for the remainder of the flight. Aside from the lady snoring beside me, the rest of the flight to Vegas went off without a hitch.
As we approached the airport, the captain welcomed us to Las Vegas to which their were resounding cheers and applause from Breast Pump and her group. As we taxied into the gate, I realized that all of this nonsense had occurred in the wee hours of the morning and it was only 9:00 am Vegas time. We had a long day ahead of us.
The flight there was a great setup to our awesome time in Vegas. I have to say that although Southwest's open seating policy isn't my favorite thing in the world, I feel like Jeffrey and the rest of the staff are the perfect fit for what has to be endured on that airline. I recommend the Southwest Party Plane to anyone- just leave your breast pump at home.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
My Epic Summer...Thus Far
So, as anyone who is following this blog (or was following this blog) can see, I haven't posted in awhile. Long story short, school kicked my butt at the end of the year and left me never wanting to formulate a coherent thought for the rest of my life. Once I came out of my school-induced coma, I hit the road for a nice little tour of the semi-midwest. In the past three weeks, I have done the following:
1. Participated in my mother's Relay for Life at Prairie Heights High School
2. Celebrated my grandfather's birthday with gut loads of pizza and ice cream
3. Seen a devastating Cubs game and survived a monsoon in the process
4. Attended my first DMB concert
5. Became Tina's B*tch at her campground behind the DMB concert- it wasn't as bad as one might think
6. Survived 4 days in Chicago with my aunts who range from conservative mennonite to completely awesome
7. Attended my cousin's Miss Indiana's Outstanding Teen Pageant
8. Rocked out at a totally beautiful wedding reception
9. Spent 8 hours in a movie theater next to the most annoying girl on the planet taking in the complete Twilight Saga
10. Spent time with my awesome family while my brother was home
As you can see, I have been quite busy and have been traveling more than I have been sitting by a computer. This blog is a catch-all for some of these events that are worth mentioning and will hopefully be followed by more frequent posts.
As any of my friends can tell you, my date book is pretty packed during the summer. Summers are reserved for spending quality time with my family and close friends that I don't see very much, and the Terrys log plenty of traveling miles. One of my favorite events of the summer thus far was traveling to Indy to take in my first ever Dave Matthews concert. My great friends Annie and Frank have an equally great group of friends that makes a weekend camping trip out of the DMB experience and John and I along with our friends Carrie and Rob decided to invite ourselves right along to enjoy the fun. Boy am I happy that we did! We had a blast! I will be the first to tell you that I am not exactly the camping type of girl. I can do it when needed, but I definitely don't strap on my tent and fishing pole every weekend to rough it with nature. For this special occasion, I thought it was worth a shot.
John and I arrived at the "campground" around 2:00 on the day of the concert. I use the term campground loosely because it was really just a bunch of tents set up on the land of some people who also happened to own horses and goats. They charged $10 a person and furnished four port-a-potties, so it definitely suited our needs. The campground happened to be owned by "Tina" whom I never had the pleasure of actually meeting, but decided that she was pretty awesome after being on her grounds for a night. Once our tents were assembled, we had to go find one of the "security" people (which were really Tina's redneck relatives wearing orange reflector vests and freely screaming at whomever they desired) in order to pay for our spot of land for the evening. The particular security gentleman that we ran into happened to be Tina's husband who hungrily took our money and strapped us with bracelets that read "Tina's Bitch" in black sharpie. Classy. He informed us that Tina was his wife and we were all her bitches. I was going to ask what that entailed but decided to keep my mouth shut and pray that Tina didn't come knocking on our tent for any reason during our luxurious stay.
Once we were paid up, we settled in to the camping circle with drinks and snacks. We were packed in very tight and I really couldn't tell where our group of friends ended and the next began. Dave makes people real friendly, I guess. Just as we started relaxing, I smelled a curious odor and immediately told John that it smelled like a skunk had wandered into the area and that I hoped that he didn't stick around all night. John promptly informed me that there was no skunk, people in the next circle were smoking pot. Huh. I guess that goes to show that I listened during sixth grade DARE and have never touched the stuff. Officer Russell would be proud.
The rest of the camping experience was pretty uneventful and super fun. Dave was awesome and I fully enjoyed my first experience. I only hope that there are more to come in the future and that I will get the hang of the whole camping thing by the next excursion. If I do decide to camp again, I can only hope that we will utilize Tina's facilities. Not only were the accommodations questionable, Tina herself moved cars with a forklift that were not parked correctly and placed them in the horse pasture. I feel bad for the owner of the white Saab covered in horse crap, but as Tina said, he shouldn't have F'in parked there. Who needs a concert when you have that kind of entertainment?
The rest of my summer details will have to wait...I can only think straight for short spurts of time in the summer and this is all I can do for tonight. John and I are headed to Vegas on Thursday to celebrate our second anniversary and I am sure there will be much to report once we return. Until then, if you see Tina, tell her I miss her...and her mad forklift skills.
1. Participated in my mother's Relay for Life at Prairie Heights High School
2. Celebrated my grandfather's birthday with gut loads of pizza and ice cream
3. Seen a devastating Cubs game and survived a monsoon in the process
4. Attended my first DMB concert
5. Became Tina's B*tch at her campground behind the DMB concert- it wasn't as bad as one might think
6. Survived 4 days in Chicago with my aunts who range from conservative mennonite to completely awesome
7. Attended my cousin's Miss Indiana's Outstanding Teen Pageant
8. Rocked out at a totally beautiful wedding reception
9. Spent 8 hours in a movie theater next to the most annoying girl on the planet taking in the complete Twilight Saga
10. Spent time with my awesome family while my brother was home
As you can see, I have been quite busy and have been traveling more than I have been sitting by a computer. This blog is a catch-all for some of these events that are worth mentioning and will hopefully be followed by more frequent posts.
As any of my friends can tell you, my date book is pretty packed during the summer. Summers are reserved for spending quality time with my family and close friends that I don't see very much, and the Terrys log plenty of traveling miles. One of my favorite events of the summer thus far was traveling to Indy to take in my first ever Dave Matthews concert. My great friends Annie and Frank have an equally great group of friends that makes a weekend camping trip out of the DMB experience and John and I along with our friends Carrie and Rob decided to invite ourselves right along to enjoy the fun. Boy am I happy that we did! We had a blast! I will be the first to tell you that I am not exactly the camping type of girl. I can do it when needed, but I definitely don't strap on my tent and fishing pole every weekend to rough it with nature. For this special occasion, I thought it was worth a shot.
John and I arrived at the "campground" around 2:00 on the day of the concert. I use the term campground loosely because it was really just a bunch of tents set up on the land of some people who also happened to own horses and goats. They charged $10 a person and furnished four port-a-potties, so it definitely suited our needs. The campground happened to be owned by "Tina" whom I never had the pleasure of actually meeting, but decided that she was pretty awesome after being on her grounds for a night. Once our tents were assembled, we had to go find one of the "security" people (which were really Tina's redneck relatives wearing orange reflector vests and freely screaming at whomever they desired) in order to pay for our spot of land for the evening. The particular security gentleman that we ran into happened to be Tina's husband who hungrily took our money and strapped us with bracelets that read "Tina's Bitch" in black sharpie. Classy. He informed us that Tina was his wife and we were all her bitches. I was going to ask what that entailed but decided to keep my mouth shut and pray that Tina didn't come knocking on our tent for any reason during our luxurious stay.
Once we were paid up, we settled in to the camping circle with drinks and snacks. We were packed in very tight and I really couldn't tell where our group of friends ended and the next began. Dave makes people real friendly, I guess. Just as we started relaxing, I smelled a curious odor and immediately told John that it smelled like a skunk had wandered into the area and that I hoped that he didn't stick around all night. John promptly informed me that there was no skunk, people in the next circle were smoking pot. Huh. I guess that goes to show that I listened during sixth grade DARE and have never touched the stuff. Officer Russell would be proud.
The rest of the camping experience was pretty uneventful and super fun. Dave was awesome and I fully enjoyed my first experience. I only hope that there are more to come in the future and that I will get the hang of the whole camping thing by the next excursion. If I do decide to camp again, I can only hope that we will utilize Tina's facilities. Not only were the accommodations questionable, Tina herself moved cars with a forklift that were not parked correctly and placed them in the horse pasture. I feel bad for the owner of the white Saab covered in horse crap, but as Tina said, he shouldn't have F'in parked there. Who needs a concert when you have that kind of entertainment?
The rest of my summer details will have to wait...I can only think straight for short spurts of time in the summer and this is all I can do for tonight. John and I are headed to Vegas on Thursday to celebrate our second anniversary and I am sure there will be much to report once we return. Until then, if you see Tina, tell her I miss her...and her mad forklift skills.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
The Big Bangs Theory
So I went home this weekend and got me some bangs. Yup, I went to get my hair did and opted to have Staci whack off the top of my hair into fringy, bitchin' bangs. This may not seem important to anyone in particular, but to me it is a life changing event. I have been considering this change of 'do for awhile now and, after the deed was done, was left to wonder how it would change my life. Turns out I didn't have long to wait.
Directly after my haircut, I went to my grandparents' house to visit. I walked in the door unannounced (as I always do) and surprised the ever-livin' crap out of my grandma. Once she pulled herself together (and picked the oyster crackers she was getting ready to bake to save them from staleness off the floor) she goes, "Chrissy! I didn't even recognize you!" This left me confused because I didn't think that my transformation was all that severe. As she sat across the table from me and we visited, she just shook her head and stated that I looked like a teeny-bopper. What does that even mean?? If it means that I look like Demi Lovato or Selena Gomez, then I will take that. If I look like every other 14 year old with bangs, then please push me off the nearest bridge.
When I thought about making the change, I was inundated with pictures of cute celebs with bangs- J-Lo, that girl from that one show, that other girl from that other commercial, and thought "This is a good direction for me and my hair to go." At this point, the jury is still out. It is going to take me a bit to figure out how to rock this new look, but the saving grace is that these appendages of hair are still long enough to push over to one side to create the "bang swoop" which I have sported for some time. I can't believe all of my options!
To take us all back to the title of this post, I have been struggling to come up with the Big Bangs Theory. In my short experience, I have realized that having bangs make old people forget that you are an adult. Example number one is my grandma. Examples number 2, 3, and 4 come from this morning's church experience. If you've read this blog before, you have heard me explain that my Mom and Dad's church could easily double for a nursing home intake center. Everyone there is OLD. I say that with a lot of love- these are people that I have known for MY WHOLE LIFE. They were old when I was 5 and they are still old, God love them. When I walked into church today, we were running late so I was spared the usual, "Oh, Chrisanne! What are you doing home?" and "Where's that husband of yours? We are starting to think he doesn't exist!" and I was able to slip right into our usual back row pew. After the service was over, I was approached by many of the church patrons that I hadn't seen in awhile. One of our good family friends game me the usual, "You look just as pretty as always. You never get any older. You are eternally 18 to me." Now, ladies, you know that any compliment like this is a great thing. I am hoping that as long as he lives, this particular gentleman will tell me the same exact thing. The next person I ran into is a particularly funny man that just happens to be our former senator. I have known him for my whole life and he still neglects to remember that I am a) out of college, b) married, and c) employed. This encounter isn't even worth regaling. Finally, one of our most distinguished congressional members approached me and my grandfather to say hello. He says to me, "Are you finished with school for the year?" to which I reply, "Nope, we still have a few weeks left, but I am ready!" to which he says, "I bet you're ready to graduate this year" to which I reply "No, I already graduated" to which he says "Oh, do you have a job lined up?" I just hang my head, wondering what about me looks like I am still 22. Then I realize- IT'S THE BANGS. My grandpa looked at him like he was crazy and says, "Chrissy has been out of school for 5 years. She's almost 30." Thanks Gramps...I appreciate the support.
So, although I feel this blog is pointless, it is all I have at this point on a Sunday night. Take it or leave it.
Directly after my haircut, I went to my grandparents' house to visit. I walked in the door unannounced (as I always do) and surprised the ever-livin' crap out of my grandma. Once she pulled herself together (and picked the oyster crackers she was getting ready to bake to save them from staleness off the floor) she goes, "Chrissy! I didn't even recognize you!" This left me confused because I didn't think that my transformation was all that severe. As she sat across the table from me and we visited, she just shook her head and stated that I looked like a teeny-bopper. What does that even mean?? If it means that I look like Demi Lovato or Selena Gomez, then I will take that. If I look like every other 14 year old with bangs, then please push me off the nearest bridge.
When I thought about making the change, I was inundated with pictures of cute celebs with bangs- J-Lo, that girl from that one show, that other girl from that other commercial, and thought "This is a good direction for me and my hair to go." At this point, the jury is still out. It is going to take me a bit to figure out how to rock this new look, but the saving grace is that these appendages of hair are still long enough to push over to one side to create the "bang swoop" which I have sported for some time. I can't believe all of my options!
To take us all back to the title of this post, I have been struggling to come up with the Big Bangs Theory. In my short experience, I have realized that having bangs make old people forget that you are an adult. Example number one is my grandma. Examples number 2, 3, and 4 come from this morning's church experience. If you've read this blog before, you have heard me explain that my Mom and Dad's church could easily double for a nursing home intake center. Everyone there is OLD. I say that with a lot of love- these are people that I have known for MY WHOLE LIFE. They were old when I was 5 and they are still old, God love them. When I walked into church today, we were running late so I was spared the usual, "Oh, Chrisanne! What are you doing home?" and "Where's that husband of yours? We are starting to think he doesn't exist!" and I was able to slip right into our usual back row pew. After the service was over, I was approached by many of the church patrons that I hadn't seen in awhile. One of our good family friends game me the usual, "You look just as pretty as always. You never get any older. You are eternally 18 to me." Now, ladies, you know that any compliment like this is a great thing. I am hoping that as long as he lives, this particular gentleman will tell me the same exact thing. The next person I ran into is a particularly funny man that just happens to be our former senator. I have known him for my whole life and he still neglects to remember that I am a) out of college, b) married, and c) employed. This encounter isn't even worth regaling. Finally, one of our most distinguished congressional members approached me and my grandfather to say hello. He says to me, "Are you finished with school for the year?" to which I reply, "Nope, we still have a few weeks left, but I am ready!" to which he says, "I bet you're ready to graduate this year" to which I reply "No, I already graduated" to which he says "Oh, do you have a job lined up?" I just hang my head, wondering what about me looks like I am still 22. Then I realize- IT'S THE BANGS. My grandpa looked at him like he was crazy and says, "Chrissy has been out of school for 5 years. She's almost 30." Thanks Gramps...I appreciate the support.
So, although I feel this blog is pointless, it is all I have at this point on a Sunday night. Take it or leave it.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
When Times Get Rough, I Ask Myself "WWSPD"?
I love me some Jesus. I really do. I try to live my life in a way that He would want me to- I am kind to others, I try not to hurt peoples' feelings- but there are times when I need to look to another source to measure my moral compass. When such events try to derail me and I need to step back and take a moment, all I do is ask myself "What would Spencer Pratt do?" After some quick meditation and consulting my magic crystals, I usually know the answer.
This becomes a fun game and I am now going to toss out some training scenarios so you at home can also employ the "WWSPD" method to solve all of life's problems. Play along and see if your reactions would measure up to the usually sane, calm methods that Spencer Pratt and I resort to when life throws us lemons. Make lemonade? Yeah right. We'd take those lemons, throw them at cyclists, steal their bikes, and then sell them off for some fat cash so that we could buy our honey plastic surgery or ourselves some new shades. 'Cuz that's how me and Spencer roll.
Let's begin...
Scenario #1: You are trying desperately to prove to your significant other that you are a sane, kind person who is worthy of their love. You must convince him or her that your motives are pure and not to use that significant other to become famous, alienate all of his/her best friends, or that you will eventually paint grafitti all over his/her apartment walls and pass it off as art. Hmmmm...WWSPD?
Answer: This scenario is right up Spencer's ally. First of all, you bring your significant other flowers but make sure that they are the leftover flowers that your last conquest politely declined. That way you're not wasting money on more than one person while keeping your options open. Next, spread really vicious rumors about your girl or boy's best friends and pass it off like their other friends tipped them off. This will drive a big fat wedge between your honey and all of their friends and right into your waiting arms. Once you have that person's trust, ultimatum them into moving in with you, use the promise of lots of fame to trick them into signing a lease, and get ready to buy paint colors- you have sealed the deal! While your out shopping for paint, pick up another cell phone so that your boys still have a "homeboy phone" to hit up when those random playmates want to hang at Les Deux...this step is integral in the WWSPD handbook of solutions. If all of this doesn't work, your significant other is not worth it in Spencer's eyes because they are not dumb enough to play along with all of your awesomeness.
Are we having fun? Let's try another...
Scenario #2: You and your wife have differing opinions on starting a family. She wants kids even though she is still a child herself and you do not. You are afraid that she will shut you out both emotionally and sexually if you voice your opinion. WWSPD?
Answer: Well, dude, you're in luck! Spencer has actually been in this very situation and handled it like a real pro. When your wife/girlfriend/potential babymama pressures you for the pitter-patter of little feet and all the pitter-pattering you want to hear are those associated with the feet of the other chick who's sneaking out the back door, all you have to do is pay a little visit to your local practitioner. A vasectomy isn't that big a deal, right? Totally reversible! Discuss it with your significant other? What's the point?! Let her think that her junk is all messed up and it's her fault that you can't conceive while you secretly pat yourselves on the proverbial balls knowing that you have taken care of any chance of having a little Spencer. Bonus? You can totally tell if she's cheating on you if she actually does get pregnant. Genius. And, in the words of Becky Hoyle, BONUS!!
We're getting good at this! Why not try one or two more, just to get the hang of it...
Scenario #3:
You seem to have a lot of trouble with people in general. Your friends have all turned against you, your own sister won't speak to you, your mother-in-law and sister-in-law are wishing you were an illegal alien so they could deport you and you are, for all intensive purposes, the butt of every joke and blog under the sun. Hmmm...WWSPD???
Answer: This is a tough one, but I think that Spencer is probably up for it! You should definitely go out in public wearing whatever you feel like wearing...flannel and a cowboy hat in 80 degree weather, army fatigues, remnants of Jerry Garcia's closet- just to show all those haters that you and your flesh-colored beard are relevant to this world and the perfect match for your wife. While on the subject of your wife, make sure that you have worn her down so that she is a mere shell of her former self. Maybe tell her how ugly she is and offer her 10 or 12 plastic surgery procedures to make her feel better. Since your goal is to further alienate people (who needs friends when your SP??), you should also pay the paparazzi to follow you around doing totally insane things. Finally, make sure you hire a totally unnecessary entourage of people to schedule your fake appointments and to deflect the random ninjas that may try to attack you on your way to Target or Pinkberry. A homeboy always has to have all of his bases covered.
I think you are almost fully schooled in the methods of WWSPD. Just to be sure, we better hit one more topic to fully integrate you into the ways of The Pratt.
Scenario #4: You have totally lost your mind. People tell you to your face that you are crazy. Totally random chicks in Munster, Indiana see your behavior and wonder what the F is wrong with you. Your wife looks like she could have spare car parts as appendages. She also no longer knows how to smile, laugh, or blink. For some reason, you don't feel like your world is spiraling out of control even though EVERY SINGLE PERSON AROUND YOU sees it happening and points it out in rude and inappropriate ways. Although you don't see what they see, you still wonder: WWSPD?
Answer: Whoo boy. This is a toughie. But, because you are thinking like a true Pratt, the answer is simple. First, spend as much money as you can on spiritual crystals. Wear as many crystals as possible on you at all times. Heck, hang crystals from your balls if you have to- they will get you through. Definitely don't shave your awesome scraggly beard or cut your hair. You can shower at will, which probably won't be very often. When people tell you you're crazy, yell back at them even louder that THEY'RE crazy and that THEY are the ones that are wrong. That seems to work every time. Finally, make sure that you make crazy allegations about co-workers sexually harassing your wife so that she is further alienated from any chances the both of you still have to make any money ever. If none of this works, take your crystals, your fake wife, and all of your bountiful knowledge and start a home for wayward children. Since they are easily influenced, you can start to hone your army of Spencers in the hopes of one day forcing the world to see the light.
I have to admit, this way of thinking may seem a little extreme. Give it a try- once you have seen the err of your ways and start doing things Pratt-style you will see a plethora of opportunities fall at your crystal-laden feet. If you ever need any advice, hit me up on the homeboy phone and don't buy any fake cubic zirconia engagement rings before asking yourself "Would Spencer buy this?" It's a way of life, my friends. Embrace it.
This becomes a fun game and I am now going to toss out some training scenarios so you at home can also employ the "WWSPD" method to solve all of life's problems. Play along and see if your reactions would measure up to the usually sane, calm methods that Spencer Pratt and I resort to when life throws us lemons. Make lemonade? Yeah right. We'd take those lemons, throw them at cyclists, steal their bikes, and then sell them off for some fat cash so that we could buy our honey plastic surgery or ourselves some new shades. 'Cuz that's how me and Spencer roll.
Let's begin...
Scenario #1: You are trying desperately to prove to your significant other that you are a sane, kind person who is worthy of their love. You must convince him or her that your motives are pure and not to use that significant other to become famous, alienate all of his/her best friends, or that you will eventually paint grafitti all over his/her apartment walls and pass it off as art. Hmmmm...WWSPD?
Answer: This scenario is right up Spencer's ally. First of all, you bring your significant other flowers but make sure that they are the leftover flowers that your last conquest politely declined. That way you're not wasting money on more than one person while keeping your options open. Next, spread really vicious rumors about your girl or boy's best friends and pass it off like their other friends tipped them off. This will drive a big fat wedge between your honey and all of their friends and right into your waiting arms. Once you have that person's trust, ultimatum them into moving in with you, use the promise of lots of fame to trick them into signing a lease, and get ready to buy paint colors- you have sealed the deal! While your out shopping for paint, pick up another cell phone so that your boys still have a "homeboy phone" to hit up when those random playmates want to hang at Les Deux...this step is integral in the WWSPD handbook of solutions. If all of this doesn't work, your significant other is not worth it in Spencer's eyes because they are not dumb enough to play along with all of your awesomeness.
Are we having fun? Let's try another...
Scenario #2: You and your wife have differing opinions on starting a family. She wants kids even though she is still a child herself and you do not. You are afraid that she will shut you out both emotionally and sexually if you voice your opinion. WWSPD?
Answer: Well, dude, you're in luck! Spencer has actually been in this very situation and handled it like a real pro. When your wife/girlfriend/potential babymama pressures you for the pitter-patter of little feet and all the pitter-pattering you want to hear are those associated with the feet of the other chick who's sneaking out the back door, all you have to do is pay a little visit to your local practitioner. A vasectomy isn't that big a deal, right? Totally reversible! Discuss it with your significant other? What's the point?! Let her think that her junk is all messed up and it's her fault that you can't conceive while you secretly pat yourselves on the proverbial balls knowing that you have taken care of any chance of having a little Spencer. Bonus? You can totally tell if she's cheating on you if she actually does get pregnant. Genius. And, in the words of Becky Hoyle, BONUS!!
We're getting good at this! Why not try one or two more, just to get the hang of it...
Scenario #3:
You seem to have a lot of trouble with people in general. Your friends have all turned against you, your own sister won't speak to you, your mother-in-law and sister-in-law are wishing you were an illegal alien so they could deport you and you are, for all intensive purposes, the butt of every joke and blog under the sun. Hmmm...WWSPD???
Answer: This is a tough one, but I think that Spencer is probably up for it! You should definitely go out in public wearing whatever you feel like wearing...flannel and a cowboy hat in 80 degree weather, army fatigues, remnants of Jerry Garcia's closet- just to show all those haters that you and your flesh-colored beard are relevant to this world and the perfect match for your wife. While on the subject of your wife, make sure that you have worn her down so that she is a mere shell of her former self. Maybe tell her how ugly she is and offer her 10 or 12 plastic surgery procedures to make her feel better. Since your goal is to further alienate people (who needs friends when your SP??), you should also pay the paparazzi to follow you around doing totally insane things. Finally, make sure you hire a totally unnecessary entourage of people to schedule your fake appointments and to deflect the random ninjas that may try to attack you on your way to Target or Pinkberry. A homeboy always has to have all of his bases covered.
I think you are almost fully schooled in the methods of WWSPD. Just to be sure, we better hit one more topic to fully integrate you into the ways of The Pratt.
Scenario #4: You have totally lost your mind. People tell you to your face that you are crazy. Totally random chicks in Munster, Indiana see your behavior and wonder what the F is wrong with you. Your wife looks like she could have spare car parts as appendages. She also no longer knows how to smile, laugh, or blink. For some reason, you don't feel like your world is spiraling out of control even though EVERY SINGLE PERSON AROUND YOU sees it happening and points it out in rude and inappropriate ways. Although you don't see what they see, you still wonder: WWSPD?
Answer: Whoo boy. This is a toughie. But, because you are thinking like a true Pratt, the answer is simple. First, spend as much money as you can on spiritual crystals. Wear as many crystals as possible on you at all times. Heck, hang crystals from your balls if you have to- they will get you through. Definitely don't shave your awesome scraggly beard or cut your hair. You can shower at will, which probably won't be very often. When people tell you you're crazy, yell back at them even louder that THEY'RE crazy and that THEY are the ones that are wrong. That seems to work every time. Finally, make sure that you make crazy allegations about co-workers sexually harassing your wife so that she is further alienated from any chances the both of you still have to make any money ever. If none of this works, take your crystals, your fake wife, and all of your bountiful knowledge and start a home for wayward children. Since they are easily influenced, you can start to hone your army of Spencers in the hopes of one day forcing the world to see the light.
I have to admit, this way of thinking may seem a little extreme. Give it a try- once you have seen the err of your ways and start doing things Pratt-style you will see a plethora of opportunities fall at your crystal-laden feet. If you ever need any advice, hit me up on the homeboy phone and don't buy any fake cubic zirconia engagement rings before asking yourself "Would Spencer buy this?" It's a way of life, my friends. Embrace it.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
I've Lost My Motivation...and Wish I Could Hire Someone to Find It For Me
I suck. I'm just putting that out there. I have lost all motivation to do anything worthwhile. Before you go and think that this is some half-assed attempt at a suicide note, let me assure you that I don't even have the energy for that. I don't know what my problem is but I do not want to do anything but lay in bed, watch TV, and eat. If my life consisted of those three things and only those three things I think I would be in my own personal version of heaven. I may be 100 pounds heavier, never shower, and have chocolate stained clothes, but no one in Heaven would care. Instead, I have to get up, go to work, try to find a way to make myself exercise, and do other mundane things like feed my dogs so that they don't die and call my family members so that they know I'm still alive. Not a real rough life, I know, but just not all that exciting.
I blame my lack of motivation on the approaching end of the school year. I CAN NOT WAIT until this year is over. I can't wait until I can kiss my struggling seniors, rotten attitudes, and Gold Star goodbye for two blissful months and concentrate on the people and the things I love for awhile. All of the negativity surrounding work is really bringing me down and it is so close to the end that I can almost taste it. And it tastes like a big, fat chocolate Dairy Belle cone with chocolate sprinkles. The best taste imaginable.
Until this year ends, I am going to cling to the things that I love. Those things include my husband (who can usually cheer me up with ice cream or rap lyrics), my dogs, my friends, and, best of all, any one of the following: Chelsea Handler, Gossip Girl, Gia from the Real Housewives of New Jersey, Glee, 90210, Lost, The Hills, The City, America's Next Top Model (not including any part where Tyra shows her face), The Office, The Vampire DIaries, The Soup, and Kendra. If those aren't reasons to keep on living, I don't know what are.
Sorry for the lame post. I am wasting time until John is ready to watch Lost. After which I must turn out the lights, catch some sleep, and roll out of bed to yet another blissful day at MHS proctoring yet another AP exam and delivering bad news to seniors about grades and test scores. Booooo.
I blame my lack of motivation on the approaching end of the school year. I CAN NOT WAIT until this year is over. I can't wait until I can kiss my struggling seniors, rotten attitudes, and Gold Star goodbye for two blissful months and concentrate on the people and the things I love for awhile. All of the negativity surrounding work is really bringing me down and it is so close to the end that I can almost taste it. And it tastes like a big, fat chocolate Dairy Belle cone with chocolate sprinkles. The best taste imaginable.
Until this year ends, I am going to cling to the things that I love. Those things include my husband (who can usually cheer me up with ice cream or rap lyrics), my dogs, my friends, and, best of all, any one of the following: Chelsea Handler, Gossip Girl, Gia from the Real Housewives of New Jersey, Glee, 90210, Lost, The Hills, The City, America's Next Top Model (not including any part where Tyra shows her face), The Office, The Vampire DIaries, The Soup, and Kendra. If those aren't reasons to keep on living, I don't know what are.
Sorry for the lame post. I am wasting time until John is ready to watch Lost. After which I must turn out the lights, catch some sleep, and roll out of bed to yet another blissful day at MHS proctoring yet another AP exam and delivering bad news to seniors about grades and test scores. Booooo.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
"I Have Never Met More Women Who Have More F-in' Issues"
This awesome line was just uttered by the new Housewife on the New York block, Jennifer, as another Housewife stormed out of yet another hoity-toity party. Yes my friends, if you are a fan of Bravo TV, I am talking about The Real Housewives of New York City. I don't know why I watch this show, but I am completely and totally hooked on watching the drama implode on this series that I tune in diligently every Thursday at 9:00. I feel like this group of Housewives is miles apart from the other franchises because of their complete sense of entitlement and their no-holds-barred bitchiness. If this group of women were catapulted in to a current day prep school, it would be a real life version of Gossip Girl. Every snipe, every fight, every cocktail-laden boozy event makes for TV gold.
Why does America thrive on drama? I have noticed this a lot since moving into the "real world." Sure there were tiffs with friends in high school and falling outs with other friends in college, but in the back of my mind I thought that this petty dramatic fodder was something that stayed in those pre-grownup years so it didn't bother me as much when it was happening. Now that I am pushing THIRTY YEARS OLD, I can't believe the amount of drama that I still find myself involved in even though I feel that I am a "drama-free person." And what does that mean? "Drama-free person?" I feel that this term is used by people who like to perpetuate drama and try to escape the blame by saying "I'm just trying to stay out of it" while talking about it behind someone else's back. Whatever the infatuation with drama is, I would be happy if I would never have to deal with it again.
A lot of the drama I deal with is at work. My students are always coming to me with "she-said-she-said" stories that I have to sit through and be empathetic about. Every time I hear about someone having a fight with one of their friends, I wish I could tell them that it stops once you leave high school or it gets better as you grow up. It doesn't. As I listened to someone this week describe their ended friendship with their former "best friend" I couldn't help but be taken back to the many identical situations I have been in over the years and how important it seemed at the time. In the end, you have to have good friends that you can surround yourself with and can count on all the time. Good friends are hard to find and I am happy to say that although we have our ups and downs, I have many, many good friends that I love dearly. That's what makes life worth living.
Back to the Housewives- my words to new housewife Jennifer are this: Turn around, grab your Fendi clutch, and run those Blahnik heels as fast as you can in the other direction. If the first words out of your mouth on this show are, "I have never met more women who have more f-in' issues" then your gut is trying to tell you something. Follow it. Being the 6th wheel on a D list reality show on an off cable station is not worth all the pain, suffering, and damage to your liver that this show will do to you. If you choose to say, may the force be with you...consider yourself warned. It won't be long before you have a table flipped all over you and your Gucci attire while being called a prostitution whore- whatever that means.
Why does America thrive on drama? I have noticed this a lot since moving into the "real world." Sure there were tiffs with friends in high school and falling outs with other friends in college, but in the back of my mind I thought that this petty dramatic fodder was something that stayed in those pre-grownup years so it didn't bother me as much when it was happening. Now that I am pushing THIRTY YEARS OLD, I can't believe the amount of drama that I still find myself involved in even though I feel that I am a "drama-free person." And what does that mean? "Drama-free person?" I feel that this term is used by people who like to perpetuate drama and try to escape the blame by saying "I'm just trying to stay out of it" while talking about it behind someone else's back. Whatever the infatuation with drama is, I would be happy if I would never have to deal with it again.
A lot of the drama I deal with is at work. My students are always coming to me with "she-said-she-said" stories that I have to sit through and be empathetic about. Every time I hear about someone having a fight with one of their friends, I wish I could tell them that it stops once you leave high school or it gets better as you grow up. It doesn't. As I listened to someone this week describe their ended friendship with their former "best friend" I couldn't help but be taken back to the many identical situations I have been in over the years and how important it seemed at the time. In the end, you have to have good friends that you can surround yourself with and can count on all the time. Good friends are hard to find and I am happy to say that although we have our ups and downs, I have many, many good friends that I love dearly. That's what makes life worth living.
Back to the Housewives- my words to new housewife Jennifer are this: Turn around, grab your Fendi clutch, and run those Blahnik heels as fast as you can in the other direction. If the first words out of your mouth on this show are, "I have never met more women who have more f-in' issues" then your gut is trying to tell you something. Follow it. Being the 6th wheel on a D list reality show on an off cable station is not worth all the pain, suffering, and damage to your liver that this show will do to you. If you choose to say, may the force be with you...consider yourself warned. It won't be long before you have a table flipped all over you and your Gucci attire while being called a prostitution whore- whatever that means.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
To Strip or Not to Strip? I Had No Choice.
Before you get all bent out of shape and imagine that I "work hard for the money," let me just get something straight- the particular experience that involved the title of this blog only included hypothetical stripping, not the real thing. Thankfully I did not have to peel off any layers of clothing, but it was touch and go there for awhile. Let me start at the beginning.
I have a group of wonderful friends. The biggest problem we have is that we don't get to spend a lot of quality time together. So, my friend Beth who is the resident workout nut of the group (Beth, I hope you don't take offense to that title) decided that nothing would be better on a Friday night than a little female bonding through a XXX Cardio Strip class. You know, the norm for four married gals just looking to get out for the night. Beth found a fitness club downtown called Flirty Girl Fitness which is a gym that caters to racy workouts. We had our choice between the Cardio Strip class, Pole Dancing, a Video Vixen class (which I can only imagine would have us gyrating in ways my body has not even thought about attempting even in my J-Lo/ Ja Rule loving days)...you get the idea. Beth thought that the Cardio Strip class was the way to go and signed us all up. With my fee already paid on B's card, there was nothing to say but "Sure" and hope for the best. I was not disappointed.
Becky and I had a lot of misgivings about this class before leaving for it on Friday afternoon. I am not necessarily the queen of the dance floor unless I have had about ten drinks and the dance floor is in the middle of a wedding reception. Put me in a "club" and I flail like a fish out of water until some thug comes up and tries to grind on me. Then I silently weep while he figures out that I have no idea how to move my hips the way he wants them and leaves me deserted and dejected in the middle of the floor. Becky and I knew that we were going with two much more awesome dancers (believe me, I know- I've seen Beth's moves and Betty can cut a mean rug whether it be in a club, at a wedding, or in the living room). My biggest hope was that I could fade into the background and draw as little attention to myself as possible.
When we arrived at Flirty Girl, I have to say that the place was AWESOME. What other gym can you walk in to where the first thing you see is a full bar stocked with alcohol and the option of yummy smoothies? Whomever created Flirty Girl must have known that many people would not be able to attempt classes of this nature without consuming at least one or two strong drinks. We made our way into our aerobics room and it was complete with a full wall of mirrors and a disco ball. We knew we were in trouble when our instructor walked in and she was a beautiful six foot tall beanpole with legs for miles wearing booty shorts and high-heeled boots. She could do the mashed potato and guys would take off their pants for her. Sheesh.
As she started to teach us the routine, I was surprised to see that I could actually follow what she wanted us to do. There was a lot of "sexy walking" and hair flipping and hip gyrating. Here's the thing I have come to know about myself: I am never going to be a sexy dancer. When God created me, he forgot to include the synapsis that need to fire to connect my bottom half to my shoulders and arms when I dance. Usually I can get my bottom half to do what needs to be done, but the top half just kind of hangs there. And when I try to put the top half and bottom half together? It just looks like I am either having a seizure or am in toxic shock. And forget trying to look sexy. Our instructor kept encouraging us to "make eye contact with ourselves in the mirror" and "look seductive." Every time I looked at myself in the mirror my face was either screwed up in concentration or looked like I had just passed gas. The men of America should breathe a sigh of relief that I won't be gracing Big Al's stage at any point in the near future.
The culmination of the "routine" was a crazy-ass flip that started out with us on our backs and rolling over backwards-summersault-style into a "sexy crawl." This made the whole thing worth it. I vowed to myself that I was going to get the hang of this ninja-stripper-roll if it was the last thing I did. I ended up getting it and have a sore neck to prove it. I don't know how strippers do it, man. My neck is still sore, my hamstrings are still screaming from dropping it like it was hot (or, in my case, lukewarm at best), and my knees hurt from crawling around on the floor. I am a stripping failure.
Once the class was over, Betty, Beth, Becky and I headed over to the Billy Goat Tavern to process what we had just been through. We all really enjoyed the class regardless of the complaints before, sheepish looks during, and aches and pains after. The valid point that Beck made was that if we were ever to do the dance that we had just learned for our respective men, there would be some tweaking needed. Mainly because by the time you get to that killer ninja-stripper-roll, you are hypothetically supposed to be devoid of both your shirt and your skirt/pants and doing that roll in your skivvies would be both painful and unattractive. Unless you look like our instructor, in which case I GET IT.
Although Friday's class was super fun and I would totally go back to Flirty Girl for another provocative class, I don't think I will be taking my skills publicly (or even privately) any time soon. I think all parties involved will probably be happier that way. To anyone reading this, I highly recommend a Flirty Girl class- even if you feel stupid it is a good workout and a challenging undertaking. Just be prepared to ache like an eighty year old the next day and to find a new appreciation for the ladies on the main stage at a strip club near you- they do indeed work hard for the money.
I have a group of wonderful friends. The biggest problem we have is that we don't get to spend a lot of quality time together. So, my friend Beth who is the resident workout nut of the group (Beth, I hope you don't take offense to that title) decided that nothing would be better on a Friday night than a little female bonding through a XXX Cardio Strip class. You know, the norm for four married gals just looking to get out for the night. Beth found a fitness club downtown called Flirty Girl Fitness which is a gym that caters to racy workouts. We had our choice between the Cardio Strip class, Pole Dancing, a Video Vixen class (which I can only imagine would have us gyrating in ways my body has not even thought about attempting even in my J-Lo/ Ja Rule loving days)...you get the idea. Beth thought that the Cardio Strip class was the way to go and signed us all up. With my fee already paid on B's card, there was nothing to say but "Sure" and hope for the best. I was not disappointed.
Becky and I had a lot of misgivings about this class before leaving for it on Friday afternoon. I am not necessarily the queen of the dance floor unless I have had about ten drinks and the dance floor is in the middle of a wedding reception. Put me in a "club" and I flail like a fish out of water until some thug comes up and tries to grind on me. Then I silently weep while he figures out that I have no idea how to move my hips the way he wants them and leaves me deserted and dejected in the middle of the floor. Becky and I knew that we were going with two much more awesome dancers (believe me, I know- I've seen Beth's moves and Betty can cut a mean rug whether it be in a club, at a wedding, or in the living room). My biggest hope was that I could fade into the background and draw as little attention to myself as possible.
When we arrived at Flirty Girl, I have to say that the place was AWESOME. What other gym can you walk in to where the first thing you see is a full bar stocked with alcohol and the option of yummy smoothies? Whomever created Flirty Girl must have known that many people would not be able to attempt classes of this nature without consuming at least one or two strong drinks. We made our way into our aerobics room and it was complete with a full wall of mirrors and a disco ball. We knew we were in trouble when our instructor walked in and she was a beautiful six foot tall beanpole with legs for miles wearing booty shorts and high-heeled boots. She could do the mashed potato and guys would take off their pants for her. Sheesh.
As she started to teach us the routine, I was surprised to see that I could actually follow what she wanted us to do. There was a lot of "sexy walking" and hair flipping and hip gyrating. Here's the thing I have come to know about myself: I am never going to be a sexy dancer. When God created me, he forgot to include the synapsis that need to fire to connect my bottom half to my shoulders and arms when I dance. Usually I can get my bottom half to do what needs to be done, but the top half just kind of hangs there. And when I try to put the top half and bottom half together? It just looks like I am either having a seizure or am in toxic shock. And forget trying to look sexy. Our instructor kept encouraging us to "make eye contact with ourselves in the mirror" and "look seductive." Every time I looked at myself in the mirror my face was either screwed up in concentration or looked like I had just passed gas. The men of America should breathe a sigh of relief that I won't be gracing Big Al's stage at any point in the near future.
The culmination of the "routine" was a crazy-ass flip that started out with us on our backs and rolling over backwards-summersault-style into a "sexy crawl." This made the whole thing worth it. I vowed to myself that I was going to get the hang of this ninja-stripper-roll if it was the last thing I did. I ended up getting it and have a sore neck to prove it. I don't know how strippers do it, man. My neck is still sore, my hamstrings are still screaming from dropping it like it was hot (or, in my case, lukewarm at best), and my knees hurt from crawling around on the floor. I am a stripping failure.
Once the class was over, Betty, Beth, Becky and I headed over to the Billy Goat Tavern to process what we had just been through. We all really enjoyed the class regardless of the complaints before, sheepish looks during, and aches and pains after. The valid point that Beck made was that if we were ever to do the dance that we had just learned for our respective men, there would be some tweaking needed. Mainly because by the time you get to that killer ninja-stripper-roll, you are hypothetically supposed to be devoid of both your shirt and your skirt/pants and doing that roll in your skivvies would be both painful and unattractive. Unless you look like our instructor, in which case I GET IT.
Although Friday's class was super fun and I would totally go back to Flirty Girl for another provocative class, I don't think I will be taking my skills publicly (or even privately) any time soon. I think all parties involved will probably be happier that way. To anyone reading this, I highly recommend a Flirty Girl class- even if you feel stupid it is a good workout and a challenging undertaking. Just be prepared to ache like an eighty year old the next day and to find a new appreciation for the ladies on the main stage at a strip club near you- they do indeed work hard for the money.
If I Trip Your Kid in Church...
...they probably deserved it. I know that I am not a parent, but that is not going to stop me from going apeshit on the parents of the kids in church who run around like they own the place. Um, bratty kids? GOD owns the place and as you are running amuck while the pastor is preaching, he is busy phoning the devil and creating a special place in Hell for you. Oh, and when you end up there? He's making sure you have no legs to run around and no voice box to drive the rest of Hell's patrons nuts. Consider yourself warned.
Let me back up because I feel like I am getting ahead of myself. John and I joined a great church with a PHENOMENAL pastor right after we got engaged. At first glance, I thought that this church would be perfect for us (and still do aside from what comes next). There were tons of partitioners, just the right mix of geriatrics vs youngins, and a good number of kids. In my naive eyes, the perfect family-friendly congregation. Kids in a congregation is what my home church had been missing. A few years ago, I went to my childhood church with my mom, dad, and brother and, upon glancing around the 46 people present for worship that Sunday I came to realize that my 24 year old brother was the youngest person present, me at 27 was the second youngest, and my Mom at almost 50 was the third. The average age of that congregation is 91.6 (or somewhere around there). I always knew that when I got married and found a church of my own, a range of ages was particularly important. I feel like I may eat my words.
The children in our congregation are cute on the surface, but absolutely INTOLERABLE during the service. A few months back, John and I arrived in church late and had to sit towards the back. Don't even ask me what was to be had from that service. All I heard were pee-wee voices whining about wanting snacks, kicking the back of our pews, and crying incessantly through the entire sermon. My blood was absolutely boiling by the time we left that day. The kids were old enough to know better, but what really gets me is the parents. Where in the world did they learn social manners that makes it acceptable to let your child cry through the entire sermon (when it is dead quiet aside from the pastor preaching) and not take them outside?? I understand that God may not mind that much and he loves us all whether we are quiet through The Message or not, but us common citizens are not so forgiving and may want to drown your child in the holy water before we are granted reprieve with the ending of the sermon.
This brings us to today. Church started off innocently enough. We had snagged a seat in the front third of the sanctuary and I had claimed a seat by the side aisle. We got through the confession and opening hymn when a whole gaggle of late-comers arrived with three young-ish girls. I would estimate their ages at 8, 6, and 5. I am not kidding when I say that not even five minutes after their caretakers had them situated, they were crawling up and down the side aisles distracting everyone who was sitting within five feet of their horseplay. And do you think whomever was supposed to be watching them said anything?? Nooooooo. They just let. them. go. Later, it was time for the sermon and the three of them were standing up (while everyone else in the congregation was sitting down) trading pencils back and forth and talking up a storm. Seriously? Their parents were RIGHT THERE. Finally, after the offering was taken, they were dancing up and down the side aisle and kept going back and forth by our pew, grabbing the sides to keep their balance. That is when this thought went through my head, "If I just stick out my foot and trip one of them, it will give them a shock and they will stop. If they're smart, it only takes one time and they'll learn." Good think Communion was right after this particular thought went through my head so I could ask for a little forgiveness. I have a feeling God knows where I am coming from.
So, again, I know I am not a parent and I will now probably be granted with truly intolerable children with no manners and a penchant for annoying everyone around them. But, before all of this happens, I am entering a plea to all parents who take their children to church:
1. Please take your kids out of the sanctuary if they are being obnoxious or crying, especially during the sermon. Some of us are actually trying to pay attention to what is going on and those old people do not appreciate an extra reason for their hearing aids to ring.
2. Make your kids stay in their pews unless a) they are going up for children's sermon or b) they are going out of the sanctuary for some pre-arranged "keep the children entertained during the sermon" program.
3. Teach your kids the art of whispering. The whole world will be happier.
Here ends my rant of proper kid/church etiquette. If you ignore my suggestions from above, then don't be surprised if I discreetly trip your kid as they run up and down the aisle by my pew next week. I'll apologize now, but I'm sure that the Big Guy upstairs won't disagree: they probably deserve it.
Let me back up because I feel like I am getting ahead of myself. John and I joined a great church with a PHENOMENAL pastor right after we got engaged. At first glance, I thought that this church would be perfect for us (and still do aside from what comes next). There were tons of partitioners, just the right mix of geriatrics vs youngins, and a good number of kids. In my naive eyes, the perfect family-friendly congregation. Kids in a congregation is what my home church had been missing. A few years ago, I went to my childhood church with my mom, dad, and brother and, upon glancing around the 46 people present for worship that Sunday I came to realize that my 24 year old brother was the youngest person present, me at 27 was the second youngest, and my Mom at almost 50 was the third. The average age of that congregation is 91.6 (or somewhere around there). I always knew that when I got married and found a church of my own, a range of ages was particularly important. I feel like I may eat my words.
The children in our congregation are cute on the surface, but absolutely INTOLERABLE during the service. A few months back, John and I arrived in church late and had to sit towards the back. Don't even ask me what was to be had from that service. All I heard were pee-wee voices whining about wanting snacks, kicking the back of our pews, and crying incessantly through the entire sermon. My blood was absolutely boiling by the time we left that day. The kids were old enough to know better, but what really gets me is the parents. Where in the world did they learn social manners that makes it acceptable to let your child cry through the entire sermon (when it is dead quiet aside from the pastor preaching) and not take them outside?? I understand that God may not mind that much and he loves us all whether we are quiet through The Message or not, but us common citizens are not so forgiving and may want to drown your child in the holy water before we are granted reprieve with the ending of the sermon.
This brings us to today. Church started off innocently enough. We had snagged a seat in the front third of the sanctuary and I had claimed a seat by the side aisle. We got through the confession and opening hymn when a whole gaggle of late-comers arrived with three young-ish girls. I would estimate their ages at 8, 6, and 5. I am not kidding when I say that not even five minutes after their caretakers had them situated, they were crawling up and down the side aisles distracting everyone who was sitting within five feet of their horseplay. And do you think whomever was supposed to be watching them said anything?? Nooooooo. They just let. them. go. Later, it was time for the sermon and the three of them were standing up (while everyone else in the congregation was sitting down) trading pencils back and forth and talking up a storm. Seriously? Their parents were RIGHT THERE. Finally, after the offering was taken, they were dancing up and down the side aisle and kept going back and forth by our pew, grabbing the sides to keep their balance. That is when this thought went through my head, "If I just stick out my foot and trip one of them, it will give them a shock and they will stop. If they're smart, it only takes one time and they'll learn." Good think Communion was right after this particular thought went through my head so I could ask for a little forgiveness. I have a feeling God knows where I am coming from.
So, again, I know I am not a parent and I will now probably be granted with truly intolerable children with no manners and a penchant for annoying everyone around them. But, before all of this happens, I am entering a plea to all parents who take their children to church:
1. Please take your kids out of the sanctuary if they are being obnoxious or crying, especially during the sermon. Some of us are actually trying to pay attention to what is going on and those old people do not appreciate an extra reason for their hearing aids to ring.
2. Make your kids stay in their pews unless a) they are going up for children's sermon or b) they are going out of the sanctuary for some pre-arranged "keep the children entertained during the sermon" program.
3. Teach your kids the art of whispering. The whole world will be happier.
Here ends my rant of proper kid/church etiquette. If you ignore my suggestions from above, then don't be surprised if I discreetly trip your kid as they run up and down the aisle by my pew next week. I'll apologize now, but I'm sure that the Big Guy upstairs won't disagree: they probably deserve it.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
MTV Programming is Like Crack to Me
Now I don't want you to get the wrong idea. I am not nor have I ever been addicted to illegal substances. For the record, I have never even tried anything illegal. I can only imagine what being addicted to crack or other wacky substances is like and I am simply comparing that to the awesome, tacky goodness that is MTV programming. I am not going to go into two of my many MTV guilty pleasures which, if you have read this blog, you know to be Sixteen and Pregnant and Jersey Shore. I am going to stick to the more mainstreamed programming that has made MTV's faux reality genre so popular in the past few years- The Hills and The City.
I have been an avid watcher of The Hills since it very first premiered. I can remember sitting alone in my first apartment that I rented upon moving to Northwest Indiana and seeing the promo for the Hills. I remember thinking, "I am going to pee my pants with excitement waiting for that show to air!" and I was not disappointed. I counted the hours from week to week until I could watch Lauren Conrad and her friends party at clubs (which they were too young to go to), shop at Kitson (blowing way more money in one spree than I make in a month), and dating various cute (and not so cute, read: Jason) boys. What is it about this lifestyle that kept me wanting more? I think it was the unnecessary drama and living the fast life that I have craved in some way, shape, or form since going to college.
As the years progressed, The Hills grew tired. My Speidi dartboard wore through with the holes made from the darts that I threw at it and I grew tired of hearing about the same old things episode after epidsode. Once I found out that Lauren Conrad was leaving the show, I figured that I should too. As she drove off into the sunset in her sleek black car-with-a-driver, a little piece of me went with her. I shut the TV off and vowed that I wouldn't watch that crap anymore. I'm such a sucker.
I held on for the 5th season to see what trouble Kristen Cavallari would stir up. She stirred up a lot of it, but the drama was so petty and the relationships so contrived that I lost interest fast. I grew to like the spinoff show with Whitney Port, The City, a lot better and found myself impatiently waiting for The Hills to end so that The City would start. I struggled through both seasons and hoped that Adam Divello would put The Hills out of it's misery.
No such luck. The offseason brought tales of boob jobs, butt jobs, nose jobs, ear jobs, back sculpting, lipo, and lip plumping (and that's all for one person!), cracked out co-stars, and romances with has-been pop stars (Ryan Cabrera and Avril Lavigne, I'm talking 'bout you!). Like an addiction that keeps on calling my name, I was sucked into the WEEKEND LONG Hills marathon that was meant to "catch us up" and "set us up" for the season premiere. Not only was I a casualty of this so-called marathon, but John succumbed as well. I am like a drug dealer and he is my new client. We watched as hour after hour, Heidi and Lauren fought, then Spencer and Lauren fought, then Heidi and Spencer fought, then Heidi and Audrina fought until we weren't sure who's side to be on. All we knew is that we coudn't wait for Tuesday to arrive.
As the premiere of The Hills grew closer, I could hear John talking to himself in the kitchen saying things like, "The Hills is back bitches!" and "I can't wait to see what happens tonight!" Internally, a piece of me died. As we settled down for the show, I tried to catch John up on what had happened last season. Turns out, it doesn't take much to catch up once you start watching. As the show progressed, John watched and simultaneously became a fan on Facebook of "The Hills" "The Hills Aftershow," The City," and left comments on "The Hills" wall. Oh brother. The Hills ended without much comment except for John saying that "Heidi's mom is a bitch" to which I filled him in on all of the crazy/horrible/outrageous things Heidi has done and we came to the conclusion that Darlene (me and Heidi's mom are on a first-name basis) was justified. We can't wait until next week.
We moved on to The City and, again, John was sucked in. My favorite part of our viewing party happend about a quarter of the way through the episode when Whitney went to visit her "pattern makers" in the Fashion District. These "pattern makers" just happened to be of some sort of Oriental dissent (forgive me for my awful stereotyping and inability to tell just what dissent exactly these kind women were) and, one particular pattern maker named Michelle happened to get a lot of screen time. John took one look at her (and must have missed the name conveniently plastered at the bottom of the screen) because he suddenly exclaims "Whitney can't tell Vera Wang what to do!" And I said, "Where are you getting Vera Wang?" and he proceeds to pull a picture up on his computer and says, "This is Vera Wang. She is a famous designer." Now I can't believe that:
a) John would think I didn't know who Vera Wang was. Hello- I have been wedding dress shopping AND to Kohl's... I know who Vera Wang is
b) John would think that Michelle-the-pattern-maker looked anything like Vera Wang
c) That he insisted that Michelle-the-pattern-maker WAS Vera Wang
d) That after all of that John would think that Vera Wang would be making patterns for Whitney Port
After clearing THAT situation up, the rest of the episode was watched without much comment. John's final assessment? "Man, Whitney better be thanking Michelle because she just saved her ass." Well put, my friend. Well put.
So, MTV, I would like to say thank you for offering me an alternative to illegal substances. I am too busy watching your slutty programming to think about doing anything harder than that. I will continue to watch your Hills, your City, your Fresh Meat, your teen mothers, your True Life's, and whatever other borderline-garbage you decide to put on the air. Because I'm addicted. And it feels so good.
I have been an avid watcher of The Hills since it very first premiered. I can remember sitting alone in my first apartment that I rented upon moving to Northwest Indiana and seeing the promo for the Hills. I remember thinking, "I am going to pee my pants with excitement waiting for that show to air!" and I was not disappointed. I counted the hours from week to week until I could watch Lauren Conrad and her friends party at clubs (which they were too young to go to), shop at Kitson (blowing way more money in one spree than I make in a month), and dating various cute (and not so cute, read: Jason) boys. What is it about this lifestyle that kept me wanting more? I think it was the unnecessary drama and living the fast life that I have craved in some way, shape, or form since going to college.
As the years progressed, The Hills grew tired. My Speidi dartboard wore through with the holes made from the darts that I threw at it and I grew tired of hearing about the same old things episode after epidsode. Once I found out that Lauren Conrad was leaving the show, I figured that I should too. As she drove off into the sunset in her sleek black car-with-a-driver, a little piece of me went with her. I shut the TV off and vowed that I wouldn't watch that crap anymore. I'm such a sucker.
I held on for the 5th season to see what trouble Kristen Cavallari would stir up. She stirred up a lot of it, but the drama was so petty and the relationships so contrived that I lost interest fast. I grew to like the spinoff show with Whitney Port, The City, a lot better and found myself impatiently waiting for The Hills to end so that The City would start. I struggled through both seasons and hoped that Adam Divello would put The Hills out of it's misery.
No such luck. The offseason brought tales of boob jobs, butt jobs, nose jobs, ear jobs, back sculpting, lipo, and lip plumping (and that's all for one person!), cracked out co-stars, and romances with has-been pop stars (Ryan Cabrera and Avril Lavigne, I'm talking 'bout you!). Like an addiction that keeps on calling my name, I was sucked into the WEEKEND LONG Hills marathon that was meant to "catch us up" and "set us up" for the season premiere. Not only was I a casualty of this so-called marathon, but John succumbed as well. I am like a drug dealer and he is my new client. We watched as hour after hour, Heidi and Lauren fought, then Spencer and Lauren fought, then Heidi and Spencer fought, then Heidi and Audrina fought until we weren't sure who's side to be on. All we knew is that we coudn't wait for Tuesday to arrive.
As the premiere of The Hills grew closer, I could hear John talking to himself in the kitchen saying things like, "The Hills is back bitches!" and "I can't wait to see what happens tonight!" Internally, a piece of me died. As we settled down for the show, I tried to catch John up on what had happened last season. Turns out, it doesn't take much to catch up once you start watching. As the show progressed, John watched and simultaneously became a fan on Facebook of "The Hills" "The Hills Aftershow," The City," and left comments on "The Hills" wall. Oh brother. The Hills ended without much comment except for John saying that "Heidi's mom is a bitch" to which I filled him in on all of the crazy/horrible/outrageous things Heidi has done and we came to the conclusion that Darlene (me and Heidi's mom are on a first-name basis) was justified. We can't wait until next week.
We moved on to The City and, again, John was sucked in. My favorite part of our viewing party happend about a quarter of the way through the episode when Whitney went to visit her "pattern makers" in the Fashion District. These "pattern makers" just happened to be of some sort of Oriental dissent (forgive me for my awful stereotyping and inability to tell just what dissent exactly these kind women were) and, one particular pattern maker named Michelle happened to get a lot of screen time. John took one look at her (and must have missed the name conveniently plastered at the bottom of the screen) because he suddenly exclaims "Whitney can't tell Vera Wang what to do!" And I said, "Where are you getting Vera Wang?" and he proceeds to pull a picture up on his computer and says, "This is Vera Wang. She is a famous designer." Now I can't believe that:
a) John would think I didn't know who Vera Wang was. Hello- I have been wedding dress shopping AND to Kohl's... I know who Vera Wang is
b) John would think that Michelle-the-pattern-maker looked anything like Vera Wang
c) That he insisted that Michelle-the-pattern-maker WAS Vera Wang
d) That after all of that John would think that Vera Wang would be making patterns for Whitney Port
After clearing THAT situation up, the rest of the episode was watched without much comment. John's final assessment? "Man, Whitney better be thanking Michelle because she just saved her ass." Well put, my friend. Well put.
So, MTV, I would like to say thank you for offering me an alternative to illegal substances. I am too busy watching your slutty programming to think about doing anything harder than that. I will continue to watch your Hills, your City, your Fresh Meat, your teen mothers, your True Life's, and whatever other borderline-garbage you decide to put on the air. Because I'm addicted. And it feels so good.
Monday, April 26, 2010
The Extremely Undomesticated Goddess
Question: What do June Cleaver, Carol Brady, and I all have in common? Answer: Nothing. June and Carol epitomize the ideals of being a good wife. They cook, they clean, they always have a smile for their husbands and a solution for the squabbles between their children. What do I do? I can order a mean pizza, wipe the counters with a five month old sponge once in awhile and, when my dogs fight, I think to myself, "As long as one of them doesn't wind up dead, we should be alright." Is this wrong? Was I born without the "wife" gene? To me, that theory doesn't hold up. I come from a looooooong line of good wives. My mom has seven sisters and every single last one of them knows how to bake a pie, get the ring off the tub, and possesses the recipe for the exact vinegar-to-water concoction that is sure to clean your floors. I just don't think it bled down to me. When I get home from work, the last thing I want to do is, well, anything. Which is ridiculous. John can come home from a full day of school followed by soccer practice and mow the lawn, take out the trash, plant flowers, and grade papers. What am I doing that whole time? Eating crap and watching TV. I. Am. Awesome.
I'm not sure what got me thinking about this today. Maybe it was the fact that when I asked John what he wanted to do for his birthday, he asked for a home cooked meal. How pathetic is that? Most husbands would jump at the chance to go to a baseball game or eat at a great steakhouse or get away from the norm. For the Terrys, getting away from the norm is actually using our stove. To further hit home the fact that I am a failure, we recently found out that our oven was broken. The way we found out? I was trying to pre-heat the oven to warm some leftover pizza (takeout, not home made, mind you) and the oven just wouldn't heat. The sad part of this story? The last time I had used the oven prior to that fateful March night was CHRISTMAS. Who knows how long the thing had been busted? If it weren't for frozen pizzas and the occasional need for break and bake chocolate chip cookies, we could just build a bonfire in our backyard every once in awhile and call it good enough.
As I was reflecting on all of this today, I couldn't help but let my mind wander long enough to compare my life to what I know best: TV. I'd like to play a little game now called "Imagine You Are Cate and Baze from Life Unexpected." In this fun game, John and I awake one Saturday morning to the doorbell and, standing on our front stoop, is a sixteen year old girl who claims that we are her parents. Now, there is no way this is possible because 1) I would have had to conceive her when I was 13 2) John and I would have had to know each other when I was 13 and he was 17 which is gross and 3) these things don't happen in real life. Anyways, this spawn of John/Chrisanne was never adopted and now is looking to us to take her in. We are of course thrilled that our perfect, beautiful, smart daughter with no apparent tattoos or drug addictions has found her way back into our lives and we fully agree to take her in and embark on the funny, at times frustrating, heart-warming journey of becoming a family. The only obstacle: passing the home inspection with DCFS. Herein lies the problem.
I imagine that home inspection to start with a house tour. Our house looks perfectly presentable on the surface. Sure we have a bright purple kitchen, green living room, and ugly gray hallway, but the surfaces are clean-ish and the toilet works (for all intensive purposes,we will at least imagine that the toilet works on this day). Hopefully the home inspector will ignore a couple of spots on our hardwood floors which are slightly tarnished from where our dogs may have had a few accidents awhile back. Also, we hope that she doesn't look underneath anything stationary to realize that I employ the "sweep-around" method when "cleaning" instead of actually sweeping under things. Bending down to look under our couches will induce an allergy attack on the strongest of lungs. If she pulls out the white gloves, we are in trouble. The home inspector would then move on to see that our furniture collection is a hodgepodge of items that could easily be found at our neighbors' garage sale. Our bedroom set is new, but that is only because IKEA had a sale and our stimulus money had to go somewhere. She would then notice our dogs and mark on her clipboard, "Hmmmm...two dogs...seemingly not puppies...one's a little scrawny but they seem to be alive, so that's a plus." Then, she heads straight for the refrigerator and that's where we lose all hopes of keeping our hypothetical daughter in our lives. The Terry refrigerator holds exactly these contents:
Two half gallons of milk- one expired, one ready to expire
13 bottles of beer, three different brands (we are connoisseurs)
Aquafina Flavored Water (Raspberry)
Tab (Yes, Tab, like from the 80's where my husband still lives)
Diet Pepsi
A bag of lettuce
Two half eaten peppers
Ketchup
Hummingbird juice
The freezer isn't much better:
A Kringle
Expired frozen dinners
One frozen pizza
A bag of OPENED tater tots (said tots strewn all over the freezer)
Ice
That social worker would take one look at us, laugh in our faces, and ask us if our child was going to live on a liquid diet. When I tell her that we sustain ourselves on pizza, Subway, Lung Wah, and Burger King, she would gather our child up so fast that we wouldn't even get to say goodbye. She would then call God, place a stop order on my ovaries producing any eggs, and squash all chances of us procreating.
This all may be a little extreme, but I really do feel like I am a failure in domesticity. I can cook, I just choose not to. I hate to grocery shop for real ingredients because grocery shopping for stuff that you don't know how to locate sucks. Our house looks clean, so why do I actually have to clean it? If my mom were to read this, she would just shake her head and wonder where she went wrong. To this I would say, "Mom, you have been fantastic. I am just a total dummy when it comes to all the things you are good at." Will all of this change when we have kids? Hopefully...? I really can't feed our toddler frozen pizza and McDonald's every night, at least not if I don't want them to weigh 5,000 pounds or die of MSG poisoning. I think this is going to take some baby steps to get right and hopefully I can pull through. June Cleaver, if you're reading this, I am going to rival you one day...mark my words. And I'm going to start...um...I don't really feel like it right now. Maybe I'll make it a summer project. Or a New Year's resolution. Until then, I am going to sign off of blogger, grab some Cheetos, and get back to what's really important. Which right now equals "True Life: I'm Hustling in the Hamptons." Domestic bliss can wait.
I'm not sure what got me thinking about this today. Maybe it was the fact that when I asked John what he wanted to do for his birthday, he asked for a home cooked meal. How pathetic is that? Most husbands would jump at the chance to go to a baseball game or eat at a great steakhouse or get away from the norm. For the Terrys, getting away from the norm is actually using our stove. To further hit home the fact that I am a failure, we recently found out that our oven was broken. The way we found out? I was trying to pre-heat the oven to warm some leftover pizza (takeout, not home made, mind you) and the oven just wouldn't heat. The sad part of this story? The last time I had used the oven prior to that fateful March night was CHRISTMAS. Who knows how long the thing had been busted? If it weren't for frozen pizzas and the occasional need for break and bake chocolate chip cookies, we could just build a bonfire in our backyard every once in awhile and call it good enough.
As I was reflecting on all of this today, I couldn't help but let my mind wander long enough to compare my life to what I know best: TV. I'd like to play a little game now called "Imagine You Are Cate and Baze from Life Unexpected." In this fun game, John and I awake one Saturday morning to the doorbell and, standing on our front stoop, is a sixteen year old girl who claims that we are her parents. Now, there is no way this is possible because 1) I would have had to conceive her when I was 13 2) John and I would have had to know each other when I was 13 and he was 17 which is gross and 3) these things don't happen in real life. Anyways, this spawn of John/Chrisanne was never adopted and now is looking to us to take her in. We are of course thrilled that our perfect, beautiful, smart daughter with no apparent tattoos or drug addictions has found her way back into our lives and we fully agree to take her in and embark on the funny, at times frustrating, heart-warming journey of becoming a family. The only obstacle: passing the home inspection with DCFS. Herein lies the problem.
I imagine that home inspection to start with a house tour. Our house looks perfectly presentable on the surface. Sure we have a bright purple kitchen, green living room, and ugly gray hallway, but the surfaces are clean-ish and the toilet works (for all intensive purposes,we will at least imagine that the toilet works on this day). Hopefully the home inspector will ignore a couple of spots on our hardwood floors which are slightly tarnished from where our dogs may have had a few accidents awhile back. Also, we hope that she doesn't look underneath anything stationary to realize that I employ the "sweep-around" method when "cleaning" instead of actually sweeping under things. Bending down to look under our couches will induce an allergy attack on the strongest of lungs. If she pulls out the white gloves, we are in trouble. The home inspector would then move on to see that our furniture collection is a hodgepodge of items that could easily be found at our neighbors' garage sale. Our bedroom set is new, but that is only because IKEA had a sale and our stimulus money had to go somewhere. She would then notice our dogs and mark on her clipboard, "Hmmmm...two dogs...seemingly not puppies...one's a little scrawny but they seem to be alive, so that's a plus." Then, she heads straight for the refrigerator and that's where we lose all hopes of keeping our hypothetical daughter in our lives. The Terry refrigerator holds exactly these contents:
Two half gallons of milk- one expired, one ready to expire
13 bottles of beer, three different brands (we are connoisseurs)
Aquafina Flavored Water (Raspberry)
Tab (Yes, Tab, like from the 80's where my husband still lives)
Diet Pepsi
A bag of lettuce
Two half eaten peppers
Ketchup
Hummingbird juice
The freezer isn't much better:
A Kringle
Expired frozen dinners
One frozen pizza
A bag of OPENED tater tots (said tots strewn all over the freezer)
Ice
That social worker would take one look at us, laugh in our faces, and ask us if our child was going to live on a liquid diet. When I tell her that we sustain ourselves on pizza, Subway, Lung Wah, and Burger King, she would gather our child up so fast that we wouldn't even get to say goodbye. She would then call God, place a stop order on my ovaries producing any eggs, and squash all chances of us procreating.
This all may be a little extreme, but I really do feel like I am a failure in domesticity. I can cook, I just choose not to. I hate to grocery shop for real ingredients because grocery shopping for stuff that you don't know how to locate sucks. Our house looks clean, so why do I actually have to clean it? If my mom were to read this, she would just shake her head and wonder where she went wrong. To this I would say, "Mom, you have been fantastic. I am just a total dummy when it comes to all the things you are good at." Will all of this change when we have kids? Hopefully...? I really can't feed our toddler frozen pizza and McDonald's every night, at least not if I don't want them to weigh 5,000 pounds or die of MSG poisoning. I think this is going to take some baby steps to get right and hopefully I can pull through. June Cleaver, if you're reading this, I am going to rival you one day...mark my words. And I'm going to start...um...I don't really feel like it right now. Maybe I'll make it a summer project. Or a New Year's resolution. Until then, I am going to sign off of blogger, grab some Cheetos, and get back to what's really important. Which right now equals "True Life: I'm Hustling in the Hamptons." Domestic bliss can wait.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Suck It, Tyra Banks
For those of you who have read my America's Next Top Model recaps from last season on Facebook, it will come as no surprise that I am not Tyra Banks' biggest fan. The only person who may dislike Tyra more than me may be Joel McHale who, in many ways, is my personal hero. I just finished the newest episode of America's Next Top Model and it has reminded me of just how much I despise this amazon woman who thinks she is Oprah and acts like she should be committed. This blog will be dedicated to the rise and fall of a one Miss Tyra Banks as seen through the eyes of Chrisanne's Corner.
The first time I remember really knowing that Tyra Banks was a household name was back in college when she smiled up at me from the many Victoria's Secret fliers that rolled through our mailbox. There were four girls living in my undergraduate apartment all with Victoria's Secret credit cards (you know, for the essentials) so we got A LOT of mail from the joint. Even though Tyra should have been just another pretty face wearing lots of lacy underwear, she was different. She was exotic and somehow a little relatable. I can remember when E! did a profile on Victoria's Secret models and both Tyra and Heidi Klum were profiled. From the moment Tyra spoke in that profile, I cringed. I don't know what it was about her that made me wish she would just not talk, but it was even there way back then. Heidi Klum was so much more "the girl next door" and I found myself wishing that we could be best friends and model underwear together.
Fast-forward a few years to an early summer evening right after college graduation. Jess and I were trying to spend every spare minute we could together because she was leaving for grad school early and the 342 Crew only had a few more weeks intact. Jess and I spent many evenings snuggled in her bed watching TV and we stumbled across a little known reality show hosted by Tyra Banks called America's Next Top Model. We were instantly hooked. At that time, the sets were bare, the challenges were menial, and Nigel was just as sexy. Back in the glory days, we barely saw Tyra. She would pop up during judging, speak minimally, and fade into the background of every episode. But, as her powers grew stronger, so did her face time on ANTM. This is where the extreme dislike of this Tyrannical being started to grow.
As ANTM wore on, it grew cheesier and cheesier and Tyra grew crazier and crazier. The pinnacle of the craziness was when Tyra was granted yet ANOTHER TV show and became a cross between Oprah and Ricki Lake on the Tyra Banks Show. When I happened to catch her show, I saw everything from Top Model reunions to women with two vaginas to makeovers for trannies. As Tyra's fame grew, so did her waistband until one fateful day in early March 2007 some paparazzo hit the photo jackpot and caught a candid shot of Ty Ty in an awful one piece swimsuit on vacation in Hawaii looking VERY unlike a supermodel. The press had a heyday, but Tyra managed to turn it into the ultimate Girl Power moment of the year by losing weight and telling America to "Kiss my FAT ASS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" on national television. If you would like to have that whole seen re-enacted, please talk to Mrs. Rebecca Hoyle...she loves it.
With Tyra, when you lose the weight you inherit more crazy. From this crazy, Crazy Speak has been born. Tyra thinks that she is so important that she can just go and make up new words and expect us to understand them. Case in point: Smize. What the hell is "smize" you might ask? Um, smile with your eyes...duh. Note to Tyra- you can't just make up words! If this were true, Webster's Dictionary would be the top selling book in the world all the time because no would know what the heck they were talking about anymore. I can share with you the biggest reason I hate "smizing"- that very term butchered my driver's license picture. As I was going to renew my license last year, I stepped in front of the camera for my photo with a big smile plastered on my face. The lady taking the picture looked at me with an exasperated look and snarled, "No teeth, no smiles anymore." So, against my better judgement, I decided to smize. The lady snapped the picture, looked at my license, handed it over with a smirk and said, "I think we got it." I walked out of the BMV and glanced down at my new license...and literally gasped. I look like a grade A child molester. I look like I have the mumps and was just surprised by a naked hairy fat guy on my birthday. IT. IS. AWFUL. Thanks a lot, Tyra. Because of you and your stupid ideas, I have to smile hopefully at every bouncer in America while they scrutinize my picture in order to grant me entrance to their establishment. The worst thing that has happened to me since having my smizing license? Becky and I were at Trader Joe's around the Super Bowl and I picked up a pack of 312s for John. I of course had to show ID and the guy at the counter literally asked, "Is that really you??" I said, "I know, I know. Worst picture ever." The guy laughed, SHOWED IT TO THE GUY BEHIND ME, and goes, "Dude, this is pretty bad, right?" I am not lying. There are witnesses. Oh, and checkout guy? You work at Trader Joe's. If that's the only pleasure you get out of your life, then I feel sorry for you. At least you probably get a discount on all the awesome food there.
I know that my distaste for Tyra is not uncommon. As previously stated, my pretend best guy friend Joe McHale also can't stand her and takes great pleasure in ribbing her every chance he gets. Becky and Allison don't like Tyra either. Last spring break we were sitting around Becky's bedroom and we decided to play the ever-popular game of picking five celebrities that you would dethrone or maim if you had the chance. Popular answers included Tom Cruise (Becky hates that m-fer), Spencer Pratt, Dick Vitale, but the number one answer was always the same...TYRA BANKS. I'm not lying- I couldn't make this stuff up if I wanted to.
Here ends my rant on Tyra. I'm sure that if you knew her in person, she would be lovely. (cough, cough). But, I don't know her in person so for now I can pity anyone who does and hope that they don't get pulled down in the crazy downward spiral that seems to include her sanity.
The first time I remember really knowing that Tyra Banks was a household name was back in college when she smiled up at me from the many Victoria's Secret fliers that rolled through our mailbox. There were four girls living in my undergraduate apartment all with Victoria's Secret credit cards (you know, for the essentials) so we got A LOT of mail from the joint. Even though Tyra should have been just another pretty face wearing lots of lacy underwear, she was different. She was exotic and somehow a little relatable. I can remember when E! did a profile on Victoria's Secret models and both Tyra and Heidi Klum were profiled. From the moment Tyra spoke in that profile, I cringed. I don't know what it was about her that made me wish she would just not talk, but it was even there way back then. Heidi Klum was so much more "the girl next door" and I found myself wishing that we could be best friends and model underwear together.
Fast-forward a few years to an early summer evening right after college graduation. Jess and I were trying to spend every spare minute we could together because she was leaving for grad school early and the 342 Crew only had a few more weeks intact. Jess and I spent many evenings snuggled in her bed watching TV and we stumbled across a little known reality show hosted by Tyra Banks called America's Next Top Model. We were instantly hooked. At that time, the sets were bare, the challenges were menial, and Nigel was just as sexy. Back in the glory days, we barely saw Tyra. She would pop up during judging, speak minimally, and fade into the background of every episode. But, as her powers grew stronger, so did her face time on ANTM. This is where the extreme dislike of this Tyrannical being started to grow.
As ANTM wore on, it grew cheesier and cheesier and Tyra grew crazier and crazier. The pinnacle of the craziness was when Tyra was granted yet ANOTHER TV show and became a cross between Oprah and Ricki Lake on the Tyra Banks Show. When I happened to catch her show, I saw everything from Top Model reunions to women with two vaginas to makeovers for trannies. As Tyra's fame grew, so did her waistband until one fateful day in early March 2007 some paparazzo hit the photo jackpot and caught a candid shot of Ty Ty in an awful one piece swimsuit on vacation in Hawaii looking VERY unlike a supermodel. The press had a heyday, but Tyra managed to turn it into the ultimate Girl Power moment of the year by losing weight and telling America to "Kiss my FAT ASS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" on national television. If you would like to have that whole seen re-enacted, please talk to Mrs. Rebecca Hoyle...she loves it.
With Tyra, when you lose the weight you inherit more crazy. From this crazy, Crazy Speak has been born. Tyra thinks that she is so important that she can just go and make up new words and expect us to understand them. Case in point: Smize. What the hell is "smize" you might ask? Um, smile with your eyes...duh. Note to Tyra- you can't just make up words! If this were true, Webster's Dictionary would be the top selling book in the world all the time because no would know what the heck they were talking about anymore. I can share with you the biggest reason I hate "smizing"- that very term butchered my driver's license picture. As I was going to renew my license last year, I stepped in front of the camera for my photo with a big smile plastered on my face. The lady taking the picture looked at me with an exasperated look and snarled, "No teeth, no smiles anymore." So, against my better judgement, I decided to smize. The lady snapped the picture, looked at my license, handed it over with a smirk and said, "I think we got it." I walked out of the BMV and glanced down at my new license...and literally gasped. I look like a grade A child molester. I look like I have the mumps and was just surprised by a naked hairy fat guy on my birthday. IT. IS. AWFUL. Thanks a lot, Tyra. Because of you and your stupid ideas, I have to smile hopefully at every bouncer in America while they scrutinize my picture in order to grant me entrance to their establishment. The worst thing that has happened to me since having my smizing license? Becky and I were at Trader Joe's around the Super Bowl and I picked up a pack of 312s for John. I of course had to show ID and the guy at the counter literally asked, "Is that really you??" I said, "I know, I know. Worst picture ever." The guy laughed, SHOWED IT TO THE GUY BEHIND ME, and goes, "Dude, this is pretty bad, right?" I am not lying. There are witnesses. Oh, and checkout guy? You work at Trader Joe's. If that's the only pleasure you get out of your life, then I feel sorry for you. At least you probably get a discount on all the awesome food there.
I know that my distaste for Tyra is not uncommon. As previously stated, my pretend best guy friend Joe McHale also can't stand her and takes great pleasure in ribbing her every chance he gets. Becky and Allison don't like Tyra either. Last spring break we were sitting around Becky's bedroom and we decided to play the ever-popular game of picking five celebrities that you would dethrone or maim if you had the chance. Popular answers included Tom Cruise (Becky hates that m-fer), Spencer Pratt, Dick Vitale, but the number one answer was always the same...TYRA BANKS. I'm not lying- I couldn't make this stuff up if I wanted to.
Here ends my rant on Tyra. I'm sure that if you knew her in person, she would be lovely. (cough, cough). But, I don't know her in person so for now I can pity anyone who does and hope that they don't get pulled down in the crazy downward spiral that seems to include her sanity.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Pet Peeves of the Day: Urban Legends and Stupid People
Although the title of this post may lead you to believe otherwise, today was a lot better than yesterday. I have gotten over my runner rage and have come to feel at peace with Bud and his horn-honking ways. Life is too short to dwell on rednecks in oversized vehicles who get off on honking at late twenty-something female runners. See? Totally over it.
I opened my day with an amusing visit from one of my all-time favorite students. We will call him Dwight. Dwight comes to see me twice a day EVERY DAY. The first visit I get is usually before I have even turned on my computer or broken my ritual "no talking code" that I have every morning. Since I am not a morning person, I do not give anyone (including my husband) more than a grunt until I have checked my email. Dwight never fails to pop in at about 7:31 three times a week to stay Hi and start chatting about whatever is on his mind. He is so friggin' chipper in the morning- probably because he's been up since 4 am playing Call of Duty with 20 something pot smokers in California- and never ceases to put me in a good mood by the time he has left my office. On this particular morning, Dwight did not disappoint. As I was staring dumbly into my blank computer screen trying to decide between passing out for a quick ten minute snooze before the bell for first period rang or to go ahead and reply to ANOTHER parent email regarding scheduling, Dwight be-bopped his way into my office and announced, "Good morning! You know what today is, right?" To which I croaked, "Tuesday?" to which he replied, "Yes, and it's 4/20. I just might know a few people participating in what this day is known for." I did not know how to reply to this. On one hand I wanted to say "Are you partaking in the dastardly acts that have made today famous and, if so, PLEASE don't do it in school and get expelled" while on the other hand I just wanted to ignore the comment altogether so I wouldn't have to be questioned should this particular student be caught in a compromising position later that day. Instead, I just laughed it off, said "I don't know what you're talking about" and asked him about how the world is going to end which is one of his favorite topics. Pretty soon, he was bouncing out of my office muttering about zombies and the Mayan calendar, happily making his way towards all of the magical things that this day had to bring. Those magical things probably will involve a bag of Fritos and Taco Bell at some point if you know what I mean. Totally kidding- Dwight is not your 4/20 sort of kid, but I am not too sure about those Call of Duty characters he refers to as "friends."
When I finally got around to checking my email, I see that there is one in my inbox from my mother. The subject line reads "Rapists." Just the way I wanted to start my Tuesday morning. My mom is NOTORIOUS for sending me all sorts of email forwards regarding just how I could be raped, murdered, accosted, car-jacked, hi-jacked, low-jakcked, whacked off, or chloroformed. Last month I received a warning never to remove any flyers off my back window for fear that when I get out of the car to remove said flyer, a car-jacker will jump out from underneath my car, put it in reverse, run me over, pull over to gather up my lifeless body, and drive off in the hopes that he can score some ransom money along with the new car he just stole. Joke's on you, car-jacking kidnapper: that "new" car has almost 200,000 miles on it and no one that I know has enough money to want my ass back. Two months before that, my mother forwarded me something about old ladies in Wal-Mart parking lots trying to make you test perfume samples. If you are dumb enough to allow them to spray you, you will realize hours later that it was chloroform and you have been thrown in a trunk with your kidnapper's knitting needles and a lifetime supply of mothballs. I mean, come on, why is it OLD LADIES giving out these samples? Where do they find the superhuman strength to TOSS YOU IN A TRUNK? I find the forwards partly amusing, but just scary enough that I end up buckling and sending them to all of my co-workers. The one that creeped me out the most? The one that I received (from mom, of course) around Christmas time that read that a young woman who lived by herself kept hearing a baby cry outside her door. Because so many people leave their babies abandoned Moses-style on doorsteps anymore, she opened the door only to be assaulted by someone with a boom box. You know, to play the fake baby cries. There are so many things fundamentally wrong with this scenario that I can't even begin to name them. First of all, who actually believes that a baby has been left on your doorstep? Second of all, who has the time to perform these capers? If the job description of "serial killer or rapist" leaves you with all this free time to think these things out, then sign me up!
Today's particular forward was a new one. It was a "firsthand" account from a woman who is apparently a prison guard somewhere in Louisiana. She said that this experience happened to her a few days prior and she "didn't think much of it" until she recounted the story to her "prison guard friends" and they made her talk to the police. Let me preface her story by saying that there just happens to be a wild serial killer on the loose in Louisiana at this time. She claims that she was at the gas station and put $10 worth of gas in her tank (which will take her a mere two blocks these days) and wanted to buy herself a Coke. She went into the gas station to pay in cash and knew that she had two fives and a one on her. She paid for her gas, gathered her Coke, and got back in her car. As she was buckling her belt, a clean-shaven, nice-looking gentleman tapped on her window. Because she "works in a prison" she knew better than to roll down her window and yelled through the glass, "What do you want?" The man held up a five dollar bill, smiled, and said, "You dropped this." Now, this woman was smart and knew that she had taken only enough money in to the gas station to pay her bill so she said, "Nope, that's not mine." Upon hearing this, she claims that the man "went nuts'" and started beating on her window and door trying to get in the car. She claims that she sped off as fast as she could and "didn't think to go to the police" until she told her story to some friends and they made her. This gave the Louisiana police valuable insight into catching their serial killer. Here is my beef with her story:
1. Who pays with cash at the gas station anymore? I know that this is not a stretch, but even when I want a coke I pay with plastic
2. If there was a serial killer on the loose, why would you even bother seeing what some strange man wanted? Unless you're that hard up for a man, IGNORE, IGNORE, IGNORE
3. This guy went crazy on her and after it happened she was like, "No big deal" and didn't think to go to the police? Are prison guards really that jaded? I would have been crying, calling the police, and then calling my mother and thanking her profusely for sending every crazy-ass forward she's ever sent me. Then I would probably lock myself in my house, buy some cats, and never come out again
After I read this forward, I deleted it. I refuse to perpetuate the legends that are floating around cyberspace. Besides, that serial killer was in Louisiana. That's a long way from here. I'll just say this- if you have read this post, women of America, consider yourself warned.
After that interesting bit of reading, my day carried on without much to talk about. We had our yearly Guidance calendar meeting (which lasted 5 HOURS) which left little time for much else at school. When I got home, I curled up with my book and my dogs until it was time to meet Becky for our walk. I love my afternoon walks/runs/gym sessions with Becky. It's the one chance that I get to spew profanities and complain about everything that bothered me that day to a completely sympathetic audience. As we were rounding out our walk and complaining about everything and nothing at all, a lady pulled into a parking space by the bike path. In a very heavy accent (and an Illinois license plate tacked to the front of her Astro van), she yelled, "Excuse me ma'ams? (again with the ma'am!!) Can you tell me where is Cline Avenue?" To which Becky replied politely "It's right down from here. You take this road in front of us (which was Ridge) left and you will run into it" to which the lady looked blankly at her and said, "Huh?" to which Becky said "This road in front of us? See? Take it until you see Cline." The lady then said "I try to find Cline 912. Address 912 Cline." Becky just looked at her and said, "I can't help you with the address but I can tell you how to get to Cline" and then relayed the directions AGAIN. The lady still looked at us like we didn't know how many beans were in a burrito, so I finally said "Just take this road down about two miles and you will see Cline. There are three gas stations at that intersection. Stop and ask them which way to go." The lady still looked unsure and we weren't sure what else to say. So then she all but ROLLED HER EYES at US, got in her car, and left. Becky and I pretended to try to carry on our conversation but it wasn't long before Becky said, "Um, sorry I'm not your own personal Mapquest and can't pinpoint the f-ing location you're trying to find." Word up, Bex. Some people just don't have common sense. Now there was an obvious language barrier between us and Ms. 912 Cline Avenue but she really looked at us like WE were the stupid ones. As we were talking to her, all I kept thinking was "Does she want us to come closer so her mariachi band can jump out from behind those tinted van windows, grab us, and take us to her abuelo of misfortune?" I can thank my mom for the mounting paranoia.
So that was my day. The lesson I have learned is to take anything my mom sends over email with a grain of salt. If anyone would like to be a recipient of her scarier-than-needed forwards, kindly forward me your email address and I will make sure that you are put on her distribution list. Until then, please don't open your doors to crying babies, sniff anything in a Wal-Mart parking lot, or grab those 1/2 price stripper fliers off of your rear windows. All of these things could get you more than you bargained for.
I opened my day with an amusing visit from one of my all-time favorite students. We will call him Dwight. Dwight comes to see me twice a day EVERY DAY. The first visit I get is usually before I have even turned on my computer or broken my ritual "no talking code" that I have every morning. Since I am not a morning person, I do not give anyone (including my husband) more than a grunt until I have checked my email. Dwight never fails to pop in at about 7:31 three times a week to stay Hi and start chatting about whatever is on his mind. He is so friggin' chipper in the morning- probably because he's been up since 4 am playing Call of Duty with 20 something pot smokers in California- and never ceases to put me in a good mood by the time he has left my office. On this particular morning, Dwight did not disappoint. As I was staring dumbly into my blank computer screen trying to decide between passing out for a quick ten minute snooze before the bell for first period rang or to go ahead and reply to ANOTHER parent email regarding scheduling, Dwight be-bopped his way into my office and announced, "Good morning! You know what today is, right?" To which I croaked, "Tuesday?" to which he replied, "Yes, and it's 4/20. I just might know a few people participating in what this day is known for." I did not know how to reply to this. On one hand I wanted to say "Are you partaking in the dastardly acts that have made today famous and, if so, PLEASE don't do it in school and get expelled" while on the other hand I just wanted to ignore the comment altogether so I wouldn't have to be questioned should this particular student be caught in a compromising position later that day. Instead, I just laughed it off, said "I don't know what you're talking about" and asked him about how the world is going to end which is one of his favorite topics. Pretty soon, he was bouncing out of my office muttering about zombies and the Mayan calendar, happily making his way towards all of the magical things that this day had to bring. Those magical things probably will involve a bag of Fritos and Taco Bell at some point if you know what I mean. Totally kidding- Dwight is not your 4/20 sort of kid, but I am not too sure about those Call of Duty characters he refers to as "friends."
When I finally got around to checking my email, I see that there is one in my inbox from my mother. The subject line reads "Rapists." Just the way I wanted to start my Tuesday morning. My mom is NOTORIOUS for sending me all sorts of email forwards regarding just how I could be raped, murdered, accosted, car-jacked, hi-jacked, low-jakcked, whacked off, or chloroformed. Last month I received a warning never to remove any flyers off my back window for fear that when I get out of the car to remove said flyer, a car-jacker will jump out from underneath my car, put it in reverse, run me over, pull over to gather up my lifeless body, and drive off in the hopes that he can score some ransom money along with the new car he just stole. Joke's on you, car-jacking kidnapper: that "new" car has almost 200,000 miles on it and no one that I know has enough money to want my ass back. Two months before that, my mother forwarded me something about old ladies in Wal-Mart parking lots trying to make you test perfume samples. If you are dumb enough to allow them to spray you, you will realize hours later that it was chloroform and you have been thrown in a trunk with your kidnapper's knitting needles and a lifetime supply of mothballs. I mean, come on, why is it OLD LADIES giving out these samples? Where do they find the superhuman strength to TOSS YOU IN A TRUNK? I find the forwards partly amusing, but just scary enough that I end up buckling and sending them to all of my co-workers. The one that creeped me out the most? The one that I received (from mom, of course) around Christmas time that read that a young woman who lived by herself kept hearing a baby cry outside her door. Because so many people leave their babies abandoned Moses-style on doorsteps anymore, she opened the door only to be assaulted by someone with a boom box. You know, to play the fake baby cries. There are so many things fundamentally wrong with this scenario that I can't even begin to name them. First of all, who actually believes that a baby has been left on your doorstep? Second of all, who has the time to perform these capers? If the job description of "serial killer or rapist" leaves you with all this free time to think these things out, then sign me up!
Today's particular forward was a new one. It was a "firsthand" account from a woman who is apparently a prison guard somewhere in Louisiana. She said that this experience happened to her a few days prior and she "didn't think much of it" until she recounted the story to her "prison guard friends" and they made her talk to the police. Let me preface her story by saying that there just happens to be a wild serial killer on the loose in Louisiana at this time. She claims that she was at the gas station and put $10 worth of gas in her tank (which will take her a mere two blocks these days) and wanted to buy herself a Coke. She went into the gas station to pay in cash and knew that she had two fives and a one on her. She paid for her gas, gathered her Coke, and got back in her car. As she was buckling her belt, a clean-shaven, nice-looking gentleman tapped on her window. Because she "works in a prison" she knew better than to roll down her window and yelled through the glass, "What do you want?" The man held up a five dollar bill, smiled, and said, "You dropped this." Now, this woman was smart and knew that she had taken only enough money in to the gas station to pay her bill so she said, "Nope, that's not mine." Upon hearing this, she claims that the man "went nuts'" and started beating on her window and door trying to get in the car. She claims that she sped off as fast as she could and "didn't think to go to the police" until she told her story to some friends and they made her. This gave the Louisiana police valuable insight into catching their serial killer. Here is my beef with her story:
1. Who pays with cash at the gas station anymore? I know that this is not a stretch, but even when I want a coke I pay with plastic
2. If there was a serial killer on the loose, why would you even bother seeing what some strange man wanted? Unless you're that hard up for a man, IGNORE, IGNORE, IGNORE
3. This guy went crazy on her and after it happened she was like, "No big deal" and didn't think to go to the police? Are prison guards really that jaded? I would have been crying, calling the police, and then calling my mother and thanking her profusely for sending every crazy-ass forward she's ever sent me. Then I would probably lock myself in my house, buy some cats, and never come out again
After I read this forward, I deleted it. I refuse to perpetuate the legends that are floating around cyberspace. Besides, that serial killer was in Louisiana. That's a long way from here. I'll just say this- if you have read this post, women of America, consider yourself warned.
After that interesting bit of reading, my day carried on without much to talk about. We had our yearly Guidance calendar meeting (which lasted 5 HOURS) which left little time for much else at school. When I got home, I curled up with my book and my dogs until it was time to meet Becky for our walk. I love my afternoon walks/runs/gym sessions with Becky. It's the one chance that I get to spew profanities and complain about everything that bothered me that day to a completely sympathetic audience. As we were rounding out our walk and complaining about everything and nothing at all, a lady pulled into a parking space by the bike path. In a very heavy accent (and an Illinois license plate tacked to the front of her Astro van), she yelled, "Excuse me ma'ams? (again with the ma'am!!) Can you tell me where is Cline Avenue?" To which Becky replied politely "It's right down from here. You take this road in front of us (which was Ridge) left and you will run into it" to which the lady looked blankly at her and said, "Huh?" to which Becky said "This road in front of us? See? Take it until you see Cline." The lady then said "I try to find Cline 912. Address 912 Cline." Becky just looked at her and said, "I can't help you with the address but I can tell you how to get to Cline" and then relayed the directions AGAIN. The lady still looked at us like we didn't know how many beans were in a burrito, so I finally said "Just take this road down about two miles and you will see Cline. There are three gas stations at that intersection. Stop and ask them which way to go." The lady still looked unsure and we weren't sure what else to say. So then she all but ROLLED HER EYES at US, got in her car, and left. Becky and I pretended to try to carry on our conversation but it wasn't long before Becky said, "Um, sorry I'm not your own personal Mapquest and can't pinpoint the f-ing location you're trying to find." Word up, Bex. Some people just don't have common sense. Now there was an obvious language barrier between us and Ms. 912 Cline Avenue but she really looked at us like WE were the stupid ones. As we were talking to her, all I kept thinking was "Does she want us to come closer so her mariachi band can jump out from behind those tinted van windows, grab us, and take us to her abuelo of misfortune?" I can thank my mom for the mounting paranoia.
So that was my day. The lesson I have learned is to take anything my mom sends over email with a grain of salt. If anyone would like to be a recipient of her scarier-than-needed forwards, kindly forward me your email address and I will make sure that you are put on her distribution list. Until then, please don't open your doors to crying babies, sniff anything in a Wal-Mart parking lot, or grab those 1/2 price stripper fliers off of your rear windows. All of these things could get you more than you bargained for.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Have You Ever Heard of "Yield to Pedestrians" A-HOLE?!?
Have you ever had a day where you just despise people? From the moment you wake up, anyone who crosses your path is just bound to annoy the crap out of you? That was me today. I rolled out of bed, just as unhappy as ever that it was Monday and I had to go to work. Now I am happy to have a job, but Mondays just blow. Even John's nonsensical talking to himself and rapping annoyed the crap out of me this morning more than any other morning EVER. I left the house a little late but managed to arrive at school early and was greeted by the pouting face of a the parent of one of my students demanding to have her student switched from on teacher's class to another. I am never in the mood to deal with parents first thing in the morning and ESPECIALLY not with parents whose students have been told multiple times that this switch is ABSOLUTELY NOT POSSIBLE. That meeting did not end well. Do these kids think that I am just blowing smoke up their arses when I speak? Seriously. My position in life is not to make your life miserable. It is quite the opposite in fact. So when I tell you that something can't be done, please don't cry to mommy or daddy...be an adult and realize that you CAN'T ALWAYS GET WHAT YOU WANT, LIFE IS NOT FAIR, AND THERE IS NO SANTA CLAUS. (I just threw that last one in for good measure. I hope there is no one under the age of 10 reading this blog- for many reasons)
My day continued as such and I was thankful that the person-to-person contact I had to endure was at a bare minimum. My one saving grace is that my co-workers are all awesome and all must have been able to get up on the right side of the bed because they were an absolute pleasure to be around today. As my day came to an end and I had a whole afternoon ahead of me to do whatever my little heart desired, I thought that maybe the first half of it had been a fluke and it would get a little bit better once I was at home.
When I returned home, my puppies greeted me at the door as usual and, after a quick potty break, curled up with me for a nap. I was able to read two chapters in the book that I am currently shuffling my way through before conking out to a dead sleep for a little over an hour. Since I have fallen into this pattern lately, I set my alarm for 6 so that I could get up, go for a run, and shower before dinner. Once my alarm rang, I was not really in the mood to run but considered that my punishment for napping like a four year old in the middle of a Monday.
My run started out normal enough. My muscles were screaming because I had completed a ten mile run the day before and probably shouldn't have pushed it today. But, a wise friend named Beth once told me that if you work out and your muscles hurt, they are going to hurt even more if you don't use them the next day. I flipped my ipod to the sounds of Glee (which is very inspirational running music if you haven't tried it) and set off to complete my anticipated 3.5 miles. About a mile in, I thought my legs might disintegrate. Now, I can't fault them- after the ten miles I ran yesterday I was so in love with the little things for not breaking off of my torso at any given point today. Still, they are LEGS. They apparently have not received the memo in my 29 and a half years of life that such things like walking and running are what they were CREATED for. The sooner they realize that, the sooner they will be OK with being used. Especially "Old Lefty" which houses my bum knee that gives me problems every once in awhile. Note to Old Lefty: suck it up- you are a good 30 years away from a knee replacement.
The route I run is a 3.5 mile circle that starts at my house, goes up Ridge Road for a bit, cuts down Beech and down Ridgeway for that entire stretch before going back up Crestwood and all the way down Ridge back to Beech and Ridgeway. For those of you not from NWI, I'm sorry for the non-sensical description. I might as well have just described the stops on the underground railroad. For those of you from NWI, you will identify with me that walking/running/biking/boarding up or down Ridge can be a hazard because there is a street break at every block, all of which may hold cars turning onto Ridge from those streets or off of Ridge onto those streets. Although I listen to my ipod, I consider myself a pretty considerate runner. If I see a car approaching the stop sign at one of these streets, I tend to slow to assess the situation. Usually this is not a problem. Until tonight. When I was almost run over not one but TWO TIMES by a-hole drivers. Incident number one happened on my way down Ridge when I noticed a great big Tahoe stopped at a stop sign ready to turn left onto Ridge Road. That guy was on his cell phone and was an Illinois driver. Enough said. The second occasion was a little more serious and is outlined in the next paragraph.
I am running and have just finished about 2.5 miles of my run. I am tired, Old Lefty is giving me issues, and I just want to be at home. I am running back up Ridge Road when I approach a block break where a truck is waiting to turn on to Ridge Road. There are cars coming from both directions and there is no way that he can go with all the traffic, so I know that he will stay put. I also make direct eye contact with him as I approach the crosswalk, so I know he sees me. As I am getting ready to cross, I look over my shoulder to make sure no one is turning right. There is a car approaching a ways behind me with his blinker on, but with plenty of time for me to cross before he turns, so I go ahead and cross. AND THE A-HOLE HONKS AT ME. To which I STOP RUNNING, TURN AROUND, and yell at the TOP OF MY LUNGS like a five year old "HAVEN'T YOU EVER HEARD OF YIELD TO PEDESTRIANS A-HOLE?!?? WE HAVE THE F-ING RIGHT OF WAY" before spinning on Old Lefty and continuing my jog. I was so fired up that I increased my pace which made me feel even worse. The NERVE of some people!!
I have a love/hate relationship with pedestrianism. I will never forget the first time that I felt truly empowered as a pedestrian. It was when I was in the 7th grade and I visited my cousin Cheri down at IU. We were walking along Kirkwood (which, little did I know, would be the scene of many shopping trips and escapades in my own college life) when we came to a crosswalk. My cousin Cheri took the Chuck Norris approach and just blindly walked into the middle of the street, paying no mind to oncoming traffic or the fact that she was inches away from being ground into the pavement by Kilroy's. The rest of us hung back on the curb and I remember physically gasping as a car slowed and stopped for her with no stop sign or anything. She turned back to us in the middle of the street (with the car patiently waiting for her) and said, "What are you guys waiting for? People always stop for pedestrians. You don't even have to look!" And from that point on during the weekend, I became the most careless pedestrian on the planet and stepped out in front of every oncoming car to test the boundaries. Cheri was right every time. I wish this same theory were true in Chicago. I believe that the rule still applies- people yield to pedestrians purely because they come in such massive walls of humanity that they can't help it. They just aren't as nice about it as people in Bloomington. Which brings me to the in-between people of NWI.
As I continued my jog after this particular incident, I couldn't help but imagine what would have happened if that guy would have run me over. I had myself convinced that I would have been OK with taking one for the Pedestrian Runners of America team to teach all of those hot-headed drivers out there that just because they are driving a two-ton death machine, they can't rule the roads. I could only imagine that after he had run over me and I had departed this world, I would be smiling down from heaven (hopefully not smiling up from Hades) as the police officer stood over my lifeless body and the driver tried to talk his way out of it. I would rejoice when the police officer finally said, "I hope you know what you've done, Bud (I imagine the driver to be a "Bud" or a "Butch" or a "Harry"), because I have to arrest you for involuntary manslaughter and reckless driving. If only you had yielded to pedestrians like we first taught you in driver's ed, this poor, beautiful girl with killer legs and and an even kinder spirit (embellishing a little, I know, but it is my hypothetical death we are talking about) wouldn't be lying here broken at the intersection of Ridge and Parkiew." Bud, with tears in his beady little eyes, would fall to his knees and yell "Why couldn't I have just followed simple traffic laws and acts of common courtesy?" and all of his dreams would flash before his eyes: killing that big buck, chugging beer at this summer's tractor pull, getting his girlfriend's name tattooed on his rear end, getting this season's latest camo coveralls, all because he couldn't follow the Golden Rule of traffic safety. I almost feel sorry for Bud. Wait, he hypothetically ran me down...I guess I don't feel so bad for him after all.
I guess today just goes to show that people can be a-holes no matter where you are. If "Bud" is reading this, I want him to know that he ruined a perfectly good run for me and managed to annoy me more than anyone today with just two seconds of honking his horn. I wish nothing but cold leftovers and a lumpy bed on him tonight. I am sure that I will overcome this and will be pounding the pavement again tomorrow. Someone has to stand up for pedestrians everywhere and let people know that you can't hold us down. I think I am just the woman for the job.
My day continued as such and I was thankful that the person-to-person contact I had to endure was at a bare minimum. My one saving grace is that my co-workers are all awesome and all must have been able to get up on the right side of the bed because they were an absolute pleasure to be around today. As my day came to an end and I had a whole afternoon ahead of me to do whatever my little heart desired, I thought that maybe the first half of it had been a fluke and it would get a little bit better once I was at home.
When I returned home, my puppies greeted me at the door as usual and, after a quick potty break, curled up with me for a nap. I was able to read two chapters in the book that I am currently shuffling my way through before conking out to a dead sleep for a little over an hour. Since I have fallen into this pattern lately, I set my alarm for 6 so that I could get up, go for a run, and shower before dinner. Once my alarm rang, I was not really in the mood to run but considered that my punishment for napping like a four year old in the middle of a Monday.
My run started out normal enough. My muscles were screaming because I had completed a ten mile run the day before and probably shouldn't have pushed it today. But, a wise friend named Beth once told me that if you work out and your muscles hurt, they are going to hurt even more if you don't use them the next day. I flipped my ipod to the sounds of Glee (which is very inspirational running music if you haven't tried it) and set off to complete my anticipated 3.5 miles. About a mile in, I thought my legs might disintegrate. Now, I can't fault them- after the ten miles I ran yesterday I was so in love with the little things for not breaking off of my torso at any given point today. Still, they are LEGS. They apparently have not received the memo in my 29 and a half years of life that such things like walking and running are what they were CREATED for. The sooner they realize that, the sooner they will be OK with being used. Especially "Old Lefty" which houses my bum knee that gives me problems every once in awhile. Note to Old Lefty: suck it up- you are a good 30 years away from a knee replacement.
The route I run is a 3.5 mile circle that starts at my house, goes up Ridge Road for a bit, cuts down Beech and down Ridgeway for that entire stretch before going back up Crestwood and all the way down Ridge back to Beech and Ridgeway. For those of you not from NWI, I'm sorry for the non-sensical description. I might as well have just described the stops on the underground railroad. For those of you from NWI, you will identify with me that walking/running/biking/boarding up or down Ridge can be a hazard because there is a street break at every block, all of which may hold cars turning onto Ridge from those streets or off of Ridge onto those streets. Although I listen to my ipod, I consider myself a pretty considerate runner. If I see a car approaching the stop sign at one of these streets, I tend to slow to assess the situation. Usually this is not a problem. Until tonight. When I was almost run over not one but TWO TIMES by a-hole drivers. Incident number one happened on my way down Ridge when I noticed a great big Tahoe stopped at a stop sign ready to turn left onto Ridge Road. That guy was on his cell phone and was an Illinois driver. Enough said. The second occasion was a little more serious and is outlined in the next paragraph.
I am running and have just finished about 2.5 miles of my run. I am tired, Old Lefty is giving me issues, and I just want to be at home. I am running back up Ridge Road when I approach a block break where a truck is waiting to turn on to Ridge Road. There are cars coming from both directions and there is no way that he can go with all the traffic, so I know that he will stay put. I also make direct eye contact with him as I approach the crosswalk, so I know he sees me. As I am getting ready to cross, I look over my shoulder to make sure no one is turning right. There is a car approaching a ways behind me with his blinker on, but with plenty of time for me to cross before he turns, so I go ahead and cross. AND THE A-HOLE HONKS AT ME. To which I STOP RUNNING, TURN AROUND, and yell at the TOP OF MY LUNGS like a five year old "HAVEN'T YOU EVER HEARD OF YIELD TO PEDESTRIANS A-HOLE?!?? WE HAVE THE F-ING RIGHT OF WAY" before spinning on Old Lefty and continuing my jog. I was so fired up that I increased my pace which made me feel even worse. The NERVE of some people!!
I have a love/hate relationship with pedestrianism. I will never forget the first time that I felt truly empowered as a pedestrian. It was when I was in the 7th grade and I visited my cousin Cheri down at IU. We were walking along Kirkwood (which, little did I know, would be the scene of many shopping trips and escapades in my own college life) when we came to a crosswalk. My cousin Cheri took the Chuck Norris approach and just blindly walked into the middle of the street, paying no mind to oncoming traffic or the fact that she was inches away from being ground into the pavement by Kilroy's. The rest of us hung back on the curb and I remember physically gasping as a car slowed and stopped for her with no stop sign or anything. She turned back to us in the middle of the street (with the car patiently waiting for her) and said, "What are you guys waiting for? People always stop for pedestrians. You don't even have to look!" And from that point on during the weekend, I became the most careless pedestrian on the planet and stepped out in front of every oncoming car to test the boundaries. Cheri was right every time. I wish this same theory were true in Chicago. I believe that the rule still applies- people yield to pedestrians purely because they come in such massive walls of humanity that they can't help it. They just aren't as nice about it as people in Bloomington. Which brings me to the in-between people of NWI.
As I continued my jog after this particular incident, I couldn't help but imagine what would have happened if that guy would have run me over. I had myself convinced that I would have been OK with taking one for the Pedestrian Runners of America team to teach all of those hot-headed drivers out there that just because they are driving a two-ton death machine, they can't rule the roads. I could only imagine that after he had run over me and I had departed this world, I would be smiling down from heaven (hopefully not smiling up from Hades) as the police officer stood over my lifeless body and the driver tried to talk his way out of it. I would rejoice when the police officer finally said, "I hope you know what you've done, Bud (I imagine the driver to be a "Bud" or a "Butch" or a "Harry"), because I have to arrest you for involuntary manslaughter and reckless driving. If only you had yielded to pedestrians like we first taught you in driver's ed, this poor, beautiful girl with killer legs and and an even kinder spirit (embellishing a little, I know, but it is my hypothetical death we are talking about) wouldn't be lying here broken at the intersection of Ridge and Parkiew." Bud, with tears in his beady little eyes, would fall to his knees and yell "Why couldn't I have just followed simple traffic laws and acts of common courtesy?" and all of his dreams would flash before his eyes: killing that big buck, chugging beer at this summer's tractor pull, getting his girlfriend's name tattooed on his rear end, getting this season's latest camo coveralls, all because he couldn't follow the Golden Rule of traffic safety. I almost feel sorry for Bud. Wait, he hypothetically ran me down...I guess I don't feel so bad for him after all.
I guess today just goes to show that people can be a-holes no matter where you are. If "Bud" is reading this, I want him to know that he ruined a perfectly good run for me and managed to annoy me more than anyone today with just two seconds of honking his horn. I wish nothing but cold leftovers and a lumpy bed on him tonight. I am sure that I will overcome this and will be pounding the pavement again tomorrow. Someone has to stand up for pedestrians everywhere and let people know that you can't hold us down. I think I am just the woman for the job.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Just Another Fist Pumping Friday Night
Have you ever had a moment in your life when you are in a certain situation that causes you to have a moment of absolute, total clarity? Like you needed that very situation to show you whatever it is you needed to realize? I had such a moment in the wee hours of Saturday morning at a place I should never have stepped foot in on a night that I didn't plan on being out. I'm getting a little ahead of myself, though, so let me back up and tell you how the debacle that was Friday night came to be.
The weekend started out innocently enough. School went by without a hitch and we had a great (but sad) time celebrating Jenny's last day as our intern. My initial plan for the evening had been to hit up the Orland Mall and Meijer with Becky and spend the rest of the evening playing Mario or watching a movie while John went out with his friends. Halfway through the work day, I received an email from John telling me that his friends were making the hike to Indiana for the evening (which is UNHEARD of by anyone who lives in Illinois. Go out in INDIANA? They'd rather sit at home playing Backgammon and watching home improvement shows than make the drive over to our neck of the woods on a Friday night) and wanted to know if I would come. Since it was going to be Jenny's last night to hang out, I mentioned the possibility to her and she thought that it was a great idea. At the end of the work day I gave Jenny a big hug, thanked her for being the best intern on the face of the planet, and told her that I would call her later when plans shaped up.
After school, Becky dropped by my house, picked me up, and we headed out to Orland to pick up some odds and ends at the mall. I have to tell you that I love Orland Square Mall. Just driving out to Orland makes me feel like I have been upgraded on the pay scale of life just a little. When I walk through the doors of that mall, the light airy feeling makes me feel like I have more money than I do because I am surrounded by beautiful stay-at-home wives in their Coach sunglasses and pastel capris, pushing expensive strollers full of chubby cheeked beautiful children. It is an exhilarating feeling which on this day was further perpetuated by the tunes that accompanied our drive. Becky recently scored a brand new ride in the form of a Ford Focus with a sync system which also comes with satellite radio. She has stumbled upon an all 90s all the time station and in the course of our car ride we heard the Spice Girls, The Proclaimers, Color Me Badd, and NKOTB. We tossed around the idea of starting a band and settled on "The Flannel-Assed Bitches" as a band name. We decided that we would wear khaki shorts, t-shirts, Timberland boots with slouchy socks, and tie flannel shirts around our waists as part of our band "look." Our band will play all 90s music and specialize in 90s tunes sung by women and old school rap so that John can be a special guest. Look for us in a dumpy bar near you.
Once we arrived in Orland, we swung through all the places we had coupons. First up was Victoria's Secret for free panties. Now, I can't complain about VS because they send me cards for free underwear with no purchase necessary which is wonderful; it is probably the way I have acquired 99% of my undies in the past 5 years. The thing that ticks me off is that when I walk into the store, show a salesperson my card, and ask "which underwear qualifies?" she points me in the direction of a huge display and says "Anything on that table with the mannequins." I rush over, pick up a pair of very cute cotton underwear with polka dots and a frilly waistband and proceed to wait in the freakishly long line to check out behind a really annoying group of 16 year olds who are apparently buying lingerie. WHERE ARE THEIR MOTHERS? I can only imagine how that conversation would go.
Orland Park Teen Girl: "Hey mom, I need to go to Victoria's Secret. Can you drive me to the mall?"
Orland Park Mom: "Why of course, dear, but why do you need to go to Victoria's Secret?"
Orland Park Teen Girl: "Mo-om. If you have to be so nosy, Brad and I are totally going to do it for the second time tomorrow night and I need to find something that is JUST RIGHT."
Orland Park Mom: (Martini in hand) "Well, in that case, here is $100. Brad's just the type of boy you should marry and you don't want to disappoint him."
Or something like that. As I finally approach the register and give the salesperson my underwear and my card, she looks at me in disgust (probably partly because I am a cheapskate and am not buying anything else) and says "You can't get THESE underwear. You have to get something with Victoria's Secret on the waistband." Which makes me want to scream, "Can all of you salespeople get on the right page or send the one that I talked to in the front of the store back to the Underwear Selling Remedial Program because she did NOT mention that VERY VALUABLE PIECE OF INFORMATION!" By the time I picked out another pair (black and white stripes with a small silver band if you must know) I had wasted more time in that God forsaken store than I care to mention. After that, the shopping trip seemed to run by without a hitch and Becky and I headed back to Highland to finish up, grab dinner, and get groceries. By the time Becky was returning me to my house, it was already 9:00. This is when I should have said, "You know what? It's late and I'm tired. I should just stay home tonight." But noooooo, the 21 year old still living deep within me said that the "Night is still young and you can suck it up to go have some fun." Oh boy.
I called Jenny and asked her to be at my house at 10:30 so we could meet up with the guys. In the mean time, I tried contacting John to see just where they had landed by this point in the night. To my dismay, they had driven themselves all the way out to the Tilted Kilt in Hobart which is a good twenty minutes away. Against my better judgement, Jenny and I hopped in the car and made our way out to the Irish Hooters. For those of you who haven't been there, it is basically a Bennigan's (seriously, this particular one was a Bennigan's 6 months ago) with half-naked waitresses. They wear short little plaid skirts, white shirts tied up underneath their boobs Baby One More Time style, and knee socks. Every time the waitress came to our table, she hovered over me and if I looked up I got an eye full of straight boobs. It is a neat concept if you are anyone with a penis which is the demographic I am sure they had in mind when designing this place. After driving all the way out there, we stayed for one drink when John had the idea to go to Woodhollow all the way back in Highland. And, if you are still reading and care, with this suggestion we are getting closer to my moment of clarity.
If you live in Northwest Indiana, you probably know what Woodhollow is. When I moved here in 2005, it was a club located in the upstairs section of the Omni athletic complex. You know, so that as soon as you are done working out you can go have a beer and pick up a guy. This may sound weird, but I believe that many of the meatheads who frequented that joint did just that. Woodhollow was the local cure to the need for hot sweaty club action. Nights there start out innocently enough- drink specials, a DJ spinning the latest music, various old Serbian guys giving you nods as they stroll by for more Redbull/Vodkas. Then, the witching hour strikes and away goes the calm pop music and out comes the full on rave complete with epilepsy-inducing strobe lights, blowhorns, and a lot of fist-pumping. When I was 25, this place was AWESOME. It was full of beautiful people (as beautiful as it gets in NWI) and full of potential hookups. You always ran the hazard of being physically molested on the dance floor but, hey, it comes with the territory. I have many good memories from Woodhollow which range from Ten Shot Tuesday which will go down in history as the best Tuesday night EVER spent in a bar to Rachel's twenty-something birthday party. The more I grew older, the less I was interested in going to this sweaty mess of a place until me and my group of friends stopped going altogether. Shortly after, we received word that the whole joint was moving to a Mexican restaurant down the street and they were dubbing it "Woodhollow After Dark." It was barely a spark on my radar because I had closed that chapter in my life.
My only encounter with Woodhollow until this fateful Saturday morning was after the MHS holiday party two years ago. We had spent the evening eating, drinking, and playing Pictionary and the inevitable time came when our time on the banquet hall rexpired and we had to ask ourselves the obvious question; go home or stay out? Stay out won, and a group of about 10 of us headed to Woodhollow. We all went over in various cars and I just happened to go over with an older co-worker. As we were walking in the door, we happened to be about 10 paces behind a younger "lady" (for lack of a better term, unless you want to tack "of the night" to the back end of it) who was wearing an impossibly short skirt and tube top. In January. My co-worker proceeded to ask me how we got into the building and when I replied "I'm not sure" she said (very loudly) "Ok, we'll just follow that slut. She seems like she knows where she's going." She's very tactful. When we walked through the door, we were greeted by bouncers, girls in tight skirts, and a full on dance party. Needless to say, our group did not last there very long.
This brings us to 1 am Friday night when myself, my husband, Jenny, Josh, and Dave walked into Woodhollow. We went straight to the bar for drinks and then headed into the outrageous dance party that was happening within. This is when that moment of clarity hit. Here I was, sausaging my way onto the dance floor where I found myself sandwiched between a guy in a sideways baseball cap who looked about 19 fist pumping like he was auditioning for Jersey Shore and a girl with a shirt cut so low, that I was sure her boobs were going to pop out at any time. That is if the guy dancing behind her and groping her chest didn't pull them out for all of us to inspect first. The message from my epiphany? You are too friggin' old to be here. Now, I know that there were people at that club older than me. My husband for one. All the creepy 50 somethings on the side of the dance floor creepily sipping drinks and creepily staring at all the half-naked girls grinding on each other being some others. As I stood in line for the bathroom, I had to listen to half-brained conversations which centered around flavored condoms and a lot of "Oh my Go-ods" thrown in. Now I am no intellectual and I would rather talk about TV or movies more than politics or religion any day, but I believe that I lost more brain cells in line for that bathroom than I did during my entire college experience. As I made my way back to my little group, I vowed never to set foot in that place again unless I was going before 8:00 and had a huge craving for fajitas.
The moral of this post? Never go to Woodhollow unless you are ready to be shoved, prodded, and poked by random guys the entire time you are there. If you do go, do not leave your drink unattended for many obvious reasons (roofies, a good place for guys to pee, etc). And, if you must go, wear a helmet...the fist pumping is a little out of control after 11:00.
The weekend started out innocently enough. School went by without a hitch and we had a great (but sad) time celebrating Jenny's last day as our intern. My initial plan for the evening had been to hit up the Orland Mall and Meijer with Becky and spend the rest of the evening playing Mario or watching a movie while John went out with his friends. Halfway through the work day, I received an email from John telling me that his friends were making the hike to Indiana for the evening (which is UNHEARD of by anyone who lives in Illinois. Go out in INDIANA? They'd rather sit at home playing Backgammon and watching home improvement shows than make the drive over to our neck of the woods on a Friday night) and wanted to know if I would come. Since it was going to be Jenny's last night to hang out, I mentioned the possibility to her and she thought that it was a great idea. At the end of the work day I gave Jenny a big hug, thanked her for being the best intern on the face of the planet, and told her that I would call her later when plans shaped up.
After school, Becky dropped by my house, picked me up, and we headed out to Orland to pick up some odds and ends at the mall. I have to tell you that I love Orland Square Mall. Just driving out to Orland makes me feel like I have been upgraded on the pay scale of life just a little. When I walk through the doors of that mall, the light airy feeling makes me feel like I have more money than I do because I am surrounded by beautiful stay-at-home wives in their Coach sunglasses and pastel capris, pushing expensive strollers full of chubby cheeked beautiful children. It is an exhilarating feeling which on this day was further perpetuated by the tunes that accompanied our drive. Becky recently scored a brand new ride in the form of a Ford Focus with a sync system which also comes with satellite radio. She has stumbled upon an all 90s all the time station and in the course of our car ride we heard the Spice Girls, The Proclaimers, Color Me Badd, and NKOTB. We tossed around the idea of starting a band and settled on "The Flannel-Assed Bitches" as a band name. We decided that we would wear khaki shorts, t-shirts, Timberland boots with slouchy socks, and tie flannel shirts around our waists as part of our band "look." Our band will play all 90s music and specialize in 90s tunes sung by women and old school rap so that John can be a special guest. Look for us in a dumpy bar near you.
Once we arrived in Orland, we swung through all the places we had coupons. First up was Victoria's Secret for free panties. Now, I can't complain about VS because they send me cards for free underwear with no purchase necessary which is wonderful; it is probably the way I have acquired 99% of my undies in the past 5 years. The thing that ticks me off is that when I walk into the store, show a salesperson my card, and ask "which underwear qualifies?" she points me in the direction of a huge display and says "Anything on that table with the mannequins." I rush over, pick up a pair of very cute cotton underwear with polka dots and a frilly waistband and proceed to wait in the freakishly long line to check out behind a really annoying group of 16 year olds who are apparently buying lingerie. WHERE ARE THEIR MOTHERS? I can only imagine how that conversation would go.
Orland Park Teen Girl: "Hey mom, I need to go to Victoria's Secret. Can you drive me to the mall?"
Orland Park Mom: "Why of course, dear, but why do you need to go to Victoria's Secret?"
Orland Park Teen Girl: "Mo-om. If you have to be so nosy, Brad and I are totally going to do it for the second time tomorrow night and I need to find something that is JUST RIGHT."
Orland Park Mom: (Martini in hand) "Well, in that case, here is $100. Brad's just the type of boy you should marry and you don't want to disappoint him."
Or something like that. As I finally approach the register and give the salesperson my underwear and my card, she looks at me in disgust (probably partly because I am a cheapskate and am not buying anything else) and says "You can't get THESE underwear. You have to get something with Victoria's Secret on the waistband." Which makes me want to scream, "Can all of you salespeople get on the right page or send the one that I talked to in the front of the store back to the Underwear Selling Remedial Program because she did NOT mention that VERY VALUABLE PIECE OF INFORMATION!" By the time I picked out another pair (black and white stripes with a small silver band if you must know) I had wasted more time in that God forsaken store than I care to mention. After that, the shopping trip seemed to run by without a hitch and Becky and I headed back to Highland to finish up, grab dinner, and get groceries. By the time Becky was returning me to my house, it was already 9:00. This is when I should have said, "You know what? It's late and I'm tired. I should just stay home tonight." But noooooo, the 21 year old still living deep within me said that the "Night is still young and you can suck it up to go have some fun." Oh boy.
I called Jenny and asked her to be at my house at 10:30 so we could meet up with the guys. In the mean time, I tried contacting John to see just where they had landed by this point in the night. To my dismay, they had driven themselves all the way out to the Tilted Kilt in Hobart which is a good twenty minutes away. Against my better judgement, Jenny and I hopped in the car and made our way out to the Irish Hooters. For those of you who haven't been there, it is basically a Bennigan's (seriously, this particular one was a Bennigan's 6 months ago) with half-naked waitresses. They wear short little plaid skirts, white shirts tied up underneath their boobs Baby One More Time style, and knee socks. Every time the waitress came to our table, she hovered over me and if I looked up I got an eye full of straight boobs. It is a neat concept if you are anyone with a penis which is the demographic I am sure they had in mind when designing this place. After driving all the way out there, we stayed for one drink when John had the idea to go to Woodhollow all the way back in Highland. And, if you are still reading and care, with this suggestion we are getting closer to my moment of clarity.
If you live in Northwest Indiana, you probably know what Woodhollow is. When I moved here in 2005, it was a club located in the upstairs section of the Omni athletic complex. You know, so that as soon as you are done working out you can go have a beer and pick up a guy. This may sound weird, but I believe that many of the meatheads who frequented that joint did just that. Woodhollow was the local cure to the need for hot sweaty club action. Nights there start out innocently enough- drink specials, a DJ spinning the latest music, various old Serbian guys giving you nods as they stroll by for more Redbull/Vodkas. Then, the witching hour strikes and away goes the calm pop music and out comes the full on rave complete with epilepsy-inducing strobe lights, blowhorns, and a lot of fist-pumping. When I was 25, this place was AWESOME. It was full of beautiful people (as beautiful as it gets in NWI) and full of potential hookups. You always ran the hazard of being physically molested on the dance floor but, hey, it comes with the territory. I have many good memories from Woodhollow which range from Ten Shot Tuesday which will go down in history as the best Tuesday night EVER spent in a bar to Rachel's twenty-something birthday party. The more I grew older, the less I was interested in going to this sweaty mess of a place until me and my group of friends stopped going altogether. Shortly after, we received word that the whole joint was moving to a Mexican restaurant down the street and they were dubbing it "Woodhollow After Dark." It was barely a spark on my radar because I had closed that chapter in my life.
My only encounter with Woodhollow until this fateful Saturday morning was after the MHS holiday party two years ago. We had spent the evening eating, drinking, and playing Pictionary and the inevitable time came when our time on the banquet hall rexpired and we had to ask ourselves the obvious question; go home or stay out? Stay out won, and a group of about 10 of us headed to Woodhollow. We all went over in various cars and I just happened to go over with an older co-worker. As we were walking in the door, we happened to be about 10 paces behind a younger "lady" (for lack of a better term, unless you want to tack "of the night" to the back end of it) who was wearing an impossibly short skirt and tube top. In January. My co-worker proceeded to ask me how we got into the building and when I replied "I'm not sure" she said (very loudly) "Ok, we'll just follow that slut. She seems like she knows where she's going." She's very tactful. When we walked through the door, we were greeted by bouncers, girls in tight skirts, and a full on dance party. Needless to say, our group did not last there very long.
This brings us to 1 am Friday night when myself, my husband, Jenny, Josh, and Dave walked into Woodhollow. We went straight to the bar for drinks and then headed into the outrageous dance party that was happening within. This is when that moment of clarity hit. Here I was, sausaging my way onto the dance floor where I found myself sandwiched between a guy in a sideways baseball cap who looked about 19 fist pumping like he was auditioning for Jersey Shore and a girl with a shirt cut so low, that I was sure her boobs were going to pop out at any time. That is if the guy dancing behind her and groping her chest didn't pull them out for all of us to inspect first. The message from my epiphany? You are too friggin' old to be here. Now, I know that there were people at that club older than me. My husband for one. All the creepy 50 somethings on the side of the dance floor creepily sipping drinks and creepily staring at all the half-naked girls grinding on each other being some others. As I stood in line for the bathroom, I had to listen to half-brained conversations which centered around flavored condoms and a lot of "Oh my Go-ods" thrown in. Now I am no intellectual and I would rather talk about TV or movies more than politics or religion any day, but I believe that I lost more brain cells in line for that bathroom than I did during my entire college experience. As I made my way back to my little group, I vowed never to set foot in that place again unless I was going before 8:00 and had a huge craving for fajitas.
The moral of this post? Never go to Woodhollow unless you are ready to be shoved, prodded, and poked by random guys the entire time you are there. If you do go, do not leave your drink unattended for many obvious reasons (roofies, a good place for guys to pee, etc). And, if you must go, wear a helmet...the fist pumping is a little out of control after 11:00.
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