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.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
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.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Why Do the Pervs and Ho-Bags Come Out When It's Warm?
I understand that the title of this blog may be a tad inappropriate but, seriously, every single person reading this knows what I am talking about. Where do I even begin? Ok, first of all, I spent all day in my office staring longingly out my window wishing I could be basking in the sunlight like the roly-poly construction workers I saw working on the MHS Aquatic Center of Glory. But nooo, I had to be chained to my computer, double-checking hundreds of schedules that my oh-so-considerate students will end up changing anyways. And, to make matters worse, the kids who marched through my office today were dressed like we live in Miami and had a date at the club DIRECTLY after school. A date so pressing that there wouldn't be time to go home to change before the rave started. Not kidding. The girls had shorts on that barely covered their hoo-has and tank tops that were so close to nipple range that I was flinching watching them breathe for fear something would pop out. Why is it that these high school girls feel the need to flaunt everything their mama gave them at one time? A note to high school girls everywhere- short skirt or low top....NEVER both...you want to come off as sexy, not like Heidi Fleiss's protege. And when I say girls in that previous statement, I mean girls 21 and older- anyone that still attends high school should not have parents who let them leave the HOUSE with anything remotely resembling what I just described. I am not kidding when I say that I saw a girl today wearing jean shorts with the pockets hanging out the bottom and cowboy boots. W.T.F. I left school thinking "If I ever have a girl, I hope she is a hermaphrodite so that she feels that she needs to cover all that junk up." Again, highly inappropriate.
Now on to my even bigger beef- the way-too-eager males that seem to crawl out of the gutter and directly into my path every time the temperature rises. As soon as it's warm enough to roll your windows down in the car, these eager gentlemen think it's OK to try to have a conversation with you while at a stoplight. Now tell me guys, exactly what do you think think you are going to accomplish with me in the length of a stoplight? And, just a note, rolling up next to someone and saying "Baby, I love you and I like the way you roll" is NOT the way to a woman's heart unless you're Ludacris and even then you're pushing it. I would love just once to be sitting at a stoplight next to one of these eager beavers and say back to him "Oh, baby, it's about time you rolled into my life. Shut off your car and take me right here right now." Of course, that will never happen because my usual reaction is to look over at them in total disgust, flash my wedding ring, and speed off as the light turns green only to be stopped at the next light 6 feet later with them directly beside me again. Way to give it to them. What I really want to yell is "Suck it douche bag!" as they eat the dust from my mega-fast Ford Explorer.
My next favorite type of potential sex offender is the one that has the balls to actually approach you in a public place. Perfect example: I was in Target today, minding my own business, picking up supplies for a little soiree we are having at work tomorrow, when I passed a guy and happened to glance his way on the way out of the store. "Why did you glance his way" you may ask. Answer: there was THE CUTEST yellow ruffled swimsuit directly behind him and it was love at first sight. Unfortunately, Mr. Creepy Pants took that as his cue to open his mouth and speak to me. Rico Suave actually stopped, pulled his sunglasses down his nose Miami Vice-style, and said "How you doin', ma'am?" First of all, this guy had a haircut that can only be described as Will Smith circa early Fresh Prince days. Second of all, "MA'AM?" Since when do I look 75? When I was single, there is NO FRIGGIN' WAY that I would have even taken a second GLANCE at someone that called me "ma'am." "Ma'am" should only be accompanied by "Can I help you and your groceries out to your car?" or "Yes, I did just hit my baseball through your window and I'm really friggin' sorry." So, for all you pervs out there who just HAVE to hit on random ladies buying tampons or other necessities at Target, here is a tip: saying "Hey ma'am, would you like to head back to my place and do it" is about as sexy as "Hey, you wanna come back to my place and look at the green stuff I have growing on my member?" Seriously. Not cool.
I can only imagine that the rest of the summer will hold more inappropriate comments posed by creepy looking dudes. Maybe I should take it as a compliment that they find me interesting enough to waste their breath. Until I muster the courage to say the things I really want to say, I will continue to smile politely and continue on my merry way believing that I am still a hot young bitch instead of a crusty old "ma'am" while coming to grips with the fact that I am sadly probably somewhere in between.
Now on to my even bigger beef- the way-too-eager males that seem to crawl out of the gutter and directly into my path every time the temperature rises. As soon as it's warm enough to roll your windows down in the car, these eager gentlemen think it's OK to try to have a conversation with you while at a stoplight. Now tell me guys, exactly what do you think think you are going to accomplish with me in the length of a stoplight? And, just a note, rolling up next to someone and saying "Baby, I love you and I like the way you roll" is NOT the way to a woman's heart unless you're Ludacris and even then you're pushing it. I would love just once to be sitting at a stoplight next to one of these eager beavers and say back to him "Oh, baby, it's about time you rolled into my life. Shut off your car and take me right here right now." Of course, that will never happen because my usual reaction is to look over at them in total disgust, flash my wedding ring, and speed off as the light turns green only to be stopped at the next light 6 feet later with them directly beside me again. Way to give it to them. What I really want to yell is "Suck it douche bag!" as they eat the dust from my mega-fast Ford Explorer.
My next favorite type of potential sex offender is the one that has the balls to actually approach you in a public place. Perfect example: I was in Target today, minding my own business, picking up supplies for a little soiree we are having at work tomorrow, when I passed a guy and happened to glance his way on the way out of the store. "Why did you glance his way" you may ask. Answer: there was THE CUTEST yellow ruffled swimsuit directly behind him and it was love at first sight. Unfortunately, Mr. Creepy Pants took that as his cue to open his mouth and speak to me. Rico Suave actually stopped, pulled his sunglasses down his nose Miami Vice-style, and said "How you doin', ma'am?" First of all, this guy had a haircut that can only be described as Will Smith circa early Fresh Prince days. Second of all, "MA'AM?" Since when do I look 75? When I was single, there is NO FRIGGIN' WAY that I would have even taken a second GLANCE at someone that called me "ma'am." "Ma'am" should only be accompanied by "Can I help you and your groceries out to your car?" or "Yes, I did just hit my baseball through your window and I'm really friggin' sorry." So, for all you pervs out there who just HAVE to hit on random ladies buying tampons or other necessities at Target, here is a tip: saying "Hey ma'am, would you like to head back to my place and do it" is about as sexy as "Hey, you wanna come back to my place and look at the green stuff I have growing on my member?" Seriously. Not cool.
I can only imagine that the rest of the summer will hold more inappropriate comments posed by creepy looking dudes. Maybe I should take it as a compliment that they find me interesting enough to waste their breath. Until I muster the courage to say the things I really want to say, I will continue to smile politely and continue on my merry way believing that I am still a hot young bitch instead of a crusty old "ma'am" while coming to grips with the fact that I am sadly probably somewhere in between.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Little Tidbits From Today
Today was an interesting one to say the least. One of those days that starts as a "glass half full" kind of day and ends as a "someone pissed in my glass and I drank it" kind of day. You know what I'm talking about. It started off innocently enough- I had a great night's sleep that was accompanied by a great dream that centered around my return to IU weekend. Carrie and I were frolicking down Kirkwood, shopping at Pitaya and ruling the Biz tables. The best part was that every time I woke up from this dream and fell back asleep, I picked right back up from where I left off. It was the magical culmination of a rested night and God tickling my eyelids with the thoughts of what is in store for me when I head to B-Town. I got up, showered, made my coffee, and arrived at school at 7:28 (a blissful two minutes early- early enough to not be late and not too early to actually have to DO WORK before I am supposed to start doing it). Jenny and I breezed through a lot of mundane work and finally made it to lunch where everything started going downhill. Now, because of the nature of my profession, I can't actually disclose what happened next. Let me just say that it was enough to make we want to accidently fall, hit my head, and find myself awaking from a long, blissful coma where I feel well-rested, just happened not to age and in fact became even more fabulous with all of my newfound rest. Isn't that awful?
This brings me to the fantasy that I just shared for the first time with Sharon after surviving yet another Goldstar meeting. For those of you who don't know what Goldstar is, don't ask. You will feel stupider after I explain it to you. As I was getting out of Sharon's car to get into my own hoopty, Sharon told me to get some rest. We both shared the usual, "I wish we didn't have to go to work tomorrow" and I told her "Don't you secretly wish that you could get just sick enough or hurt yourself just bad enough to wind up in the hospital for a few days so you could get some rest?" Sharon, of course, looked at me like I was crazy as any sane person would. WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME? In my defense, I am not wishing anything terrible on myself. I of course do not want some terrible illness or some life-alerting injury and I KNOW that these are not things to speak of lightly. But how nice would it be just to be forced to lay around for a day or two while someone brings you trays of food while you catch up on Ellen and Real Housewives reruns? Seriously. I don't even have kids yet and I already feel like I need a vacation. Sheesh.
I finally arrived home from work at 7:30 and John and I decided to walk the three blocks to get Fro-Yo. That was the answer to all that was wrong with my day. The hazards of going to Fro-Yo include:
- Walking there in the dark with no sidewalks
- Running into EVERY. STUDENT. I. KNOW. Either on the way there, standing in line, or walking back. Now I'm no celebrity, but when I see these students they usually totally ignore me even though I had a lengthy conversation with them THAT DAY. Note to all students: yes, I know who you are and I probably even know your name because I am THAT good. You do NOT have to avoid me like the plague because I will not strip search you for the marijuana you are undoubtedly carrying on you or ask you embarrassing questions about your grades in front of your pimply boyfriend/girlfriend. Just so you know, I am totally cool with the fact that you still get sprinkles on your ice cream- I do too.
- Walking back in the dark with no sidewalks with the extra hazard of enjoying your yummy ice cream and paying no attention to sidewalks or oncoming traffic
This walk to Fro-Yo was especially interesting because, as we turned back onto our street, two police officers followed us veeeerrrryyy slowly until one of them pulled up and said, "Excuse me folks, did either of you see a guy with red hair walking up and down this street a bit ago?" To which replied, "Look, dude, we just came from Fro-Yo and you saw us turn on this street seconds ago. It is pitch dark out and even if we did see a random ginger walking up and down this street we would have paid him NO attention. You would know that if you cased this street more and saw just WHAT walks up and down it every day." I may be paraphrasing a little. He thanked us for our time and went on his way. John hit the nail on the head when he said that the fine officer didn't tell us why he was looking for a redheaded wanderer on Kooy Avenue. I guess cops don't normally present statements to civilians such as, "Excuse me folks, did you see a redheaded ax-murderer wandering up and down this street or waiting in the bushes for you to come home?" I think I will sleep with one eye open tonight.
This brings me to the present in which I am writing this blog and waiting for John to stop dinkin' around so that we can watch last night's episode of Lost. I have been listening to him all night and he has been practicing the Ludacris rap portion of Justin Bieber's "Baby" so that he can "rap" it to his sophomore girls soccer team tomorrow if they win. The thing is, he keeps mixing it up with parts of the Ludacris rap part in "Yeah" which are two totally different things and speak to two totally different age groups and ladies in general. Tacked on to the end of this rap, he keeps yelling "Rough sex, make it hot" and something about mother f-ers. So, to all of you reading this blog, please do the following for me:
1. If I put out a desperate cry for help or give you a creepy call in the middle of the night, know that the redheaded killer probably found a way into our house
2. Pray that John doesn't get his raps mixed up tomorrow and loses his job for being highly inappropriate to a batch of 16 year old girls
AND
3. Hope that I don't wake up with Leprosy, Hemorrhoids, or drive my car off a cliff for that "wanting to be in the hospital" comment
Until the next post, don't answer the doors for anyone with red hair if you live in the Munster area...just in case.
This brings me to the fantasy that I just shared for the first time with Sharon after surviving yet another Goldstar meeting. For those of you who don't know what Goldstar is, don't ask. You will feel stupider after I explain it to you. As I was getting out of Sharon's car to get into my own hoopty, Sharon told me to get some rest. We both shared the usual, "I wish we didn't have to go to work tomorrow" and I told her "Don't you secretly wish that you could get just sick enough or hurt yourself just bad enough to wind up in the hospital for a few days so you could get some rest?" Sharon, of course, looked at me like I was crazy as any sane person would. WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME? In my defense, I am not wishing anything terrible on myself. I of course do not want some terrible illness or some life-alerting injury and I KNOW that these are not things to speak of lightly. But how nice would it be just to be forced to lay around for a day or two while someone brings you trays of food while you catch up on Ellen and Real Housewives reruns? Seriously. I don't even have kids yet and I already feel like I need a vacation. Sheesh.
I finally arrived home from work at 7:30 and John and I decided to walk the three blocks to get Fro-Yo. That was the answer to all that was wrong with my day. The hazards of going to Fro-Yo include:
- Walking there in the dark with no sidewalks
- Running into EVERY. STUDENT. I. KNOW. Either on the way there, standing in line, or walking back. Now I'm no celebrity, but when I see these students they usually totally ignore me even though I had a lengthy conversation with them THAT DAY. Note to all students: yes, I know who you are and I probably even know your name because I am THAT good. You do NOT have to avoid me like the plague because I will not strip search you for the marijuana you are undoubtedly carrying on you or ask you embarrassing questions about your grades in front of your pimply boyfriend/girlfriend. Just so you know, I am totally cool with the fact that you still get sprinkles on your ice cream- I do too.
- Walking back in the dark with no sidewalks with the extra hazard of enjoying your yummy ice cream and paying no attention to sidewalks or oncoming traffic
This walk to Fro-Yo was especially interesting because, as we turned back onto our street, two police officers followed us veeeerrrryyy slowly until one of them pulled up and said, "Excuse me folks, did either of you see a guy with red hair walking up and down this street a bit ago?" To which replied, "Look, dude, we just came from Fro-Yo and you saw us turn on this street seconds ago. It is pitch dark out and even if we did see a random ginger walking up and down this street we would have paid him NO attention. You would know that if you cased this street more and saw just WHAT walks up and down it every day." I may be paraphrasing a little. He thanked us for our time and went on his way. John hit the nail on the head when he said that the fine officer didn't tell us why he was looking for a redheaded wanderer on Kooy Avenue. I guess cops don't normally present statements to civilians such as, "Excuse me folks, did you see a redheaded ax-murderer wandering up and down this street or waiting in the bushes for you to come home?" I think I will sleep with one eye open tonight.
This brings me to the present in which I am writing this blog and waiting for John to stop dinkin' around so that we can watch last night's episode of Lost. I have been listening to him all night and he has been practicing the Ludacris rap portion of Justin Bieber's "Baby" so that he can "rap" it to his sophomore girls soccer team tomorrow if they win. The thing is, he keeps mixing it up with parts of the Ludacris rap part in "Yeah" which are two totally different things and speak to two totally different age groups and ladies in general. Tacked on to the end of this rap, he keeps yelling "Rough sex, make it hot" and something about mother f-ers. So, to all of you reading this blog, please do the following for me:
1. If I put out a desperate cry for help or give you a creepy call in the middle of the night, know that the redheaded killer probably found a way into our house
2. Pray that John doesn't get his raps mixed up tomorrow and loses his job for being highly inappropriate to a batch of 16 year old girls
AND
3. Hope that I don't wake up with Leprosy, Hemorrhoids, or drive my car off a cliff for that "wanting to be in the hospital" comment
Until the next post, don't answer the doors for anyone with red hair if you live in the Munster area...just in case.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
My Name Is Chrisanne and...
...I'm a Gleek. I am so completely and totally head-over-heels in love with Glee that I want to take it to a Miley Cyrus movie and make out with it a little bit afterwards...we share a rather innocent sort of love. Words cannot describe my attachment to this show but seeing how this is a blog and all I have to communicate with my legions of fans is words, I guess I will try my best.
For anyone who knows me well, my obsession with this show is a no-brainer. If you will, take a ride back in time with me through bits of my life. Our first stop, third grade music class. Mr. Cheshier calls me to the front of the room to audition for the solo part in the spring concert and, fast-forward six weeks, I am singing said solo in front of a gym full of people wearing big pink glasses and white stretch pants. A star is born. Fast forward yet again to the fifth grade and I am singing "My Favorite Things" at any venue that will take me- the Corn School variety show, the 4-H Fair Talent Show- you name it, I probably sang there. Fast forward yet again to high school where I weaseled my way in to the Show Choir (after failing to make it after a bad audition in eighth grade) and continued to participate in every musical production created for the Lakeland High School stage between 1995 and 1999. My high school career culminated in winning the lead part of Maria in the Sound of Music which I am not ashamed to say is one of my proudest accomplishments to date. You know, aside from graduating college, getting a job, not failing at life so far, etc. Even my high school boyfriend screams "Glee"...he might as well have been the Jesse St. James of Westview High School and proceeded to graduate and become a huge part of the Purdue Varsity Glee Club. Those were the good ol' days and I loved them. Did I mention that...I wasn't very good at any of the above? That is the great thing about having supportive friends and family- they tell you you're great and you believe them until you can actually see yourself for who you are and realize that you are totally average. But, I digress.
After high school, I tried to find different outlets in my post-secondary education to express my musical desires. There was a brief stint in Intro to Ballroom Dancing, but there were only two dudes in the class and Jess and I ended up dancing with each other most times. It's hard to figure out who's supposed to be leading in a same-sex pair. Then I joined the mother of all college musical undertakings: IU Sing. I was a willing participant my freshman year as a pledge where our awesome songleaders created a mini-musical solely from Billy Joel songs whose plot line centered around Steve the Crocodile Hunter. It was IU Sing GOLD. The next year, my friend Angie and I assumed the roles of house songleaders and wrote the mother of all IU Sing routines, were paired with an awesome house, and were on the fast track to IU Sing infamy. All of this came to an end when the frat we were paired with was kicked off campus mere weeks before the big performance and our act was unable to receive the respect it deserved. It was a devastating time in our lives and I still feel a little emotionally scarred. If anyone is reading this from E! or Lifetime, contact me if you would like the deets to form a True Hollywood Story or a Lifetime Movie of the Week from this experience. I don't discriminate.
Glee has reminded me of my absolute love for music and it is one of those shows that speaks to me. Now, I watch a lot of TV and many shows speak to me in different ways. Like America's Next Top Model speaks to me and says, "Thank God you're not a tall, crazy bitch" and The Biggest Loser speaks to me and says, "Please never let yourself turn into a big, crazy bitch" and The Vampire Diaries says to me, "Never let yourself be bitten by a tall, crazy bitch (or dude)." Glee speaks to me in a totally different tone. It says to me, "You can be whatever you want to be as long as you express yourself in upbeat song with a little bit of 'tude." This is my kind of language. Think about it- what part of life wouldn't be better expressed in song? Let's take today for example. I had to teach a totally boring lesson to my juniors regarding future careers. How much fun would they have had if I started the lesson out as normal and then broke into "Tik Tok" to teach them the proper way to get ready for a night on the town and use that night to pick up dudes that look like Mick Jagger? Or, when I was talking to a parent today about one of my students that may not graduate, I could have expressed the student's point of view by breaking out a little "Parents Just Don't Understand" (I'm an advocate for the student, remember). If I could live my life through song and under the influence of 1.5 alcoholic beverages (which I fully intend to make the topic of a blog in the near future), I believe that I would have the perfect existence.
Needless to say, I am ecstatic that Rachel, Finn, Mercedes, Puck, Quinn, Brittany, Santana, Artie, Sue, and Mr. Schuester are back in my home every Tuesday night. If there is any way that I can magically be transformed into a young twenty-something with mad singing and dancing skills who was a shoo-in for a part on that show, please give me the number to that fairy godmother. Until then, I will continue to go to work, talk instead of sing my feelings, and imagine what my life would be like if I lived in the magical world of Glee.
For anyone who knows me well, my obsession with this show is a no-brainer. If you will, take a ride back in time with me through bits of my life. Our first stop, third grade music class. Mr. Cheshier calls me to the front of the room to audition for the solo part in the spring concert and, fast-forward six weeks, I am singing said solo in front of a gym full of people wearing big pink glasses and white stretch pants. A star is born. Fast forward yet again to the fifth grade and I am singing "My Favorite Things" at any venue that will take me- the Corn School variety show, the 4-H Fair Talent Show- you name it, I probably sang there. Fast forward yet again to high school where I weaseled my way in to the Show Choir (after failing to make it after a bad audition in eighth grade) and continued to participate in every musical production created for the Lakeland High School stage between 1995 and 1999. My high school career culminated in winning the lead part of Maria in the Sound of Music which I am not ashamed to say is one of my proudest accomplishments to date. You know, aside from graduating college, getting a job, not failing at life so far, etc. Even my high school boyfriend screams "Glee"...he might as well have been the Jesse St. James of Westview High School and proceeded to graduate and become a huge part of the Purdue Varsity Glee Club. Those were the good ol' days and I loved them. Did I mention that...I wasn't very good at any of the above? That is the great thing about having supportive friends and family- they tell you you're great and you believe them until you can actually see yourself for who you are and realize that you are totally average. But, I digress.
After high school, I tried to find different outlets in my post-secondary education to express my musical desires. There was a brief stint in Intro to Ballroom Dancing, but there were only two dudes in the class and Jess and I ended up dancing with each other most times. It's hard to figure out who's supposed to be leading in a same-sex pair. Then I joined the mother of all college musical undertakings: IU Sing. I was a willing participant my freshman year as a pledge where our awesome songleaders created a mini-musical solely from Billy Joel songs whose plot line centered around Steve the Crocodile Hunter. It was IU Sing GOLD. The next year, my friend Angie and I assumed the roles of house songleaders and wrote the mother of all IU Sing routines, were paired with an awesome house, and were on the fast track to IU Sing infamy. All of this came to an end when the frat we were paired with was kicked off campus mere weeks before the big performance and our act was unable to receive the respect it deserved. It was a devastating time in our lives and I still feel a little emotionally scarred. If anyone is reading this from E! or Lifetime, contact me if you would like the deets to form a True Hollywood Story or a Lifetime Movie of the Week from this experience. I don't discriminate.
Glee has reminded me of my absolute love for music and it is one of those shows that speaks to me. Now, I watch a lot of TV and many shows speak to me in different ways. Like America's Next Top Model speaks to me and says, "Thank God you're not a tall, crazy bitch" and The Biggest Loser speaks to me and says, "Please never let yourself turn into a big, crazy bitch" and The Vampire Diaries says to me, "Never let yourself be bitten by a tall, crazy bitch (or dude)." Glee speaks to me in a totally different tone. It says to me, "You can be whatever you want to be as long as you express yourself in upbeat song with a little bit of 'tude." This is my kind of language. Think about it- what part of life wouldn't be better expressed in song? Let's take today for example. I had to teach a totally boring lesson to my juniors regarding future careers. How much fun would they have had if I started the lesson out as normal and then broke into "Tik Tok" to teach them the proper way to get ready for a night on the town and use that night to pick up dudes that look like Mick Jagger? Or, when I was talking to a parent today about one of my students that may not graduate, I could have expressed the student's point of view by breaking out a little "Parents Just Don't Understand" (I'm an advocate for the student, remember). If I could live my life through song and under the influence of 1.5 alcoholic beverages (which I fully intend to make the topic of a blog in the near future), I believe that I would have the perfect existence.
Needless to say, I am ecstatic that Rachel, Finn, Mercedes, Puck, Quinn, Brittany, Santana, Artie, Sue, and Mr. Schuester are back in my home every Tuesday night. If there is any way that I can magically be transformed into a young twenty-something with mad singing and dancing skills who was a shoo-in for a part on that show, please give me the number to that fairy godmother. Until then, I will continue to go to work, talk instead of sing my feelings, and imagine what my life would be like if I lived in the magical world of Glee.
Monday, April 12, 2010
My Chocolaty Dogs
I love Easter. It is my favorite holiday by far. Call me weird, whatever. First and foremost, I love Easter morning when Spring is in the air and even though we get up at the crack of dawn to go to sunrise service, everyone there is in their pastel frocks and shiny new shoes. Even the bedraggled kids in church are in new clothes and seem sweeter. It is a day of new beginnings and remembering what has been sacrificed for us to be here. Another great part of Easter is the family dinner where it is finally warm enough to play whiffle ball and Uncle Bernard doesn't have to hide the Easter eggs in snow. All in all, it ends up being the perfect day.
You may ask why I am writing about my favorite holiday weeks after it has already happened. The reason for this post today stems from the fact that my most favorite part of Easter, the thing I look forward to most at this time every year, was taken from me today. Worst of all, it was taken from me by the two things (non-human, that is) that I love most in this world...my dogs. This thing they took? MY EASTER CANDY. My beloved marshmallow egg. My awesome carmel egg. My delicious covered pretzel. All. Gone.
Every year that I am home for Easter, my wonderful mother takes on the role of Easter Bunny and gives everyone present on Easter morning their very own Easter basket. This particular year's Easter basket was especially yummy and included Reese's peanut butter eggs, marshmallow bunnies, Peeps, and several unique pieces of candy from LaGrange's local candy factory, Plyley's. I was looking especially forward to this Plyley's candy which is why I had been rationing it and saving it until last to eat. Little did I know that my dogs would go all bloodhound on my ass and grab the bag of candy out of a very secure hiding place and proceed to EAT. IT. ALL. Jerks.
I arrived home from school today and everything seemed normal enough. Both dogs greeted me at the door,happy as ever to see me. Little did I know that they were harboring a dark secret which would soon be revealed. As I walked through the house, I began to see pieces of brightly colored foil covering the floor. That's when I encountered the scene of the crime: our bedroom. There, sitting in the middle of the room, was the large plastic bag which had, until this morning, stored my stash of goodies. In its place was a pack of gum, several Mentos, and a bunch of wrappers. My first thought: "How are my dogs still breathing?" My second thought: "Now I'll never get to taste the sweet goodness that was the rest of my Easter candy!" Seriously a heartbreaking experience. Now, what do I have to look forward to? Instead of sitting in bed, enjoying the sweet flavors of chocolate and carmel mixed together, I have to strain my ears to make sure that my dogs aren't barfing on the couch or dry-heaving in the kitchen. As they sit here and stare at me with those wide, sweet, puppy dog eyes, I can only imagine what they are thinking- "There you go, be-yotch- that's for all the hot dogs, pizza, and hamburgers you never let us have. We enjoyed every minute of your Easter candy and can't wait to screw you over again the next chance we get." So, to Rudy and Zoey, I have this to say, "I love you, but mommy will never forgive you. She will never get back Easter 2010 because of you, and you have that on your consciences. I pity you and your poison-ridden stomachs right now." Hopefully they will be alive in the morning and all of this will end up being a bad memory. Until then, here's to the candy that will never be and the lovely doggy gifts that I will inevitably be cleaning up over the next 24 hours. FML.
You may ask why I am writing about my favorite holiday weeks after it has already happened. The reason for this post today stems from the fact that my most favorite part of Easter, the thing I look forward to most at this time every year, was taken from me today. Worst of all, it was taken from me by the two things (non-human, that is) that I love most in this world...my dogs. This thing they took? MY EASTER CANDY. My beloved marshmallow egg. My awesome carmel egg. My delicious covered pretzel. All. Gone.
Every year that I am home for Easter, my wonderful mother takes on the role of Easter Bunny and gives everyone present on Easter morning their very own Easter basket. This particular year's Easter basket was especially yummy and included Reese's peanut butter eggs, marshmallow bunnies, Peeps, and several unique pieces of candy from LaGrange's local candy factory, Plyley's. I was looking especially forward to this Plyley's candy which is why I had been rationing it and saving it until last to eat. Little did I know that my dogs would go all bloodhound on my ass and grab the bag of candy out of a very secure hiding place and proceed to EAT. IT. ALL. Jerks.
I arrived home from school today and everything seemed normal enough. Both dogs greeted me at the door,happy as ever to see me. Little did I know that they were harboring a dark secret which would soon be revealed. As I walked through the house, I began to see pieces of brightly colored foil covering the floor. That's when I encountered the scene of the crime: our bedroom. There, sitting in the middle of the room, was the large plastic bag which had, until this morning, stored my stash of goodies. In its place was a pack of gum, several Mentos, and a bunch of wrappers. My first thought: "How are my dogs still breathing?" My second thought: "Now I'll never get to taste the sweet goodness that was the rest of my Easter candy!" Seriously a heartbreaking experience. Now, what do I have to look forward to? Instead of sitting in bed, enjoying the sweet flavors of chocolate and carmel mixed together, I have to strain my ears to make sure that my dogs aren't barfing on the couch or dry-heaving in the kitchen. As they sit here and stare at me with those wide, sweet, puppy dog eyes, I can only imagine what they are thinking- "There you go, be-yotch- that's for all the hot dogs, pizza, and hamburgers you never let us have. We enjoyed every minute of your Easter candy and can't wait to screw you over again the next chance we get." So, to Rudy and Zoey, I have this to say, "I love you, but mommy will never forgive you. She will never get back Easter 2010 because of you, and you have that on your consciences. I pity you and your poison-ridden stomachs right now." Hopefully they will be alive in the morning and all of this will end up being a bad memory. Until then, here's to the candy that will never be and the lovely doggy gifts that I will inevitably be cleaning up over the next 24 hours. FML.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Me and My John: The Beginning
I've always thought of myself as a fun-loving yet sensible girl. When I imagined my soulmate, I knew that he had to have a great sense of humor, a good head on his shoulders, and a strong drive to make something of himself. As I dated more and more guys through my early and mid twenties, my ideal version of my soulmate started to twist until, finally, I was ready to date anyone who appeared to have a steady job, wasn't a serious alcoholic, and didn't have a criminal record. I really didn't think that there was anyone out there for me. Then, one fateful night in April, I met my John.
The evening started out innocently enough. My friend Beth had scored two tickets to a Cubs game for that blustery Monday evening and haggled me into going with her. Now, I am never one to turn down a Cubs game because Wrigley is my personal happy place, but I had just been dumped a mere 24 hours earlier and was in no mood to sprint from school, catch the train, put up with the smell for the 47 minute ride only to get off the train, run to grab the red line, and hang on for dear life while the guy behind me cops a feel. On days like that, you breathe a collective sigh of relief when the automated train guy drones "Addison is next." At this point, all you want is a beer and your seat. On this particular day, I succumbed to Beth's pleas and we ran the gamut of what we fondly refer to as "Operation: Get to Wrigley."
Upon reaching the field, Beth and I immediately ordered drinks. It was freezing out, as most late April games are, so we figured that the more we drank the warmer we would get. As we downed beer after beer and the game grew longer and colder, we talked about life and relationships. Beth was on top of the world because she had met a guy in Meijer the night before whom she picked up by telling him that he looked like Mark Prior. Little did we know that four years later, Mr. "Looks Like Mark Prior" would become her husband. I remember thinking how random it is the way people come in and out of our lives. For Beth, she went to the store to find frozen pizza or toilet paper or ice cream and came back with a husband. Every time I go to Meijer I end up with grocery store rage, a belly full of sample foods that I don't want to eat, and magazines that I shouldn't have spent the money on because you can read all of it online for free.
In about the eighth inning, the Cubs were losing. We were tipsy and freezing, so we decided to leave the Friendly Confines for a place a little warmer where the beer was still cold. As we made our way through the stadium, we started to figure out how we would perform the reverse commute home via the South Shore. For any of you familiar with the South Shore Train Line, the longer you stay downtown the less frequently the train comes. By this time, we were looking at a train that left in 60 minutes or one that left 2 1/2 hours later. Though our brains were frozen, we tried to eek out some logic and decided that we could go to Hi-Topps, warm up and have a drink, then start the long, cold journey home. We exited the field and rounded the corner to head to Hi-Topps. To this day, Beth still swears the following took place and although I will not deny it, I also cannot totally confirm it. There is a homeless man that sits in a wheelchair on that side of the stadium and he has no legs. He asks for handouts and usually has a bag of peanuts with him. As we passed this nice man just trying to make a living, he asked us if we could spare any change. Beth started to talk to him and, as she did so, I thought that it would be OK to take his peanuts. I don't have any recollection of this happening, but I did arrive at Hi-Topps with a bag of peanuts in hand. To this day I still see that same man outside of Wrigley and feel like the scum of the Earth for taking his peanuts. Beth brings it up every chance she gets and, who can blame her? I would do the exact. Same. Thing.
When Beth, my newly found peanuts, and I arrived at Hi-Topps we were two of about ten people in there. We had never been to Hi-Topps and were expecting to find some hip, bumpin' joint with lots of cute guys and some good music. Instead, we walked in the door and the bartenders stood bored behind the bar, perking with interest as we arrived. The TVs were blaring with a half dozen different sporting events, and there was a lone table of men in the corner. We stood in the doorway contemplating the scene when Beth took notice to a younger guy standing in the corner talking to the table of dudes we had previously noted. Beth looked at me and said, "That guy's cute" to which I looked him up and down and answered "He looks like a worker." Like, in total disdain. Similar to the way you would say "Oh, you're going to wear that out tonight?" or "She really just went home with him?" What in the holy heck does that mean? The guy was very attractive but was wearing a pair of jeans or tear-away pants (I can't remember which), old looking tennis shoes, and a CAT sweatshirt. This does not a worker make, but my emotional scarring from the previous night's events coupled with the alcohol consumption seemed to have skewed my sense of tactfulness. Regardless of my evaluation and the seemingly dead appearance of Hi-Topps, Beth and I decided to stay.
We made our way over to one of the many empty tables and as we sat down, the waitress immediately brought over two bottles of Miller Lite compliments of the gentlemen in the corner. Beth and I looked at each other and our internal monologue went something like this:
Me: Score, free booze!
Beth: No doubt, good thing because we're broke
Me: Do you think we need to go talk to them to say thanks?
Beth: Nope, let them come to us, we didn't ask for these beers
Me: You're totally right, we should just drink them and not ask any questions. Do you think there are roofies involved?
This conversation took place between the two of us with just a couple of looks and, girls, you know that this conversation happens in some way, shape, or form every time some seemingly random guys buy you and your friend(s) a drink. As we sipped, chatted, and continued to watch the game on TV, the table of guys moved closer to us until it was time to start up the obligatory conversation. You know how that is- you are at a bar, some guys buy you a drink, and then you have to make small talk for ten or fifteen minutes to see if it's worth your time and you can get another drink out of it or if it's time to hightail it to the bathroom, climb out the window, and truck it to the train station before they know you're gone.
Beth and I started to converse with the guys and found out that they were extremely cool. All but "the worker" had gone to college together and, small world, the one guy named Jim (who would later turn out to be the great Coach Martin whom I love dearly) actually graduated from Beth's high school. These guys were able to get together every so often and had roped "the worker", my future husband John, into coming with them. As the time passed, John and I sat down together and started conversing. In great John Terry style, he informed me that he was dressed like a bum today and that his normal pimptacular clothes were at home. You see, he had just returned from Miami and had been coerced into coming to the game under the premise that he wouldn't have to pay for anything. I didn't really know what to make of him at first and was not really in the mindset to be future-husband fishing.
As we continued to talk, Beth and I missed the second to last train of the evening and were resigned (quite happily) to staying for another hour and a half before having to leave. In the course of that conversation, I found out that John was a teacher, that his family lived in Hammond which was just ten minutes from where I was currently living, and that he correctly identified my shoes as "ballet flats." Questionable. He also informed me that he was the Cubs', Miami Heat's, and Shaq's biggest fan in the whole wide world. He asked me if I was a Miami Heat fan and to that I responded, "Sure." It's not that I'm not a fan, it's just that I could care less about the Miami Heat than I could about flying squirrels or how toilet paper is made. He must have taken that as his in, because he casually mentioned that he was going to be in Schererville on Thursday that week to catch the playoff game with his friend and wanted to know if I wanted to meet them there. I responded just as casually that I would, not thinking anything of it. He left soon after and Beth and I made the long, even more tipsy trek back home to Northwest Indiana- Beth knowing that she had put my number in John's phone, me knowing that there was no way I would be going to school the next day.
As morning dawned, it was even more apparent that I would not be going to work. The combination of emotional upheaval and Hi-Topps fun had taken a toll on me and I planned on staying in bed the whole day. The phone rang for the first time at a little after 9:30 and my best friend and future roommate Betty was on the other end. She was calling to inquire about my emotional state and to see if I needed anything. I told her that I appreciated the thought and that I was fine. I would call her later that day. After hanging up, I went directly back to bed.
At a little past three, the phone rang again and, again ,it was Betty. Her call had taken on a much different purpose since the morning because her voice had changed from concern to excitement. That conversation went something like this:
Betty: "You didn't tell me that you met a GUY last night! Beth just told me all about it!"
Me: "Huh? What? I did? Oh, wait, yeah, I guess I did."
Betty: "What was his name?"
Me: "John? I think?"
Betty: "Was it John TERRY?"
Me: "Uh, yeah, the guy with two first names, yeah, that was it. He asked me to go out with him."
Betty: "THAT WAS MY FREAKING PRE-CAL TEACHER MR. TERRY!!! I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU MET MR. TERRY AT A BAR AND YOU ARE GOING TO GO OUT ON A DATE WITH HIM!"
Me: "This is too much to process- I gotta go"
...or something like that. The fact that John was Betty's former teacher was just too much to take in at that point. Little did I know that the next few days would end my dating days forever and take me on to a whole new chapter of my life full of adventure and the promise of new experiences, new friends, and new beginnings.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Currently I Am Obsessed With...
...Pregnancy. Am I pregnant? No. Do I want to be pregnant? Sure....some day...I think. Am I over-the-top, all-consumed, overly interested in people and shows who are or display stories about pregnancy? Absolutely. I have decided to admit this new (well, really, it's not so new but has been growing stronger in the past weeks) because I was reminded of just how ridiculous it has become after receiving a text message from my best friend Jess this afternoon. Instead of exercising like I should have been doing, I was snuggling with my puppies enjoying a late afternoon snooze when the familiar "ding, ding" of my phone interrupted my slumber and I awoke to a message from Jess that read, "Do you watch Giuliana and Bill or E! News?" My reply was not "Yes" or "Why?" It was, "OMG, yes! Is she pregnant??" Now, in my defense, I have spent the past year watching the first two seasons of Giuliana and Bill Rancic's reality show which centers around their marriage and quest to get pregnant, but the thought of her being with child made me ecstatic. Like she's one of my dearest friends and my happiness depends on her baring a child.
Re-dic-u-lous. My further obsession with the Rancics and my master plan to stalk them in Chicago this summer, meet them, come off as totally normal, and make them my and John's new best friends is another blog post entirely. I need to stick to the subject at hand and leave my undying love for G and B for another time.
Even though I am 29 years old, I have acquired much of my knowledge regarding being pregnant from the MTV phenomenon 16 and Pregnant. Not A Baby Story or something equally as grown up- I am staying true to my soul and sticking to what I know best which are TV shows that aim to hit the females age 13-24 bracket. I don't know what it is about 16 and Pregnant that keeps me glued to the TV. Part of me thinks that I watch it because it gives me hope- if these girls can do it with no job, no man, and no common sense, than an educated, married, fairly well-off woman like myself with a wonderful husband who will be a great father should be able to do it...right? RIGHT? When I see these girls and their ever-growing bellies stuffed under Hello Kitty tank tops or their cheerleading uniforms I can't help but think, "Boy, I am at a much better point in my life than they are. What are am I waiting for?" It really chokes me up when they have a fight with their baby daddy over such important topics as him meeting other girls for ice cream at McDonald's or his inexplicable need to work on his monster truck instead of rubbing their young partner's feet or making them a peanut butter and jelly. I also can't believe the strong emotional reaction I have when their babies are actually born. You would think that I was the baby's godmother or something. As each show comes to an end and MTV forces the girls to sit in front of the camera and cry about how they would take everything back if they could, I can't help but wonder how their kids are going to feel when they watch that very tape 16 years from now and realize that not only their mother but the whole world thought that, at the time, their very existence was not only a colossal mistake but a learning tool for the youth (and the not-so-youthful) of America.
Another reason that I seem to be obsessed with pregnancy is that some of my nearest and dearest friends have had children recently and I see how they are the most AMAZING mothers ever. I had no doubt they would be- they are awesome friends and motherhood just seemed to come naturally to them. We had a great weekend together not too long ago where we spent the entirety of Friday night downing drinks and talking about conception, pregnancy, and birth. It was like a no-holds-barred Health class with alcohol. Five years ago, every single one of us sitting around that table would have looked at each other and said "We're talking about having BABIES? Chug your beer and call a cab- we're goin' to the bars!" which just goes to show how much things change in such a short period of time. This particular conversation focused a lot on what happens during the birthing process and the possible ripping, tearing, and defecating that can sometimes be involved at that time. That should be enough to scare anyone away, right? Not me. I was on the edge of my seat looking at my friends like they were George Clooney, hanging on EVERY WORD. Pooping while delivering my precious child? Sure! Bring it on! Meanwhile, our husbands were on the couches inching the volume on their active game of Wii Bowling up higher and higher to drown out the sounds of our discussion. The comforting thing to know is that, if one day I find myself with child, I know that I have fantastic friends that will help me through it and I can one day proudly join them in the Mommy Club.
Speaking of the Mommy Club, it is inevitable that once you become pregnant with a child, you usually end up having to raise it too. I think that's part of the deal. I have visions in my head of rocking a baby to sleep in my non-existent wooden glider, singing lullabies to him or her and watching them sleep while the moon shines softly on their perfect, round face. I also have visions of me, hair standing up every-which-way, haggard with no sleep, trying to get the little monster to eat while he or she screams his or her brains out while the neighbors knock on our door and threaten to call DCFS on us. Fast forward a few years and I see us having a little four year old who just says "the darndest things" to the delight of everyone around, looks cute in his or her Sunday best, and always has a hug and kiss for mommy and daddy. The opposite vision is a four year old who says "the darndest things" to the fat lady in the grocery store, falls in puddles face first in his or her Sunday best, and throws tantrums at the most inopportune times to the embarrassment of mommy and daddy. Finally, as my pretend fetus approaches graduation, I see him or her as the star of the basketball team, on their way to IU (or anywhere but Purdue) and thanking us for all of the time and attention we gave to him/her. Or...getting a call from the principal (again) because our kid was caught dealing pot in school (again), taping their very own episode of 16 and Pregnant, and finally scoring a part-time job and Johnny's Tap so that we can visit them "whenever we want." The thought of parenthood is scary! I am sure that everyone experiences a big, fat mixture of the scenarios above, but it sure makes me wonder how I ended up OK. What magic guide did my parents read to make sure that I didn't drink or do drugs or drop out of school? I only hope that whatever it was, my mom has it stored somewhere along with her wedding dress or my baptismal gown and is just "waiting for the right time" to give it to me. Time will (hopefully) tell.
Here ends my rant about my latest obsession. I am sure that it will not wane but only grow stronger until something newer and cooler comes along. Until then, you can find me with a pint of Rocky Road, bawling over 16 and Pregnant which will hopefully hold me over until Jersey Shore returns in July. Maybe my dreams will come true and J-Woww will become pregnant this season and two of my MTV faves will combine to become one: Spray Tanned and Pregnant....anyone?
Re-dic-u-lous. My further obsession with the Rancics and my master plan to stalk them in Chicago this summer, meet them, come off as totally normal, and make them my and John's new best friends is another blog post entirely. I need to stick to the subject at hand and leave my undying love for G and B for another time.
Even though I am 29 years old, I have acquired much of my knowledge regarding being pregnant from the MTV phenomenon 16 and Pregnant. Not A Baby Story or something equally as grown up- I am staying true to my soul and sticking to what I know best which are TV shows that aim to hit the females age 13-24 bracket. I don't know what it is about 16 and Pregnant that keeps me glued to the TV. Part of me thinks that I watch it because it gives me hope- if these girls can do it with no job, no man, and no common sense, than an educated, married, fairly well-off woman like myself with a wonderful husband who will be a great father should be able to do it...right? RIGHT? When I see these girls and their ever-growing bellies stuffed under Hello Kitty tank tops or their cheerleading uniforms I can't help but think, "Boy, I am at a much better point in my life than they are. What are am I waiting for?" It really chokes me up when they have a fight with their baby daddy over such important topics as him meeting other girls for ice cream at McDonald's or his inexplicable need to work on his monster truck instead of rubbing their young partner's feet or making them a peanut butter and jelly. I also can't believe the strong emotional reaction I have when their babies are actually born. You would think that I was the baby's godmother or something. As each show comes to an end and MTV forces the girls to sit in front of the camera and cry about how they would take everything back if they could, I can't help but wonder how their kids are going to feel when they watch that very tape 16 years from now and realize that not only their mother but the whole world thought that, at the time, their very existence was not only a colossal mistake but a learning tool for the youth (and the not-so-youthful) of America.
Another reason that I seem to be obsessed with pregnancy is that some of my nearest and dearest friends have had children recently and I see how they are the most AMAZING mothers ever. I had no doubt they would be- they are awesome friends and motherhood just seemed to come naturally to them. We had a great weekend together not too long ago where we spent the entirety of Friday night downing drinks and talking about conception, pregnancy, and birth. It was like a no-holds-barred Health class with alcohol. Five years ago, every single one of us sitting around that table would have looked at each other and said "We're talking about having BABIES? Chug your beer and call a cab- we're goin' to the bars!" which just goes to show how much things change in such a short period of time. This particular conversation focused a lot on what happens during the birthing process and the possible ripping, tearing, and defecating that can sometimes be involved at that time. That should be enough to scare anyone away, right? Not me. I was on the edge of my seat looking at my friends like they were George Clooney, hanging on EVERY WORD. Pooping while delivering my precious child? Sure! Bring it on! Meanwhile, our husbands were on the couches inching the volume on their active game of Wii Bowling up higher and higher to drown out the sounds of our discussion. The comforting thing to know is that, if one day I find myself with child, I know that I have fantastic friends that will help me through it and I can one day proudly join them in the Mommy Club.
Speaking of the Mommy Club, it is inevitable that once you become pregnant with a child, you usually end up having to raise it too. I think that's part of the deal. I have visions in my head of rocking a baby to sleep in my non-existent wooden glider, singing lullabies to him or her and watching them sleep while the moon shines softly on their perfect, round face. I also have visions of me, hair standing up every-which-way, haggard with no sleep, trying to get the little monster to eat while he or she screams his or her brains out while the neighbors knock on our door and threaten to call DCFS on us. Fast forward a few years and I see us having a little four year old who just says "the darndest things" to the delight of everyone around, looks cute in his or her Sunday best, and always has a hug and kiss for mommy and daddy. The opposite vision is a four year old who says "the darndest things" to the fat lady in the grocery store, falls in puddles face first in his or her Sunday best, and throws tantrums at the most inopportune times to the embarrassment of mommy and daddy. Finally, as my pretend fetus approaches graduation, I see him or her as the star of the basketball team, on their way to IU (or anywhere but Purdue) and thanking us for all of the time and attention we gave to him/her. Or...getting a call from the principal (again) because our kid was caught dealing pot in school (again), taping their very own episode of 16 and Pregnant, and finally scoring a part-time job and Johnny's Tap so that we can visit them "whenever we want." The thought of parenthood is scary! I am sure that everyone experiences a big, fat mixture of the scenarios above, but it sure makes me wonder how I ended up OK. What magic guide did my parents read to make sure that I didn't drink or do drugs or drop out of school? I only hope that whatever it was, my mom has it stored somewhere along with her wedding dress or my baptismal gown and is just "waiting for the right time" to give it to me. Time will (hopefully) tell.
Here ends my rant about my latest obsession. I am sure that it will not wane but only grow stronger until something newer and cooler comes along. Until then, you can find me with a pint of Rocky Road, bawling over 16 and Pregnant which will hopefully hold me over until Jersey Shore returns in July. Maybe my dreams will come true and J-Woww will become pregnant this season and two of my MTV faves will combine to become one: Spray Tanned and Pregnant....anyone?
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
"No Wonder My Mom Complains"
The introduction to this post is a line uttered by one of the many freshmen students I contended with during our annual Reality Store which occurred at the fine establishment that I must attend every day to do a lot of work for a little paycheck. This said establishment is a high school and I am a high school guidance counselor or, excuse me, a "professional school counselor" as the state of Indiana would like us (and all others who care) to refer to ourselves when discussing our occupation. What is Reality Store you may ask? It is a one day event that takes months (and months, and MONTHS) of planning so that our freshman can run around our fieldhouse and use pretend funds to purchase pretend necessities in the hopes that they will have some idea of how to develop into a functioning adult-type person in the next few years. Translation: they pick the biggest house, fastest car, laugh about going broke, and fill out a survey that basically says "This whole thing sucked and you shouldn't have wasted your time." Ahh, freshmen, always keeping me on my toes. During this experience, one particularly bright young lady was in the middle of purchasing her grocery plan when she came to the epiphany which became the very title of this particular post. She was trying to decide between the "moderate" meal plan (ground chuck, some vegetables, and maybe a National Enquirer if the cover is good) and the "luxury" meal plan (sirloin, shrimp cocktail, and an upgrade to Us Weekly) when it suddenly dawned on her- her mother actually has to PAY for her to eat. She has to pay a lot. Like $500 a month. The moment I saw this realization hit her and she opened her mouth to say, "No wonder my mom complains" and followed it up with, "Maybe this is what I am supposed to learn here today" I about fell off my chair and actually thought to myself at least I taught one person something today. I'm not going to say that this one student made the whole experience worth the hours of organizing and planning, but it did hit a nerve which also prompted me to start writing this blog.
Watching this one student realize that her charmed existence as a leech to her parents will one day cease to exist made me wonder when my "moment of clarity" happened. Was it when my parents dumped me in my door room with twenty bucks and a "Have fun" as they ran for the car or when I realized that I couldn't phone home for more money simply because I wanted to go to the bars? I wish I could say that it happened in high school, but I don't think it did. I think I always just expected my parents to give me things when I needed them because, well, that was their job, right? I never got in trouble, got good grades, didn't get pregnant, and admitted to them the ONE TIME I went to a party where there was alcohol (which I left in order to get ice cream) which means that I held up my end of the deal. To me, this meant that I should be allowed to see my boyfriend, receive money for Subway on a bi-weekly basis, and go through life without a care. Sure they made me have sucky jobs, but that was part of the deal. Maybe if I would have had a Reality Store experience I would have realized that life wouldn't be so easy "on my own"; maybe I am blissfully grateful that I didn't have to find out until later.
Since today's theme was "Reality" it really got me thinking- do I really want to be a school counselor all my life? My initial reaction is "Are you crazy? Heck NO!" but the even more overwhelming fact is that I have no idea what I would be if I could be anything. Wait. I take that back. I would be a broadway performer or anyone on Glee or a cast member of the Hills (during the Lauren Conrad Era, post-Heidi fight, pre-living with Audrina and Lo)...something in that vein. Since Hollywood is not beating down my door, I need to explore more "realistic" options. I was having this very "what to be when we grow up" discussion with a few of my co-workers today and every one of them did not disagree that I shouldn't stick with my current profession for the rest of my life. I didn't know whether to be flattered or offended. Should I take that as "You are so totally good at your job that you should definitely follow your dreams and do something that you find totally fulfilling" or "You secretly really blow at this and you should find new work. Immediately." They are all too nice to tell me to my face, so I guess I will have to figure all of this out on my own. Until I do, I will continue being as efficient and kick-ass as I can be in my current profession and hope that, one day, my fairy godmother will knock on my door and offer me my own reality show. I'll let you know how that goes.
Watching this one student realize that her charmed existence as a leech to her parents will one day cease to exist made me wonder when my "moment of clarity" happened. Was it when my parents dumped me in my door room with twenty bucks and a "Have fun" as they ran for the car or when I realized that I couldn't phone home for more money simply because I wanted to go to the bars? I wish I could say that it happened in high school, but I don't think it did. I think I always just expected my parents to give me things when I needed them because, well, that was their job, right? I never got in trouble, got good grades, didn't get pregnant, and admitted to them the ONE TIME I went to a party where there was alcohol (which I left in order to get ice cream) which means that I held up my end of the deal. To me, this meant that I should be allowed to see my boyfriend, receive money for Subway on a bi-weekly basis, and go through life without a care. Sure they made me have sucky jobs, but that was part of the deal. Maybe if I would have had a Reality Store experience I would have realized that life wouldn't be so easy "on my own"; maybe I am blissfully grateful that I didn't have to find out until later.
Since today's theme was "Reality" it really got me thinking- do I really want to be a school counselor all my life? My initial reaction is "Are you crazy? Heck NO!" but the even more overwhelming fact is that I have no idea what I would be if I could be anything. Wait. I take that back. I would be a broadway performer or anyone on Glee or a cast member of the Hills (during the Lauren Conrad Era, post-Heidi fight, pre-living with Audrina and Lo)...something in that vein. Since Hollywood is not beating down my door, I need to explore more "realistic" options. I was having this very "what to be when we grow up" discussion with a few of my co-workers today and every one of them did not disagree that I shouldn't stick with my current profession for the rest of my life. I didn't know whether to be flattered or offended. Should I take that as "You are so totally good at your job that you should definitely follow your dreams and do something that you find totally fulfilling" or "You secretly really blow at this and you should find new work. Immediately." They are all too nice to tell me to my face, so I guess I will have to figure all of this out on my own. Until I do, I will continue being as efficient and kick-ass as I can be in my current profession and hope that, one day, my fairy godmother will knock on my door and offer me my own reality show. I'll let you know how that goes.
Your Name is WHAT? Yeah, I Get That a Lot.
Apparently, writing a blog is the "new, hip" thing to do. By me saying that it is "new and hip" it means that people have been doing it since 1999 and I am just now catching on. I love to read other people's blogs- my friend Betty has one that is really fun which prompted me to read her friends' blogs and their friends' blogs until I realized that I was reading fun stuff about people that I DON'T EVEN KNOW. Friends of mine have been telling me that I need to write a blog. I am not so sure what people find exceptionally exciting about my life (did you just READ the paragraph above? I am an underpaid SCHOOL COUNSELOR for crying out loud, not Angelina Jole (read: homewrecker) or Lauren Conrad (read: my pretend best friend) but I like to write and maybe some people will find my life as interesting as I find so many other strangers' lives in the world. As long as we're getting to know each other, I might as well tell you a little more about me. Mainly because this is my blog and if you're still reading then you must want to know. Here we go.
Yes, my name is "Chrisanne," not "Christine" or "Chrissy." Do you know how hard it is having an "unusual" name? I'm surprised I don't have emotional issues from dealing with it through my childhood. My kindergarten PE teacher tormented me by calling my "Chrissy Annie" EVERY. FREAKING. DAY. Every day I would correct him and he would just look at me like, "You're FIVE. I can READ. Your name is right here on this attendance roster. What do you know?" The sick part of this was that he was also my seventh grade PE teacher and he did the same thing. My frustration at this did not shrink in those 8 years, just like his ability to read did not improve. I got through it, though, along with the fact that my elementary art teacher called me "Candy Anne" just to annoy me and every teacher I ever had would read my name on the first day of school, look at me, and ask "Do you go by Chris?" To which I would politely reply "No, Chrisanne is fine" when I really wanted to say, "Look. Chrisanne is not THAT hard to spell, say, or remember. You don't hear me just calling you "Mr-or-Miss-with-no-last-name", do you?" Fast forward to college and the never-ending quest to find a good guy in the food court/frat house/arboretum/bar/ which always led to the inevitable introduction. Try telling a guy over pounding music and a good beer buzz "Hi, my name is Chrisanne" to which they reply "Huh? Christine?" Every. Time. One guy that I dated went home for spring break and told his dad that he was dating me and his dad asked him if I had all my teeth. Classy. That relationship didn't last long. I won't say why, but I will say that it involved him and a Theta in a compromising position while I wasn't around. At this point in my life, I have learned to embrace the name in a way that people named "Shithead" may never fully be able to do. I appreciate it for the fact that it is unique and that it stems from the names of both my grandma and my grandpa Miller (not Walter, which would have culminated in the name Bo-Ned) so I have learned to go with and will make darn sure that I keep track of all of my teeth for the rest of my life.
Here are some other necessary details: I am a 29 year old guidance counselor currently living in Northwest Indiana. I grew up in a small town called Howe which has three gas stations, one stoplight, and the best friggin' ice cream parlor I have ever been to. Said parlor is named Happiness is Ice Cream which is the lamest name for the most awesome ice cream shop ever created. I remember when the place opened when I was in fourth grade and I thought to myself "What a stupid name. It doesn't even make sense. I'm never eating there." To which the owners of "Happiness is Ice Cream" said, "Well, Chrisanne, joke's on you." The place is amazeballs. Anyways, I have a mother and a father (as most people do at some point in their lives) who are totally awesome and a pretty cool younger brother who is far more successful and funny than I will ever be. My mom's side of the family is Amish which means that we did not have electricity until I was 13 and I rode a horse to school every day. Kidding....but people really do buy that when I tell them- especially these "city folk" I live around now. I moved to Northwest Indiana for my job and had to stay because I met my husband, John, at a Cubs game and we married in 2009. Anyone who knows "Chrisanne and John" personally knows that John is a "character" to say the least and if this blog is updated regularly I am sure that there will be a lot of John included. We currently live in a small house with our two dogs and may or may not be thinking of expanding our family in the next few....weeks? Months? Years? Time will tell.
That's a little about me. For those of you who already know me, this is not new information. I wish I had something more exciting to tell you but, the truth is, this is me and this is my little corner of the blogosphere- visit never or visit often...that choice is totally up to you.
Yes, my name is "Chrisanne," not "Christine" or "Chrissy." Do you know how hard it is having an "unusual" name? I'm surprised I don't have emotional issues from dealing with it through my childhood. My kindergarten PE teacher tormented me by calling my "Chrissy Annie" EVERY. FREAKING. DAY. Every day I would correct him and he would just look at me like, "You're FIVE. I can READ. Your name is right here on this attendance roster. What do you know?" The sick part of this was that he was also my seventh grade PE teacher and he did the same thing. My frustration at this did not shrink in those 8 years, just like his ability to read did not improve. I got through it, though, along with the fact that my elementary art teacher called me "Candy Anne" just to annoy me and every teacher I ever had would read my name on the first day of school, look at me, and ask "Do you go by Chris?" To which I would politely reply "No, Chrisanne is fine" when I really wanted to say, "Look. Chrisanne is not THAT hard to spell, say, or remember. You don't hear me just calling you "Mr-or-Miss-with-no-last-name", do you?" Fast forward to college and the never-ending quest to find a good guy in the food court/frat house/arboretum/bar/ which always led to the inevitable introduction. Try telling a guy over pounding music and a good beer buzz "Hi, my name is Chrisanne" to which they reply "Huh? Christine?" Every. Time. One guy that I dated went home for spring break and told his dad that he was dating me and his dad asked him if I had all my teeth. Classy. That relationship didn't last long. I won't say why, but I will say that it involved him and a Theta in a compromising position while I wasn't around. At this point in my life, I have learned to embrace the name in a way that people named "Shithead" may never fully be able to do. I appreciate it for the fact that it is unique and that it stems from the names of both my grandma and my grandpa Miller (not Walter, which would have culminated in the name Bo-Ned) so I have learned to go with and will make darn sure that I keep track of all of my teeth for the rest of my life.
Here are some other necessary details: I am a 29 year old guidance counselor currently living in Northwest Indiana. I grew up in a small town called Howe which has three gas stations, one stoplight, and the best friggin' ice cream parlor I have ever been to. Said parlor is named Happiness is Ice Cream which is the lamest name for the most awesome ice cream shop ever created. I remember when the place opened when I was in fourth grade and I thought to myself "What a stupid name. It doesn't even make sense. I'm never eating there." To which the owners of "Happiness is Ice Cream" said, "Well, Chrisanne, joke's on you." The place is amazeballs. Anyways, I have a mother and a father (as most people do at some point in their lives) who are totally awesome and a pretty cool younger brother who is far more successful and funny than I will ever be. My mom's side of the family is Amish which means that we did not have electricity until I was 13 and I rode a horse to school every day. Kidding....but people really do buy that when I tell them- especially these "city folk" I live around now. I moved to Northwest Indiana for my job and had to stay because I met my husband, John, at a Cubs game and we married in 2009. Anyone who knows "Chrisanne and John" personally knows that John is a "character" to say the least and if this blog is updated regularly I am sure that there will be a lot of John included. We currently live in a small house with our two dogs and may or may not be thinking of expanding our family in the next few....weeks? Months? Years? Time will tell.
That's a little about me. For those of you who already know me, this is not new information. I wish I had something more exciting to tell you but, the truth is, this is me and this is my little corner of the blogosphere- visit never or visit often...that choice is totally up to you.
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