March 15, 2010
• Frasier and Niles Crane were the first metrosexuals.
• If you’re vegan and don’t eat eggs, would you be hypocritical if you were pro-choice?
• Toothbrushes keep getting bigger and more ergonomically designed but decorative holders have the same size holes.
• Are people who constantly think the world is going to end suicidal?
• There is nothing quite as awesome as being the first one into a jar of peanut butter. (This is not wisdom; it’s just my personal observation.)
• Sometimes the grass on the other side might be greener. That’s because it’s astro-turf.
• Have you ever seen a blue raspberry? No? Then why is it a candy and slushy flavor? Who decided that was the red fruit that had to change its color?
• I love that people don’t want to eat hot dogs and bologna because it’s “gross,” but eat honey. You know that’s bee vomit?
• The best way to get rid of Jehovah’s Witnesses is not to say you’re Jewish or Atheist, but be knowledgeable and play “stump the witness.” If you’re not polite though, I suggest buying the Satanic Bible.
• I like the idea of a remote whistle to find my lost keys. But if I can’t find my keys, what makes you think I won’t lose a whistle?
• If I say the day we are born we start dying, am I pessimistic or realistic?
• Sometimes I turn the volume up on foreign films so I can read the subtitles better.
• A disposable aluminum pan is still technically a metal pan.
• A duvet cover is the same thing as a comforter cover. The package only says “comforter cover” because associates were tired of explaining “duvet” to customers.
• Do parents who want their children to become doctors ever properly teach them how to write?
Monday, March 22, 2010
Dear Freud, Do you Have a Minute?
March 14, 2010
Last night I dreamed I had a battle of wits with Brian Williams. My friends Ashley and Kevin were there to help at a Speedway gas station in front of a Publix grocery store.
I remember pumping the gas, but don’t remember what car it was.
Brian Williams had a convertible that reminded me of a toy I once had. My Barbie rode in style in her light aqua blue convertible with pink interior.
Kevin said something clever and Brian Williams stood dumbfounded.
“See! I told you he’s nothing without his writers!” Kevin ended his input of the debate and walked off towards Publix. It was quite defiant.
“He did that the last time they talked too,” Ashley explains to me and then turns back to Brian.
I hate that I don’t remember all the lines of the debate. I just know my side won.
Last night I dreamed I had a battle of wits with Brian Williams. My friends Ashley and Kevin were there to help at a Speedway gas station in front of a Publix grocery store.
I remember pumping the gas, but don’t remember what car it was.
Brian Williams had a convertible that reminded me of a toy I once had. My Barbie rode in style in her light aqua blue convertible with pink interior.
Kevin said something clever and Brian Williams stood dumbfounded.
“See! I told you he’s nothing without his writers!” Kevin ended his input of the debate and walked off towards Publix. It was quite defiant.
“He did that the last time they talked too,” Ashley explains to me and then turns back to Brian.
I hate that I don’t remember all the lines of the debate. I just know my side won.
Thoughts While Channel Surfing
March 13, 2010
There’s a best of Ed Sullivan from the sixties on PBS.
Currently it’s Petunia Clark. She looks like she’s having seizures when singing “Downtown.”
I’ve decided the lead singer of the Four Seasons has a better range than Mariah Carey.
I think it’s funny that I don’t understand the meaning behind many of my favorite songs. I think if I knew, I might like them less.
My dad used to answer us with song lyrics.
“Dad can I have some ice cream?”
“You can’t eat your puddin’ if you don’t eat your meat!”
“Dad can I have that toy?”
“You don’t always get what you want….” When we learned, we finished this before he could.
“But if you try sometime….”
“You get what you need.”
This inevitably left us toy-less; however, if we were clever enough we might get a cherry soda.
I don’t remember what would start it but we also heard, “How come my dog don’t bark when you come around?” I think I heard this one night when my brother or I came home late after curfew.
If someone bullied you, you needed to “get a pearl handle, double edge, hollow ground, super blue blade, adjustable, stainless steel, honed edge, both blades on the same side so when I cut you once, you gonna bleed twice.” (This was paraphrased often.)
Dinner usually contained a “rubber biscuit?!” The Kinks were present for cups of tea and alcohol.
I even remember having an afternoon daycare tutor that we sand too for help.
“Rhonda, help, help me Rhonda.”
I don’t remember listening to Beach Boys then and I’m certain they weren’t still on the radio. I’ll blame Dad.
So, when he called me in college one time I don’t think he was surprised at my reply.
“When you coming home Allie?”
“Dad, I don’t know when.”
“But we’ll get together then?”
It’s weird that music played such an important role in my life and I’m now in a relationship with a slightly more ignorant – musically speaking – person.
“What do you like?”
“Not crap.”
His favorite bands include Misfits and Tool. He’s also a big fan of Dimmu Borgir, Rammstein, Otep, Apocalyptica, Stabbing Westward, Cradle of Filth, Metallica, H.I.M., and Dragon Force. He’ll listen to a Lynyrd Skynyrd album on occasion. He has Pink Floyd’s, The Wall and because of friends we’ve lost, he listens to Johnny Cash. For some unknown reason he’ll listen to Lilly Allen with me. I can only assume it’s because of the funny lyrics. He likes Greenday and No Doubt, but refuses to say he likes anything remotely punk. When I was a DJ, he’d ask me to play “that Flock of Seagulls song about the use your love or something.” (The song’s is by The Outfield.)
I enjoy most of what he listens to, but when I suggest music along the same lines, he tends to disapprove and say it sounds nothing like it. Maybe I don’t music as mush as I think I do?
I have a picture I started one year of a woman dancing. She wears a white tank, red skirt, and bandana. My own style of patterns and doodles in marker covers the entire picture. In the background, I started writing the lyrics to the soundtrack or my life. It’s not finished. The first song is one of the first I remember trying to learn the lyrics. There may have been favorites before then, but my memory’s that good. I had a white tape with “Kid’s Songs” on it. When I learned how to fast forward, it was to “The Bear Necessities.” My dad made it seem like such a profound song even before I understood what profound meant.
Still watching Ed Sullivan show.
It’s an odd concept to think “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction” was raunchy at one time.
I’m really just waiting to see SNL with Jude Law and Pearl Jam. I know the skits have gone down hill significantly in the last few years, but I still like the music parts. It forces one hit wonders to actually play another song. It’s hard for me to spend money on an artist if they bomb on SNL.
It’s too bad PBS has to ruin good programming with asking for money. When I win the lottery, I’ll throw a little their way.
Does anyone know why the bird is the word? I’m hoping seeing the band perform it might answer that.
“Good Lovin’” is now ruined for me. I’m not sure about the Rascals’ outfits of, well, I guess you’d call them knickers? But I guess if they’re named after the Little Rascals the smaller pants and little ties with blouses is clever.
The Supremes’ hairdos remind me of a girl I work with at the mall. By the way, does anyone know if Ross is intentionally missing an earring?
A dog inspired “Good Vibrations.” I’m learning so much tonight. Brian Wilson said his mom told him “Dogs know a good guy from a bad guy by their vibrations.”
I’ve about decided the biggest hits in music are either inspired by love/lust or something just plain ridiculously weird. Remember “Nice to Know You” by Incubus? He said it was about his arm falling asleep while on an airplane. Another weird one about a plane trip would be Filter’s one hit “Take a Picture.” He drank too much and ran around the plane naked on a bet. I bet you’ll now search for those lyrics.
I feel Sly and the Family Stone deserves respect. You don’t have to like, love, or hate them. I just think you should respect what they did for music and culture at the time. With that said, I only listen to them at weddings and when I used to DJ. More often than not I change the station when they some on the radio.
Watching the Doors makes me think Val Kilmer peaked early in his career. I still think Jim Morrison and Madmartigan were his best roles, aside from Batman of course.
SNL is on, and it’s been longer than thirty minutes of typing.
There’s a best of Ed Sullivan from the sixties on PBS.
Currently it’s Petunia Clark. She looks like she’s having seizures when singing “Downtown.”
I’ve decided the lead singer of the Four Seasons has a better range than Mariah Carey.
I think it’s funny that I don’t understand the meaning behind many of my favorite songs. I think if I knew, I might like them less.
My dad used to answer us with song lyrics.
“Dad can I have some ice cream?”
“You can’t eat your puddin’ if you don’t eat your meat!”
“Dad can I have that toy?”
“You don’t always get what you want….” When we learned, we finished this before he could.
“But if you try sometime….”
“You get what you need.”
This inevitably left us toy-less; however, if we were clever enough we might get a cherry soda.
I don’t remember what would start it but we also heard, “How come my dog don’t bark when you come around?” I think I heard this one night when my brother or I came home late after curfew.
If someone bullied you, you needed to “get a pearl handle, double edge, hollow ground, super blue blade, adjustable, stainless steel, honed edge, both blades on the same side so when I cut you once, you gonna bleed twice.” (This was paraphrased often.)
Dinner usually contained a “rubber biscuit?!” The Kinks were present for cups of tea and alcohol.
I even remember having an afternoon daycare tutor that we sand too for help.
“Rhonda, help, help me Rhonda.”
I don’t remember listening to Beach Boys then and I’m certain they weren’t still on the radio. I’ll blame Dad.
So, when he called me in college one time I don’t think he was surprised at my reply.
“When you coming home Allie?”
“Dad, I don’t know when.”
“But we’ll get together then?”
It’s weird that music played such an important role in my life and I’m now in a relationship with a slightly more ignorant – musically speaking – person.
“What do you like?”
“Not crap.”
His favorite bands include Misfits and Tool. He’s also a big fan of Dimmu Borgir, Rammstein, Otep, Apocalyptica, Stabbing Westward, Cradle of Filth, Metallica, H.I.M., and Dragon Force. He’ll listen to a Lynyrd Skynyrd album on occasion. He has Pink Floyd’s, The Wall and because of friends we’ve lost, he listens to Johnny Cash. For some unknown reason he’ll listen to Lilly Allen with me. I can only assume it’s because of the funny lyrics. He likes Greenday and No Doubt, but refuses to say he likes anything remotely punk. When I was a DJ, he’d ask me to play “that Flock of Seagulls song about the use your love or something.” (The song’s is by The Outfield.)
I enjoy most of what he listens to, but when I suggest music along the same lines, he tends to disapprove and say it sounds nothing like it. Maybe I don’t music as mush as I think I do?
I have a picture I started one year of a woman dancing. She wears a white tank, red skirt, and bandana. My own style of patterns and doodles in marker covers the entire picture. In the background, I started writing the lyrics to the soundtrack or my life. It’s not finished. The first song is one of the first I remember trying to learn the lyrics. There may have been favorites before then, but my memory’s that good. I had a white tape with “Kid’s Songs” on it. When I learned how to fast forward, it was to “The Bear Necessities.” My dad made it seem like such a profound song even before I understood what profound meant.
Still watching Ed Sullivan show.
It’s an odd concept to think “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction” was raunchy at one time.
I’m really just waiting to see SNL with Jude Law and Pearl Jam. I know the skits have gone down hill significantly in the last few years, but I still like the music parts. It forces one hit wonders to actually play another song. It’s hard for me to spend money on an artist if they bomb on SNL.
It’s too bad PBS has to ruin good programming with asking for money. When I win the lottery, I’ll throw a little their way.
Does anyone know why the bird is the word? I’m hoping seeing the band perform it might answer that.
“Good Lovin’” is now ruined for me. I’m not sure about the Rascals’ outfits of, well, I guess you’d call them knickers? But I guess if they’re named after the Little Rascals the smaller pants and little ties with blouses is clever.
The Supremes’ hairdos remind me of a girl I work with at the mall. By the way, does anyone know if Ross is intentionally missing an earring?
A dog inspired “Good Vibrations.” I’m learning so much tonight. Brian Wilson said his mom told him “Dogs know a good guy from a bad guy by their vibrations.”
I’ve about decided the biggest hits in music are either inspired by love/lust or something just plain ridiculously weird. Remember “Nice to Know You” by Incubus? He said it was about his arm falling asleep while on an airplane. Another weird one about a plane trip would be Filter’s one hit “Take a Picture.” He drank too much and ran around the plane naked on a bet. I bet you’ll now search for those lyrics.
I feel Sly and the Family Stone deserves respect. You don’t have to like, love, or hate them. I just think you should respect what they did for music and culture at the time. With that said, I only listen to them at weddings and when I used to DJ. More often than not I change the station when they some on the radio.
Watching the Doors makes me think Val Kilmer peaked early in his career. I still think Jim Morrison and Madmartigan were his best roles, aside from Batman of course.
SNL is on, and it’s been longer than thirty minutes of typing.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Precious Thursday
March 11, 2010
It’s not that I’m not in the mood to write. It’s there. The thoughts are there. I just can’t focus. Everything wants to come out at the same time. Watching Precious brings up an old idea. I want to try teaching adults with literacy issues. At least you know when they’re that old they want to learn when they come to you. Half of the kids at public schools don’t seem to want to hear you talk. I’ve never been there, but from what I hear from my teacher friends, I don’t want to be.
I want to like this film. The Oscars and other film awards tell me I should. It’s just that is has two people I’m not a huge fan of, Monique and Tyler Perry. I don’t find either funny. I also don’t think either help in the bettering of a race as they seem to think. Sometimes I think that’s a silly statement, “bettering a race.” Saying that makes it seem like you need to better your race. Don’t you just need to change the opinions of ignorant fools? Changing someone else’s minds doesn’t better a race. The race is still the same; it’s everyone else who’s better. I’m not trying to get deep or political. It's just a silly statement.
I will say one thing for this movie. Mariah Carey with a mustache is somewhat funny. I’m not a big fan of her either. Someone once told me I should respect her because “she has a range higher than a grand piano.” I might be tone deaf, but I don’t know that I agree with that statement. Just because you can squeal out a high note, does not mean you can sing a high note.
I can’t imagine the frustration of not being able to write and suddenly having too. Your hand never moves fast enough for you brain. I assume my first journal in elementary school was similar. I imagine half-written words in scribbled handwriting that only I could understand. I still have journal from first grade. Thank you Miss Alexander. I think that was her name. I’m sure if it was that important I could look it up my year book. What does an elementary school need with a year book? It’s smaller than a magazine.
It’s not that I’m not in the mood to write. It’s there. The thoughts are there. I just can’t focus. Everything wants to come out at the same time. Watching Precious brings up an old idea. I want to try teaching adults with literacy issues. At least you know when they’re that old they want to learn when they come to you. Half of the kids at public schools don’t seem to want to hear you talk. I’ve never been there, but from what I hear from my teacher friends, I don’t want to be.
I want to like this film. The Oscars and other film awards tell me I should. It’s just that is has two people I’m not a huge fan of, Monique and Tyler Perry. I don’t find either funny. I also don’t think either help in the bettering of a race as they seem to think. Sometimes I think that’s a silly statement, “bettering a race.” Saying that makes it seem like you need to better your race. Don’t you just need to change the opinions of ignorant fools? Changing someone else’s minds doesn’t better a race. The race is still the same; it’s everyone else who’s better. I’m not trying to get deep or political. It's just a silly statement.
I will say one thing for this movie. Mariah Carey with a mustache is somewhat funny. I’m not a big fan of her either. Someone once told me I should respect her because “she has a range higher than a grand piano.” I might be tone deaf, but I don’t know that I agree with that statement. Just because you can squeal out a high note, does not mean you can sing a high note.
I can’t imagine the frustration of not being able to write and suddenly having too. Your hand never moves fast enough for you brain. I assume my first journal in elementary school was similar. I imagine half-written words in scribbled handwriting that only I could understand. I still have journal from first grade. Thank you Miss Alexander. I think that was her name. I’m sure if it was that important I could look it up my year book. What does an elementary school need with a year book? It’s smaller than a magazine.
Just Another Wednesday and Jungle Jim's
March 10, 2010
Cheese and crackers, warm plum Saki and a lap top at my fingertips. Yes, there could be better combinations. But it’s Wednesday, I don’t think you should expect much on such a day. On a side note, I don’t think there is a cracker or cheese best suited for Saki. If there is, it’s not in my house. I don’t remember too many recipes in any Asian cooking that uses cheese. I’m also unfortunately drinking cheap Saki, which is not remotely a go to for knowing what mixes with Saki well. I live in a town that reminds me of My Cousin Vinny. “I bet their Chinese is terrrrible.” The Chinese isn’t horrible, but I haven’t seen a Japanese restaurant in even a 30 mile radius.
It’s sad that one of the more exciting things Andy and I did one weekend was to go to a grocery store. Near Dayton, Ohio lives a massive, and I do mean massive, grocery store. I had first heard about Jungle Jim’s when I was working for a food distribution center, NashFinch. I thought it was a joke. Who would name a grocery store Jungle Jim’s? Apparently, they had awesome deals on different canned soups and Faygo. I had to check their pallets before they were packed into the trucks.
Later Jungle Jim’s showed itself again. Since moving to Lima, I have become addicted to a particular website, RoadSideAmerica.com. It is quite possibly the best go to site for any oddity of tourism in any state. I hear things by word of mouth too. RoadSideAmerica.com just gives me that much more to look forward too. It even has sites on there that locals don’t seem to know about. Jungle Jim’s was supposed to be one the stops.
Jungle Jim’s claim to fame is its extensive selection and decorations. On the windows is a sign “No Camera’s or Video.” Upon entering the main entrance, a singing voice and a familiar jingle greets you. In front of you is the basic canned goods aisle. Above though is a large Campbell’s chicken noodle soup can swinging on a piece of wood singing away. It’s motion activated and greets you as you walk down the aisle. Like a kid, I walked in and out of the aisle to see what he would say next.
Andy and I are fat foodie kids thankfully trapped in smaller bodies. We get excessively excited about different foods. Andy almost danced to see the olive and pickle bar and squealed in delight at a dairy and cheese section larger than your basic shoe store. I had only heard about half those cheeses on episodes of Frasier.
The produce section reminded me what life could be like if we actually had a farmer’s market year round. They had some root vegetables I'm still trying to understand and find recipes for.
Around the corner started the best part. Aisles upon aisles devoted to specific regions and countries. Are you in the mood for Indian? There’s an aisle for that. Missing the taste of a certain British early grey tea? There’s a whole room to look in. The decorations followed through each country. Tea and biscuits were under Robin Hood and his merry men. Hanging clogs point the way to Danish cookies and linden berries.
There was even a Hawaiian section. I quickly bought macadamia nuts and a juice I’ve been missing for years, Aloha Maid. I bought a case. Andy also found a bottled tea that he last had while in Iraq.
It’s the small things that make you happy.
When we showed up to Jungle Jim’s it was light outside. We left in darkness. We may have spent 3 hours in there. There was no way we were going to cook after all that. But with the hors d’oeuvres available, why should we? When we got home, we unwrapped all the goodies of cheese, crackers, veggies, fruit, olives, and pickles. Now I’m not one for cheese balls, but their “home made” cheese balls may make me change my mind. We lounged and ate like Romans for the night.
Cheese and crackers, warm plum Saki and a lap top at my fingertips. Yes, there could be better combinations. But it’s Wednesday, I don’t think you should expect much on such a day. On a side note, I don’t think there is a cracker or cheese best suited for Saki. If there is, it’s not in my house. I don’t remember too many recipes in any Asian cooking that uses cheese. I’m also unfortunately drinking cheap Saki, which is not remotely a go to for knowing what mixes with Saki well. I live in a town that reminds me of My Cousin Vinny. “I bet their Chinese is terrrrible.” The Chinese isn’t horrible, but I haven’t seen a Japanese restaurant in even a 30 mile radius.
It’s sad that one of the more exciting things Andy and I did one weekend was to go to a grocery store. Near Dayton, Ohio lives a massive, and I do mean massive, grocery store. I had first heard about Jungle Jim’s when I was working for a food distribution center, NashFinch. I thought it was a joke. Who would name a grocery store Jungle Jim’s? Apparently, they had awesome deals on different canned soups and Faygo. I had to check their pallets before they were packed into the trucks.
Later Jungle Jim’s showed itself again. Since moving to Lima, I have become addicted to a particular website, RoadSideAmerica.com. It is quite possibly the best go to site for any oddity of tourism in any state. I hear things by word of mouth too. RoadSideAmerica.com just gives me that much more to look forward too. It even has sites on there that locals don’t seem to know about. Jungle Jim’s was supposed to be one the stops.
Jungle Jim’s claim to fame is its extensive selection and decorations. On the windows is a sign “No Camera’s or Video.” Upon entering the main entrance, a singing voice and a familiar jingle greets you. In front of you is the basic canned goods aisle. Above though is a large Campbell’s chicken noodle soup can swinging on a piece of wood singing away. It’s motion activated and greets you as you walk down the aisle. Like a kid, I walked in and out of the aisle to see what he would say next.
Andy and I are fat foodie kids thankfully trapped in smaller bodies. We get excessively excited about different foods. Andy almost danced to see the olive and pickle bar and squealed in delight at a dairy and cheese section larger than your basic shoe store. I had only heard about half those cheeses on episodes of Frasier.
The produce section reminded me what life could be like if we actually had a farmer’s market year round. They had some root vegetables I'm still trying to understand and find recipes for.
Around the corner started the best part. Aisles upon aisles devoted to specific regions and countries. Are you in the mood for Indian? There’s an aisle for that. Missing the taste of a certain British early grey tea? There’s a whole room to look in. The decorations followed through each country. Tea and biscuits were under Robin Hood and his merry men. Hanging clogs point the way to Danish cookies and linden berries.
There was even a Hawaiian section. I quickly bought macadamia nuts and a juice I’ve been missing for years, Aloha Maid. I bought a case. Andy also found a bottled tea that he last had while in Iraq.
It’s the small things that make you happy.
When we showed up to Jungle Jim’s it was light outside. We left in darkness. We may have spent 3 hours in there. There was no way we were going to cook after all that. But with the hors d’oeuvres available, why should we? When we got home, we unwrapped all the goodies of cheese, crackers, veggies, fruit, olives, and pickles. Now I’m not one for cheese balls, but their “home made” cheese balls may make me change my mind. We lounged and ate like Romans for the night.
On the Oscars
March 7, 2010
This Sunday it seems the easy thing to write about for a blog has to be the Oscars. I kept notes and waited for my neighbors router to work properly again. What follows are said notes while watching. (Of course, I edited a bit, because I’m not sure anyone can understand my short hand.)
Oscar night is something I use to live for. I dreamed I would be there one day holding my own little golden man. I know it’s not going to happen now, but I’ll still watch happily. Hopefully this year movies I like might actually pull through. One can only hope that the Cohen’s don’t make out with another one.
To Alec Baldwin and Steve on the opening number: Your words aren’t too shabby but the timing is way off.
I love when the camera scans over the crowds. They always seem to have dumbfounded looks on their faces. Some seem to read “I don’t want to be here, get on with it.” I can’t imagine anyone really wants to sit at a reward show for 4 hours. The actors’ expressions remind me of what people do in cars at red lights when they think no one is looking.
The sound is already messing up. Didn’t this happen last year too?
Pixar wins best animated, what a surprise. I remember one year Jack Black saying something like “I do voice acting for a DreamWorks film but always bet on the Pixar for the win.” Up was amazing though. If you haven’t seen it, you should.
The song “Take it All” from Nine is up for best original song. Does that really count since it’s a Broadway musical? I’ll have to look this up. (Update – I haven’t)
I have to say District 9 really wasn’t the best film of the year and I'm not even sure it should be nominated. One of the best things it has going for it is the obvious allegory to apartheid. My hope is it reminds people of the past and maybe makes a younger generation want to learn more. Need to know your history so you don’t repeat your past. That’s the saying right? It’s hard though to describe something like apartheid to someone who wasn’t there. I may know the facts, but I can’t begin to comprehend the event.
Tina Fey and Robert Downy Jr. announce the best screen play nominees. I love the script for the two of them, the banter of what an actor wants in a screen play and what a writer wants in an actor. I especially love that when Tina Fey says “A writer likes an actor who’s not afraid to adlib,” the cameras coincidently move to Robin Williams.
I wonder if Hollywood types practice their “gracious loser” expression in the mirror before showing up.
Molly Ringwald and Matthew Broderick come out to do a special piece for the late John Hughes. All my note says is “Why didn’t Molly wear pink?”
Watching the montage of John Hughes films, I’m reminded of everything and everyone he’s touched. Maybe we should change the game to “Six Degrees of John Hughes” instead of Kevin Bacon.
Music of Prudence wins for best short documentary. All I can say is who is the red head in purple?? She was like the Kanye of the Oscars with a speech impediment. I saw a preview for David Lettermen where it looks like they were making fun of her too. I couldn’t bring myself to watch that episode though.
Does anyone know where to rent the short nominees? I hate that they usually show up at film festivals and then disappear or wind up on YouTube.
I Oprah touches it, it seems to win. What will the public do when she stops being in the public eye. They won’t know what to read or who to watch or maybe even whom to elect.
By the way, I am in no way a fan of Tyler Perry. I feel in a cage match Cosby would smack him down for his increase of stereotypes and attempt to create “black films” as opposed to just films. Put the two of them in a room and see who comes out crying. I bet he won’t be wearing an awesome sweater.
I love when they show briefly the picture of all the SciTech awards. They sadly look like a group of virgins in tuxedos holding plaques. (I think I’m just jealous because I love all the work they do but don’t have nearly enough patients to join them in their craft.)
I’m not sure where they got the TV announcer for this event. They just went to commercial break and she tried to tease the viewer by saying “Who will win best director, the first woman, the first African American or James Cameron?” Really?
I think I must have had my hands more full with food than the pen by the end of the show because my notes stop about at best actor and actress. One of my final notes was “Go Dude.” If you understand that, awesome, if not, don’t worry about it.
Obviously by the time I get to post this everyone will have already had an Oscars' recap, but this is what we get when borrowing internet from the neighbor.
I do feel though that I should at least leave with a few words on the winner of the best film. First of all, I’m thrilled Avatar didn’t win. I haven’t seen the film yet, but even in the previews, it just seems like a fascinating experiment with special effects. I had a friend who said “It’s Fern Gully, but longer and more expensive.” I finally saw Precious the other night and wasn’t thrilled. I hear the book is amazingly disturbing. I believe it; however, the movie didn’t live up to the hype for me. The acting was fabulous and the directing seemed good too. It didn’t move me though nearly as much as The Hurt Locker. I was waiting for these films as soon as NPR hinted at them. Hands down, Hurt Locker lives up to all its hype. It’s honest and has a bit of a cathartic feel to it. But it doesn’t leave you hating the situation like Valley of Ellah. (If you’ve seen Valley of Ellah, you know what I’m talking about. If you haven’t seen this film, I suggest seeing it when you’re in a good state of mind.)
By far not a structured post but it is what it is.
This Sunday it seems the easy thing to write about for a blog has to be the Oscars. I kept notes and waited for my neighbors router to work properly again. What follows are said notes while watching. (Of course, I edited a bit, because I’m not sure anyone can understand my short hand.)
Oscar night is something I use to live for. I dreamed I would be there one day holding my own little golden man. I know it’s not going to happen now, but I’ll still watch happily. Hopefully this year movies I like might actually pull through. One can only hope that the Cohen’s don’t make out with another one.
To Alec Baldwin and Steve on the opening number: Your words aren’t too shabby but the timing is way off.
I love when the camera scans over the crowds. They always seem to have dumbfounded looks on their faces. Some seem to read “I don’t want to be here, get on with it.” I can’t imagine anyone really wants to sit at a reward show for 4 hours. The actors’ expressions remind me of what people do in cars at red lights when they think no one is looking.
The sound is already messing up. Didn’t this happen last year too?
Pixar wins best animated, what a surprise. I remember one year Jack Black saying something like “I do voice acting for a DreamWorks film but always bet on the Pixar for the win.” Up was amazing though. If you haven’t seen it, you should.
The song “Take it All” from Nine is up for best original song. Does that really count since it’s a Broadway musical? I’ll have to look this up. (Update – I haven’t)
I have to say District 9 really wasn’t the best film of the year and I'm not even sure it should be nominated. One of the best things it has going for it is the obvious allegory to apartheid. My hope is it reminds people of the past and maybe makes a younger generation want to learn more. Need to know your history so you don’t repeat your past. That’s the saying right? It’s hard though to describe something like apartheid to someone who wasn’t there. I may know the facts, but I can’t begin to comprehend the event.
Tina Fey and Robert Downy Jr. announce the best screen play nominees. I love the script for the two of them, the banter of what an actor wants in a screen play and what a writer wants in an actor. I especially love that when Tina Fey says “A writer likes an actor who’s not afraid to adlib,” the cameras coincidently move to Robin Williams.
I wonder if Hollywood types practice their “gracious loser” expression in the mirror before showing up.
Molly Ringwald and Matthew Broderick come out to do a special piece for the late John Hughes. All my note says is “Why didn’t Molly wear pink?”
Watching the montage of John Hughes films, I’m reminded of everything and everyone he’s touched. Maybe we should change the game to “Six Degrees of John Hughes” instead of Kevin Bacon.
Music of Prudence wins for best short documentary. All I can say is who is the red head in purple?? She was like the Kanye of the Oscars with a speech impediment. I saw a preview for David Lettermen where it looks like they were making fun of her too. I couldn’t bring myself to watch that episode though.
Does anyone know where to rent the short nominees? I hate that they usually show up at film festivals and then disappear or wind up on YouTube.
I Oprah touches it, it seems to win. What will the public do when she stops being in the public eye. They won’t know what to read or who to watch or maybe even whom to elect.
By the way, I am in no way a fan of Tyler Perry. I feel in a cage match Cosby would smack him down for his increase of stereotypes and attempt to create “black films” as opposed to just films. Put the two of them in a room and see who comes out crying. I bet he won’t be wearing an awesome sweater.
I love when they show briefly the picture of all the SciTech awards. They sadly look like a group of virgins in tuxedos holding plaques. (I think I’m just jealous because I love all the work they do but don’t have nearly enough patients to join them in their craft.)
I’m not sure where they got the TV announcer for this event. They just went to commercial break and she tried to tease the viewer by saying “Who will win best director, the first woman, the first African American or James Cameron?” Really?
I think I must have had my hands more full with food than the pen by the end of the show because my notes stop about at best actor and actress. One of my final notes was “Go Dude.” If you understand that, awesome, if not, don’t worry about it.
Obviously by the time I get to post this everyone will have already had an Oscars' recap, but this is what we get when borrowing internet from the neighbor.
I do feel though that I should at least leave with a few words on the winner of the best film. First of all, I’m thrilled Avatar didn’t win. I haven’t seen the film yet, but even in the previews, it just seems like a fascinating experiment with special effects. I had a friend who said “It’s Fern Gully, but longer and more expensive.” I finally saw Precious the other night and wasn’t thrilled. I hear the book is amazingly disturbing. I believe it; however, the movie didn’t live up to the hype for me. The acting was fabulous and the directing seemed good too. It didn’t move me though nearly as much as The Hurt Locker. I was waiting for these films as soon as NPR hinted at them. Hands down, Hurt Locker lives up to all its hype. It’s honest and has a bit of a cathartic feel to it. But it doesn’t leave you hating the situation like Valley of Ellah. (If you’ve seen Valley of Ellah, you know what I’m talking about. If you haven’t seen this film, I suggest seeing it when you’re in a good state of mind.)
By far not a structured post but it is what it is.
Pulled like a Bird Fed Cat
Written from notes on March 6, 2010
I decided to adopt the “why not?” attitude, especially since moving to this Bean Town. It seems the best way to enjoy a stay in an unfortunate town is to go at it like a tourists. So when Andy came to me last week and said “Frank invited me to a truck pull. Wanna go?” I shrugged my shoulders and agreed.
“I really have no clue what that is, but ok.”
To be honest I though we were going to what I now know as a Tug-a-Truck. It’s basically tug of war with tractors, trucks and what look like semis. The commercials here are so outrageous I’d have to go at least once.
“No not that. Those are just some stupid Ohio thing,” Frank informed me when we got to the Eaton Fairgrounds. Apparently, a truck pull takes more skill.
“I bet this is the most redneck thing you’ve been to.” He surmised as we were buying tickets.
“Me?” Andy asked. “Maybe, but not her.” He tilted his head at me.
I enjoy moonshine and have been to a few concerts in cow pastures. I don’t think this makes me queen of redneck events though. However, I will be adding truck pull to my belt with massive buckle.
This truck pull was indoors and I wouldn’t begin to understand how odd and maybe stupid this was until the end of the night when the air was thick. I didn’t know what to expect in the “arena.” When we took our seats, poor Frank had to answer loads of questions. Andy and our new friend, Beaner Andy asked lost of transmission and engine questions. All three of them attend the local mechanics school. My questions were obviously more girly, but I did get better as the night progressed.
“I don’t get it. So is there really any sport in this?” “Do they make any money?” “How much does this cost?” “Are there any girl drivers?” “So what has more skill, this or NASCAR?”
All the vehicle does is try it’s hardest to pull a sled of weight down a dirt path. The sled moves forward on a mechanical track as the truck progresses and puts pressure on it. Who ever drives the furthest with said weight wins.
The runs themselves are quick, but getting through all the drivers takes a while.
“How long does this usually last?”
“Depends on how organized they are. We went to one pull that was supposed to start around five. We didn’t get out ‘til around six am the next morning.”
The announcers made most of the down time fly. I wish I had had a tape recorder just for the two of them. I’ll remember next time to at least bring in my note book. They looked to be in their late forties or early fifties and rarely stopped talking. They were quick witted and had more excitement in their voices than seemed necessary for the event. It reminded me of every cliché, archetype sport’s announcer in the media.
A truck would stall and one announcer yelled, “Come on crowd let’s give him an ‘aawww shuuuucksss’ on the count of three”
One of the female drivers would fall a little short of the line and you’d hear jokingly “Well see now, she just drove like a woman.” Soprano “boos” would reply to his jabbing.
The next driver would pull ahead and measure one inch in the lead. “Now that inch isn’t something to sneeze at!” or “See, one little inch does matter.”
My favorite (or at least favorite I remember) was when one of the diesel trucks pulled ahead and into the dirt pile. “Looks like we got a new leader. He pulled like a bird fed cat!”
They definitely kept the momentum going all day with their antics. Between the announcers and people watching, I was kept entertained even without the trucks. We decided the only thing missing was a wet t-shirt contest, or at the very least a potato cannon with novelty shirts. The announcers did throw out caps to the crowd. Frank was even able to intercept one with cat like reflexes. Though it may be a special hat, we don’t see it replacing the well worn Ford cap any time soon. You had the choice of two sponsor caps. There was Dekalb (Georgia peeps this is pronounced dee-cawl-b) and Asgrow seeds (yes, ass-grow).
There was even a charity fifty-fifty raffle. However, the cause seemed a bit ironic: Children’s Lung Association and Asthma.
I have to say – as cliché as it may sound – it really was an event for all the senses. Sight wise there was of course the trucks, jail bait, men with large belt buckles and jeans with round imprints on their back pockets, and the ever rewarding mullet hunt. The burning alcohol and concessions made it smell oddly like grape kool-aid and barbeque. The trucks left your ears screaming for ear plugs. Every smell left a taste in your mouth that you could easily cover up with a trip to the concessions. Oil stained hands held the foil wrapped goodness of a quarter pound friend German bologna sandwich. Or you could brave the Texas Tenderloin booth and get a fried tenderloin sandwich. Andy came back with one near the end of the night and even the people sitting next to us had to ask “What the hell is that?!”
I assume to make this interesting treat you start with a pork tenderloin cut. You then proceed to beat the crap out of it until it resembles a massive pancake. It gets battered and friend and placed on a comically too small bun. If you want cheese, they put on an American slice leaving it even more awkward looking. The entire thing took up a whole paper plate. Instructions should come with this meal.
The afternoon session may have been fun, but it was only a training session for the night runs. The real people watching began then. Apparently, for the locals, this is more fun than going to a mall or coffee house. There were a myriad of high school students sitting around chatting away as if they were at a coffee house or sitting in the mall food court. Other girls came in looking like they expected to pick up a man at this event the same way they would at a bar. It may be just me, but I didn’t think a truck pull was the ultimate singles event.
“Oh it’s worse in the summer outdoors. They’re running around in Daisy Duke’s then.” Frank taught me while I helped him pick out the good looking ones.
If I had known we could bring alcohol, it may have been even more entertaining. Younger guys came in with six packs tucked under arms. The veterans came in with all manner of cleverness. There was the basic beaten up cooler to double as a seat. Then there were case of beer with triple thick duct tape handles. And I could be mistaken, but I swear I thought I saw a Gatorade bottle filled with a light brown liquid that didn’t resemble any flavor I know. The announcers’ favorite though seemed to be the group on the other side of the track. In the afternoon, they had boxes of wine. By dusk, they had funnels.
I promise I did watch the trucks too.
Between sets, we walked around the pit/parking lot to find our favorites to root for.
There was a modified blue tractor, Blue Blazin’. Frank pointed it out, “That tractor’s pissed.” He had seen it before. When Blue Blazin’ did finally pull, I understood what he meant. It came out screaming, put its nose in the air, and landed in a dirt pile at the end of the track. Once the nose touched down, fire shot out from the top. He placed and made all the “green tractors” jealous. (We learned that the color of your tractor is just as important as whether your truck has an oval or a cross)
We also saw a red GMC truck named Flamin’. Hands down, this seems like one of the worst names possible for a truck in a predominately male spot. It was slightly redeeming to find out its driver was a young woman wearing a pink jersey. She was the only GMC in the blower class and proved that maybe it should be left to just the Chevys and Fords. She went about 150 feet and then her truck bed went one direction while the cab went in the opposite. All were safe and the truck seemed okay. This of course justified the AV people need to replay Flamin’s run repeatedly in reverse and slow-mo.
Other favorites of ours included the Bean Bandit, a Studebaker named Chili Town Hustler, Deere Replacement II (we didn’t find the first replacement), Dark Side Tractor, and once named Second Chance. The name Second Chance wasn’t really very odd and would have gone unnoticed with out our all too well informed announcer.
“Now coming up is an orange tractor, Second Chance. I want you to pay attention to this guy. He’s one armed. They modified his tractor to have the clutch, gear shift, brake, and gas all as different foot pedals.”
“He’s like the Def Leppard dude,” Andy says before we can.
“What an odd name for it.” I thought he would have done something a little less depressing.
“What about Left Turn Only?” We bean coming up with other possible names and I cried I was laughing so hard at the sick humor. I wish we remembered enough of them. The only ones we can remember include Cost me an Arm (not a leg) and One Down one to Go.
The blower category was mine, and probably the crowd’s favorite by far. Helen Keller could even enjoy it. Sitting on metal folding chairs your butt goes numb. Then the blower trucks drive past and everything vibrates from the noise and energy.
“I think I felt my hair move.”
Large industrial lights shook overhead, and dust and soot no one could reach to clean fell down on us. They pull with so much force that dirt spits up in all directions. Most of it leaves a large – sometimes even three feet high – mound behind the truck’s tires. A fork lift would drive in to save these buried beasts. It was fun to see something so powerful be so vulnerable.
We finally left the arena around two in the morning. I want to say my ears popped somewhere on the ride home. When we got to the house I discovered we had what my mom likes to call “Pool hall Syndrome.” When we were there, I didn’t think we smelled that bad, because everyone did. When we were home, I couldn’t sleep for the small of my hair and skin. The next morning I sneezed black and was reminded of all my adventures the night before.
When all is said and done, I think I’d go again. It is in no way high class entertainment. But as far as breathing bad fumes, losing hearing and people watching goes, it’s not a bad way to spend an afternoon.
I decided to adopt the “why not?” attitude, especially since moving to this Bean Town. It seems the best way to enjoy a stay in an unfortunate town is to go at it like a tourists. So when Andy came to me last week and said “Frank invited me to a truck pull. Wanna go?” I shrugged my shoulders and agreed.
“I really have no clue what that is, but ok.”
To be honest I though we were going to what I now know as a Tug-a-Truck. It’s basically tug of war with tractors, trucks and what look like semis. The commercials here are so outrageous I’d have to go at least once.
“No not that. Those are just some stupid Ohio thing,” Frank informed me when we got to the Eaton Fairgrounds. Apparently, a truck pull takes more skill.
“I bet this is the most redneck thing you’ve been to.” He surmised as we were buying tickets.
“Me?” Andy asked. “Maybe, but not her.” He tilted his head at me.
I enjoy moonshine and have been to a few concerts in cow pastures. I don’t think this makes me queen of redneck events though. However, I will be adding truck pull to my belt with massive buckle.
This truck pull was indoors and I wouldn’t begin to understand how odd and maybe stupid this was until the end of the night when the air was thick. I didn’t know what to expect in the “arena.” When we took our seats, poor Frank had to answer loads of questions. Andy and our new friend, Beaner Andy asked lost of transmission and engine questions. All three of them attend the local mechanics school. My questions were obviously more girly, but I did get better as the night progressed.
“I don’t get it. So is there really any sport in this?” “Do they make any money?” “How much does this cost?” “Are there any girl drivers?” “So what has more skill, this or NASCAR?”
All the vehicle does is try it’s hardest to pull a sled of weight down a dirt path. The sled moves forward on a mechanical track as the truck progresses and puts pressure on it. Who ever drives the furthest with said weight wins.
The runs themselves are quick, but getting through all the drivers takes a while.
“How long does this usually last?”
“Depends on how organized they are. We went to one pull that was supposed to start around five. We didn’t get out ‘til around six am the next morning.”
The announcers made most of the down time fly. I wish I had had a tape recorder just for the two of them. I’ll remember next time to at least bring in my note book. They looked to be in their late forties or early fifties and rarely stopped talking. They were quick witted and had more excitement in their voices than seemed necessary for the event. It reminded me of every cliché, archetype sport’s announcer in the media.
A truck would stall and one announcer yelled, “Come on crowd let’s give him an ‘aawww shuuuucksss’ on the count of three”
One of the female drivers would fall a little short of the line and you’d hear jokingly “Well see now, she just drove like a woman.” Soprano “boos” would reply to his jabbing.
The next driver would pull ahead and measure one inch in the lead. “Now that inch isn’t something to sneeze at!” or “See, one little inch does matter.”
My favorite (or at least favorite I remember) was when one of the diesel trucks pulled ahead and into the dirt pile. “Looks like we got a new leader. He pulled like a bird fed cat!”
They definitely kept the momentum going all day with their antics. Between the announcers and people watching, I was kept entertained even without the trucks. We decided the only thing missing was a wet t-shirt contest, or at the very least a potato cannon with novelty shirts. The announcers did throw out caps to the crowd. Frank was even able to intercept one with cat like reflexes. Though it may be a special hat, we don’t see it replacing the well worn Ford cap any time soon. You had the choice of two sponsor caps. There was Dekalb (Georgia peeps this is pronounced dee-cawl-b) and Asgrow seeds (yes, ass-grow).
There was even a charity fifty-fifty raffle. However, the cause seemed a bit ironic: Children’s Lung Association and Asthma.
I have to say – as cliché as it may sound – it really was an event for all the senses. Sight wise there was of course the trucks, jail bait, men with large belt buckles and jeans with round imprints on their back pockets, and the ever rewarding mullet hunt. The burning alcohol and concessions made it smell oddly like grape kool-aid and barbeque. The trucks left your ears screaming for ear plugs. Every smell left a taste in your mouth that you could easily cover up with a trip to the concessions. Oil stained hands held the foil wrapped goodness of a quarter pound friend German bologna sandwich. Or you could brave the Texas Tenderloin booth and get a fried tenderloin sandwich. Andy came back with one near the end of the night and even the people sitting next to us had to ask “What the hell is that?!”
I assume to make this interesting treat you start with a pork tenderloin cut. You then proceed to beat the crap out of it until it resembles a massive pancake. It gets battered and friend and placed on a comically too small bun. If you want cheese, they put on an American slice leaving it even more awkward looking. The entire thing took up a whole paper plate. Instructions should come with this meal.
The afternoon session may have been fun, but it was only a training session for the night runs. The real people watching began then. Apparently, for the locals, this is more fun than going to a mall or coffee house. There were a myriad of high school students sitting around chatting away as if they were at a coffee house or sitting in the mall food court. Other girls came in looking like they expected to pick up a man at this event the same way they would at a bar. It may be just me, but I didn’t think a truck pull was the ultimate singles event.
“Oh it’s worse in the summer outdoors. They’re running around in Daisy Duke’s then.” Frank taught me while I helped him pick out the good looking ones.
If I had known we could bring alcohol, it may have been even more entertaining. Younger guys came in with six packs tucked under arms. The veterans came in with all manner of cleverness. There was the basic beaten up cooler to double as a seat. Then there were case of beer with triple thick duct tape handles. And I could be mistaken, but I swear I thought I saw a Gatorade bottle filled with a light brown liquid that didn’t resemble any flavor I know. The announcers’ favorite though seemed to be the group on the other side of the track. In the afternoon, they had boxes of wine. By dusk, they had funnels.
I promise I did watch the trucks too.
Between sets, we walked around the pit/parking lot to find our favorites to root for.
There was a modified blue tractor, Blue Blazin’. Frank pointed it out, “That tractor’s pissed.” He had seen it before. When Blue Blazin’ did finally pull, I understood what he meant. It came out screaming, put its nose in the air, and landed in a dirt pile at the end of the track. Once the nose touched down, fire shot out from the top. He placed and made all the “green tractors” jealous. (We learned that the color of your tractor is just as important as whether your truck has an oval or a cross)
We also saw a red GMC truck named Flamin’. Hands down, this seems like one of the worst names possible for a truck in a predominately male spot. It was slightly redeeming to find out its driver was a young woman wearing a pink jersey. She was the only GMC in the blower class and proved that maybe it should be left to just the Chevys and Fords. She went about 150 feet and then her truck bed went one direction while the cab went in the opposite. All were safe and the truck seemed okay. This of course justified the AV people need to replay Flamin’s run repeatedly in reverse and slow-mo.
Other favorites of ours included the Bean Bandit, a Studebaker named Chili Town Hustler, Deere Replacement II (we didn’t find the first replacement), Dark Side Tractor, and once named Second Chance. The name Second Chance wasn’t really very odd and would have gone unnoticed with out our all too well informed announcer.
“Now coming up is an orange tractor, Second Chance. I want you to pay attention to this guy. He’s one armed. They modified his tractor to have the clutch, gear shift, brake, and gas all as different foot pedals.”
“He’s like the Def Leppard dude,” Andy says before we can.
“What an odd name for it.” I thought he would have done something a little less depressing.
“What about Left Turn Only?” We bean coming up with other possible names and I cried I was laughing so hard at the sick humor. I wish we remembered enough of them. The only ones we can remember include Cost me an Arm (not a leg) and One Down one to Go.
The blower category was mine, and probably the crowd’s favorite by far. Helen Keller could even enjoy it. Sitting on metal folding chairs your butt goes numb. Then the blower trucks drive past and everything vibrates from the noise and energy.
“I think I felt my hair move.”
Large industrial lights shook overhead, and dust and soot no one could reach to clean fell down on us. They pull with so much force that dirt spits up in all directions. Most of it leaves a large – sometimes even three feet high – mound behind the truck’s tires. A fork lift would drive in to save these buried beasts. It was fun to see something so powerful be so vulnerable.
We finally left the arena around two in the morning. I want to say my ears popped somewhere on the ride home. When we got to the house I discovered we had what my mom likes to call “Pool hall Syndrome.” When we were there, I didn’t think we smelled that bad, because everyone did. When we were home, I couldn’t sleep for the small of my hair and skin. The next morning I sneezed black and was reminded of all my adventures the night before.
When all is said and done, I think I’d go again. It is in no way high class entertainment. But as far as breathing bad fumes, losing hearing and people watching goes, it’s not a bad way to spend an afternoon.
Jesus are you sending me a sign??
March 3, 2010
9:30 pm
I love signs. I know it sounds silly, but small town, locally owned stores with funny religious signs make me happy. Church marquees are the easy way out. Besides after habitual driving past the clever ones, I’ve decided there must be a website for pastors or a book, “What to put on Your Sign Preacher.” I should find that book. Pages of clever sayings too lure me in to the building, but really just make me smile instead. I wish I remembered enough of the ones I’ve seen. “You better get right, before you get left.” “God is my co-pilot. Whose yours?” “ Jesus always accepts knee-mail.”
My new favorite though is the local Royal Cellular store down the street. I don’t even really know what all they sell, but Jesus is all up in their business. When we first moved here the sign always had at the top “Jesus Saves” followed by the weekly special. If Jesus saves with a new blackberry why shouldn’t we all? Jesus stopped saving for a little while. I was almost upset by this. I mean if Jesus isn’t saving, does that mean he’s wasting money some where else? I don’t want our savior scammed. Just the other day though I passed the Royal Cellular. Jesus isn’t saving anymore, but he is still shopping there. Now the sign says “Jesus is Greater Now with one year contracts.” It seems Jesus is better than Verizon.
9:30 pm
I love signs. I know it sounds silly, but small town, locally owned stores with funny religious signs make me happy. Church marquees are the easy way out. Besides after habitual driving past the clever ones, I’ve decided there must be a website for pastors or a book, “What to put on Your Sign Preacher.” I should find that book. Pages of clever sayings too lure me in to the building, but really just make me smile instead. I wish I remembered enough of the ones I’ve seen. “You better get right, before you get left.” “God is my co-pilot. Whose yours?” “ Jesus always accepts knee-mail.”
My new favorite though is the local Royal Cellular store down the street. I don’t even really know what all they sell, but Jesus is all up in their business. When we first moved here the sign always had at the top “Jesus Saves” followed by the weekly special. If Jesus saves with a new blackberry why shouldn’t we all? Jesus stopped saving for a little while. I was almost upset by this. I mean if Jesus isn’t saving, does that mean he’s wasting money some where else? I don’t want our savior scammed. Just the other day though I passed the Royal Cellular. Jesus isn’t saving anymore, but he is still shopping there. Now the sign says “Jesus is Greater Now with one year contracts.” It seems Jesus is better than Verizon.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Those Pesky Birds and Bees
March 2, 2010
10:30 pm
“You’ll never forget this for the rest of you life.” If she hadn’t said that, I may have forgotten. I don’t remember the specifics of the conversation. There we were sitting near the back of the theatre watching movie trivia before the feature presentation. Waiting for Beverly Hillbillies to start, my mom came at me with the sex talk. We had various talks through the years. There were the vague ones to start teaching me the basic vagina versus penis, and later when I was older more detailed sometimes TMI conversations. Bit the theatre held the all encompassing, important, lay it on the line, ins and outs of being a woman.
No one likes the “birds and the bees” talk. And can I just say I hate that phrase? I know it’s supposed to relate to pollinating flowers and such but I don’t like it. The only flowers that remind me of lady parts are ones painted by O’Keefe. I’m not sure I like the idea either of a man “watering my garden.” But back to the critters. Male birds come by, peck the shit out of a hen, and then fly off not thinking twice about the new mother bird. I don’t think I want to teach my nonexistent children that. I may scare them with the bee story though. The poor male bee works and works to be the best for his queen. Then when he catches the awesome queen and has the first sex of his little bee life, he dies. How horrible is that? “Son, I want you to take care of women. You should respect them, do as they wish and possibly chase them. And if you’re lucky enough to find your soul mate you can be a martyr for her.” That sounds awesome. I hope they come back their next life as something amazing.
All of this was sparked by a moment at work today.
“Guess what I got to do before work on Saturday?” Amy asks starting the conversation. Her daughter apparently entered the wonderful world of adult hood.
“Of course I didn’t really have anything in the house. She got some ‘sample pack thing’ from school 2 years ago. So I pulled that out and she says to me ‘Mom that has DUST on it.’ I told her ‘yeah, it’s been waiting on you’.” We all of course laughed. Amy and her daughter always have stories of quick witty jabs. After he daughter had her bathroom moment she apparently came out singing “I’m a big girl now,” like the old Pull-Up commercials.
We all then reminisced about our own “first times” with Aunt Flo. Like always, my mom knew what has happening before I did. Mothers and teachers tell the girls “You’ll just know. A cramp is a different feeling than a stomach ache.” Yeah well, the first one is just straight pain and your first instinct is to go to the bathroom.
After about my third time to the little girl’s room at El Azteca, my mother followed me.
“Um, Allie, you sure you haven’t um… started?”
“Started?” I pondered. She waited a second for me to understand. “Oh!” And yes, there it was, that pesky surprise into “woman hood.” I just want to know why? I’m glad my mom was there, but really did it have to be during my brother’s birthday lunch?
Sadly, you do remember that first time, and the talk for the rest of you life. Thanks mom.
10:30 pm
“You’ll never forget this for the rest of you life.” If she hadn’t said that, I may have forgotten. I don’t remember the specifics of the conversation. There we were sitting near the back of the theatre watching movie trivia before the feature presentation. Waiting for Beverly Hillbillies to start, my mom came at me with the sex talk. We had various talks through the years. There were the vague ones to start teaching me the basic vagina versus penis, and later when I was older more detailed sometimes TMI conversations. Bit the theatre held the all encompassing, important, lay it on the line, ins and outs of being a woman.
No one likes the “birds and the bees” talk. And can I just say I hate that phrase? I know it’s supposed to relate to pollinating flowers and such but I don’t like it. The only flowers that remind me of lady parts are ones painted by O’Keefe. I’m not sure I like the idea either of a man “watering my garden.” But back to the critters. Male birds come by, peck the shit out of a hen, and then fly off not thinking twice about the new mother bird. I don’t think I want to teach my nonexistent children that. I may scare them with the bee story though. The poor male bee works and works to be the best for his queen. Then when he catches the awesome queen and has the first sex of his little bee life, he dies. How horrible is that? “Son, I want you to take care of women. You should respect them, do as they wish and possibly chase them. And if you’re lucky enough to find your soul mate you can be a martyr for her.” That sounds awesome. I hope they come back their next life as something amazing.
All of this was sparked by a moment at work today.
“Guess what I got to do before work on Saturday?” Amy asks starting the conversation. Her daughter apparently entered the wonderful world of adult hood.
“Of course I didn’t really have anything in the house. She got some ‘sample pack thing’ from school 2 years ago. So I pulled that out and she says to me ‘Mom that has DUST on it.’ I told her ‘yeah, it’s been waiting on you’.” We all of course laughed. Amy and her daughter always have stories of quick witty jabs. After he daughter had her bathroom moment she apparently came out singing “I’m a big girl now,” like the old Pull-Up commercials.
We all then reminisced about our own “first times” with Aunt Flo. Like always, my mom knew what has happening before I did. Mothers and teachers tell the girls “You’ll just know. A cramp is a different feeling than a stomach ache.” Yeah well, the first one is just straight pain and your first instinct is to go to the bathroom.
After about my third time to the little girl’s room at El Azteca, my mother followed me.
“Um, Allie, you sure you haven’t um… started?”
“Started?” I pondered. She waited a second for me to understand. “Oh!” And yes, there it was, that pesky surprise into “woman hood.” I just want to know why? I’m glad my mom was there, but really did it have to be during my brother’s birthday lunch?
Sadly, you do remember that first time, and the talk for the rest of you life. Thanks mom.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Just call me Sid-Knee Vicious
March 2, 2010
8:00 pm
I’ve had many goals in my life. Some I’ve reached while others I quit half way through like marathon runner who didn’t stretch. I know that sounded odd, but just stay with me.
Two weeks ago a co-worker invited me to her five year anniversary of turning twenty five. I was hesitant because I knew the party would involve other co-workers and their children I wasn’t sure yet if I had been accepted as a friend and those small things have a way of squealing and being well, children. The temptation of other co-workers bested me, and I found myself following a caravan of cars to the local skating rink.
Now in earlier years of my life, I though myself quite the skater. I was in no way graceful of course. My parents’ may have given me my beauty but poise and grace disappeared somewhere else in another gene pool. I dreamed of being in the X-games. I knew of course that this would never happen. Jumping curbs and flying down a neighborhood hill hardly qualifies as talent. I still loved it though.
At some point in high school, roller derby returned to TV. I’m sure it was on TNT “late nite” after wresting (or Law and Order) and before the “set it and forget it!” rotisserie.
“Oh my god, I use to watch this all the time,” my mom’s excitement comes from the kitchen.
I turn and smile, “What is this?” I was fascinated. They even made quads look better than my inlines.
“It’s stupid,” Dad’s mocking voice chimes in. “It’s like wrestling on wheels. Most of it’s staged. Change the channel.”
If I was smarter at the time, I would have turned to Beavis and Butthead and judged his reaction on which was better. Instead, I stored it away with other shows I would watch at friends’ houses or when the parents weren’t home.
My friends fell out of skating, and I too boxed up the wheels for Goodwill. Off to college I went, and slowly each year, I didn’t even watch the X-Games.
So when I found myself in front of the skating rink two weeks ago, it ALL came flooding back. Would it be like riding a bike? Should I have worn more socks? Am I even fit enough to get on these things again?
Four of us walked in at once.
“You gonna skate?” Betty – swear to god her name was actually Betty – the elderly woman behind the counter asked with a massive roll of tickets.
We stared at each other, at the tickets, at Betty, at each other.
“No,” we all cowardly mumbled.
The anticipation grew as we sat there watching others shuffle around uneasily.
“I’ll go if you go.”
“Well if you go I’ll follow.”
“Okay … maybe after some pizza.”
...
“Shit, let’s just do it. Where’s Betty?”
After helping my friends strap themselves into the inlines, I laced up my own skates. I was one of the brave ones to get the old school quads. There is definitely something nostalgic and yet scary about those tan, well worn, renter skates. They all seem to have the same small. I cautiously stood, remembering I had not been on a pair since I was eight or so. I think Salt N’ Pepper still played on the radio.
I offer one note to those wanting to return to wheels. Skating on that industrial carpet is nothing like skating on the waxed floor. In fact, it’s harder.
My co-workers shuffled along to the rink and started a slow circle. I figured if I was going to fall, might as well fall big. I went out with a fake confidence and took long strides, gliding unintentionally past the co-workers. You know who fell that night? NOT ME.
I think I had more fun weaving in and out of people than actually staying with them to talk. I was no speed demon, mind you. A six year old with a wide stance and danger in his eyes beat me there. Not to mention, there were three or four people with their own skates. I learned my lesson in pool halls; you don’t mess with the ones that have their own equipment.
Coincidently, when I returned home Andy had a particular movie waiting on me. I’m a bit of an Ellen Page and Brew Barrymore fan. The Whip It DVD menu stared at me when I walked into the living room.
“Hell yeah,” I exclaimed kissing Andy hello.
“Any bruises?” he questioned.
“Not a one.’
“We’ll see if you’re lying tomorrow.”
Now if you haven’t figured out from the title of the blog, I fell in love with roller derby again. Yes, I know, it’s just a movie. All I could think though was “I could SO do that.” And it wasn’t because I connected with any of the characters. In fact, it’s not really that type of movie. It was cute, funny, enjoyable, but not awe-inspiring.
“I’m going to be a Roller Derby Star,” I announced the next day at work.
“I could see that.”
“Did you see the movie?”
“You’d be good at it.”
“Yeah you would.”
“I wanna join too.”
What was awkward was I kept hearing “You’d be so good at it!” I wasn’t sure if this was a compliment or not. It’s similar to saying “You’d be awesome at beating the shit out of someone on skates.” Because let’s face it, that’s what most people think it is. Well, it’s not. I now know this.
After enough compliments, I started taking it seriously. I went to the fabulous internet and searched for a league. Wouldn’t you know it? There are four, each no more than two hours away!
This last Sunday, Andy and I packed into the car and headed west to New Haven, Indiana to see the Fort Wayne Derby Girls and Derby Brats. They are the first all women flat track derby team in Indiana. In fact, their creator just recently received an award for outstanding women in business for the county. Go figure. And here they were doing a charity bout in a tiny skating rink for $5 a ticket. Why shouldn’t we go? I really just wanted to see if after watching a match in person, would I still want to join?
Even more so! That would be my answer.
On the way there, I pondered like a silly girl. “Do you think we’re about to enter some weird underground? Will we stick out like sore thumbs?”
Andy shrugged, “Maybe. But I think we can handle it.”
The building was barely marked, but a small marquee said it all. “Derby Girl Bout tonight,” it read as we passed. The lot next to the grey dingy building mimicked the feel. It was more of a mud lot than a parking lot. All the snow had melted for a mushy mess.
We pulled a u-turn. (Which I cheered for because I hate the Ohio banned them) We circled the lot a few times and judged the crowd entering. It was so strange. There were a few of what I assumed would be the classic fans, punkster teens, biker dad, and people who could pass as Pat or Chris. And then, to my confusion, I saw soccer moms with kids in tow.
“I think we’re good,” Andy said pointing to the kids.
“Does that mean there won’t be beer?” Seriously, we thought drinking and derby should go together.
Inside we finally figured out what a “Derby Brat” was. I thought they were just Derby girls in training. I was wrong. Rainbow Brat skated past me in her jersey, pink two-two, and multi colored socks. I think she was a little taller than my waist. Other pink and purple jerseys came out of the wood work. About four looked like they were in high school, but then again you never know. At first, I hoped the petite Rainbow Brat wasn’t going up against the mammoth child, KillHer Bee. Then they hit the rink. She weaved in and out of the girls and snuck behind KillHer Bee throwing hard pointy elbows. Don’t let the princess pink wheels confuse you. She was bad ass, and serious. I think the younger ones were more hardcore on skates than anyone else was.
Near the last jam someone hipped checked my new little hero. She went sliding across the floor and stopped near a referee. Instead of jumping right up, (or even pouting) she quickly and firmly put her hands on her hips and glared at the blocker. The whistle blew and Bad Kitty unwillingly skated to the penalty box.
Andy even got into the game, cheering the half pints on. He doesn’t watch any sports. Of course, he may have been watching the adults warm up more than the kids.
Two or three of the Derby Girls, I must say, were quite hot. Yes, many are stocky and should be. You need weight to thro around when blocking. Some of our favorites of the night included Darc Vader, DOA, and the shorter, stockier Babydoll Beatdown. We were sitting next to the latter’s boyfriend and it was hard not to help in cheering with him. “You got it BB!!”
Before the girls hit the floor the cheesy announcer comes on the speakers, “We have suicide sears tonight ladies and gentlemen. Right there behind the blue lines. We only ask that you’re 18 years or older to sit in the front. It’s insurance reasons kids.”
In front of us, I saw the dreaded blue line about four feet from the “out-of-bounds” line. If you’re sitting there and a girl falls, you will be hit. I’d also keep my hands to myself.
Whether staged or not, the final minutes, nay seconds, relied on one jammer cycle and one point. It was like a basketball game. The last seconds can last FOREVER. Red team had come back from being under 20 points to being one point shy of beating the Black team.
The crowd stood, on the floor, folding chairs, and picnic tables. The teams took their places on the line. First whistle signaled the pack to start. The second whistle released the jammers and they were off, grinding into the floor. In the battle for lead Jammer, DOA and Bone Crusher forced through the first blockers. Suddenly a loud long whistle came from Bad Reputation, the referee, and he crossed his arms over his chest.
“Oh no! I can’t believe this! Bone Crusher to the penalty box! DOA just has to make it through to win! Can black hold her off??”
You can’t help but cheer.
“116 to 114! Red team wins! Red team wins! Rosemary’s Baby, I’m sorry. Red team wins!” By the way, how great of a name is that for the Black team coach?
“When can I buy skates?” I asked when we got back to the car. Andy smiled.
“You still want to do it?”
“Mhmmm.” In my head, I was screaming “Towanda!!” But being that Andy is not a fan of Fried Green Tomatos, I thought “mhmm,” was affirmation enough.
“Roller Derby is our calling in life.” My co-worker reassured me. She was really just bragging to someone else, but it still made me feel good. Yes, it is my latest calling.
Just call me Sid-Knee Vicious.
Screw bringing “sexy back.” I’m bringing skating back. Yes, I know that was lame. I’m keeping it though. I needed to bring it back around full circle to something lame. Yeah, it’s staying.
8:00 pm
I’ve had many goals in my life. Some I’ve reached while others I quit half way through like marathon runner who didn’t stretch. I know that sounded odd, but just stay with me.
Two weeks ago a co-worker invited me to her five year anniversary of turning twenty five. I was hesitant because I knew the party would involve other co-workers and their children I wasn’t sure yet if I had been accepted as a friend and those small things have a way of squealing and being well, children. The temptation of other co-workers bested me, and I found myself following a caravan of cars to the local skating rink.
Now in earlier years of my life, I though myself quite the skater. I was in no way graceful of course. My parents’ may have given me my beauty but poise and grace disappeared somewhere else in another gene pool. I dreamed of being in the X-games. I knew of course that this would never happen. Jumping curbs and flying down a neighborhood hill hardly qualifies as talent. I still loved it though.
At some point in high school, roller derby returned to TV. I’m sure it was on TNT “late nite” after wresting (or Law and Order) and before the “set it and forget it!” rotisserie.
“Oh my god, I use to watch this all the time,” my mom’s excitement comes from the kitchen.
I turn and smile, “What is this?” I was fascinated. They even made quads look better than my inlines.
“It’s stupid,” Dad’s mocking voice chimes in. “It’s like wrestling on wheels. Most of it’s staged. Change the channel.”
If I was smarter at the time, I would have turned to Beavis and Butthead and judged his reaction on which was better. Instead, I stored it away with other shows I would watch at friends’ houses or when the parents weren’t home.
My friends fell out of skating, and I too boxed up the wheels for Goodwill. Off to college I went, and slowly each year, I didn’t even watch the X-Games.
So when I found myself in front of the skating rink two weeks ago, it ALL came flooding back. Would it be like riding a bike? Should I have worn more socks? Am I even fit enough to get on these things again?
Four of us walked in at once.
“You gonna skate?” Betty – swear to god her name was actually Betty – the elderly woman behind the counter asked with a massive roll of tickets.
We stared at each other, at the tickets, at Betty, at each other.
“No,” we all cowardly mumbled.
The anticipation grew as we sat there watching others shuffle around uneasily.
“I’ll go if you go.”
“Well if you go I’ll follow.”
“Okay … maybe after some pizza.”
...
“Shit, let’s just do it. Where’s Betty?”
After helping my friends strap themselves into the inlines, I laced up my own skates. I was one of the brave ones to get the old school quads. There is definitely something nostalgic and yet scary about those tan, well worn, renter skates. They all seem to have the same small. I cautiously stood, remembering I had not been on a pair since I was eight or so. I think Salt N’ Pepper still played on the radio.
I offer one note to those wanting to return to wheels. Skating on that industrial carpet is nothing like skating on the waxed floor. In fact, it’s harder.
My co-workers shuffled along to the rink and started a slow circle. I figured if I was going to fall, might as well fall big. I went out with a fake confidence and took long strides, gliding unintentionally past the co-workers. You know who fell that night? NOT ME.
I think I had more fun weaving in and out of people than actually staying with them to talk. I was no speed demon, mind you. A six year old with a wide stance and danger in his eyes beat me there. Not to mention, there were three or four people with their own skates. I learned my lesson in pool halls; you don’t mess with the ones that have their own equipment.
Coincidently, when I returned home Andy had a particular movie waiting on me. I’m a bit of an Ellen Page and Brew Barrymore fan. The Whip It DVD menu stared at me when I walked into the living room.
“Hell yeah,” I exclaimed kissing Andy hello.
“Any bruises?” he questioned.
“Not a one.’
“We’ll see if you’re lying tomorrow.”
Now if you haven’t figured out from the title of the blog, I fell in love with roller derby again. Yes, I know, it’s just a movie. All I could think though was “I could SO do that.” And it wasn’t because I connected with any of the characters. In fact, it’s not really that type of movie. It was cute, funny, enjoyable, but not awe-inspiring.
“I’m going to be a Roller Derby Star,” I announced the next day at work.
“I could see that.”
“Did you see the movie?”
“You’d be good at it.”
“Yeah you would.”
“I wanna join too.”
What was awkward was I kept hearing “You’d be so good at it!” I wasn’t sure if this was a compliment or not. It’s similar to saying “You’d be awesome at beating the shit out of someone on skates.” Because let’s face it, that’s what most people think it is. Well, it’s not. I now know this.
After enough compliments, I started taking it seriously. I went to the fabulous internet and searched for a league. Wouldn’t you know it? There are four, each no more than two hours away!
This last Sunday, Andy and I packed into the car and headed west to New Haven, Indiana to see the Fort Wayne Derby Girls and Derby Brats. They are the first all women flat track derby team in Indiana. In fact, their creator just recently received an award for outstanding women in business for the county. Go figure. And here they were doing a charity bout in a tiny skating rink for $5 a ticket. Why shouldn’t we go? I really just wanted to see if after watching a match in person, would I still want to join?
Even more so! That would be my answer.
On the way there, I pondered like a silly girl. “Do you think we’re about to enter some weird underground? Will we stick out like sore thumbs?”
Andy shrugged, “Maybe. But I think we can handle it.”
The building was barely marked, but a small marquee said it all. “Derby Girl Bout tonight,” it read as we passed. The lot next to the grey dingy building mimicked the feel. It was more of a mud lot than a parking lot. All the snow had melted for a mushy mess.
We pulled a u-turn. (Which I cheered for because I hate the Ohio banned them) We circled the lot a few times and judged the crowd entering. It was so strange. There were a few of what I assumed would be the classic fans, punkster teens, biker dad, and people who could pass as Pat or Chris. And then, to my confusion, I saw soccer moms with kids in tow.
“I think we’re good,” Andy said pointing to the kids.
“Does that mean there won’t be beer?” Seriously, we thought drinking and derby should go together.
Inside we finally figured out what a “Derby Brat” was. I thought they were just Derby girls in training. I was wrong. Rainbow Brat skated past me in her jersey, pink two-two, and multi colored socks. I think she was a little taller than my waist. Other pink and purple jerseys came out of the wood work. About four looked like they were in high school, but then again you never know. At first, I hoped the petite Rainbow Brat wasn’t going up against the mammoth child, KillHer Bee. Then they hit the rink. She weaved in and out of the girls and snuck behind KillHer Bee throwing hard pointy elbows. Don’t let the princess pink wheels confuse you. She was bad ass, and serious. I think the younger ones were more hardcore on skates than anyone else was.
Near the last jam someone hipped checked my new little hero. She went sliding across the floor and stopped near a referee. Instead of jumping right up, (or even pouting) she quickly and firmly put her hands on her hips and glared at the blocker. The whistle blew and Bad Kitty unwillingly skated to the penalty box.
Andy even got into the game, cheering the half pints on. He doesn’t watch any sports. Of course, he may have been watching the adults warm up more than the kids.
Two or three of the Derby Girls, I must say, were quite hot. Yes, many are stocky and should be. You need weight to thro around when blocking. Some of our favorites of the night included Darc Vader, DOA, and the shorter, stockier Babydoll Beatdown. We were sitting next to the latter’s boyfriend and it was hard not to help in cheering with him. “You got it BB!!”
Before the girls hit the floor the cheesy announcer comes on the speakers, “We have suicide sears tonight ladies and gentlemen. Right there behind the blue lines. We only ask that you’re 18 years or older to sit in the front. It’s insurance reasons kids.”
In front of us, I saw the dreaded blue line about four feet from the “out-of-bounds” line. If you’re sitting there and a girl falls, you will be hit. I’d also keep my hands to myself.
Whether staged or not, the final minutes, nay seconds, relied on one jammer cycle and one point. It was like a basketball game. The last seconds can last FOREVER. Red team had come back from being under 20 points to being one point shy of beating the Black team.
The crowd stood, on the floor, folding chairs, and picnic tables. The teams took their places on the line. First whistle signaled the pack to start. The second whistle released the jammers and they were off, grinding into the floor. In the battle for lead Jammer, DOA and Bone Crusher forced through the first blockers. Suddenly a loud long whistle came from Bad Reputation, the referee, and he crossed his arms over his chest.
“Oh no! I can’t believe this! Bone Crusher to the penalty box! DOA just has to make it through to win! Can black hold her off??”
You can’t help but cheer.
“116 to 114! Red team wins! Red team wins! Rosemary’s Baby, I’m sorry. Red team wins!” By the way, how great of a name is that for the Black team coach?
“When can I buy skates?” I asked when we got back to the car. Andy smiled.
“You still want to do it?”
“Mhmmm.” In my head, I was screaming “Towanda!!” But being that Andy is not a fan of Fried Green Tomatos, I thought “mhmm,” was affirmation enough.
“Roller Derby is our calling in life.” My co-worker reassured me. She was really just bragging to someone else, but it still made me feel good. Yes, it is my latest calling.
Just call me Sid-Knee Vicious.
Screw bringing “sexy back.” I’m bringing skating back. Yes, I know that was lame. I’m keeping it though. I needed to bring it back around full circle to something lame. Yeah, it’s staying.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
I Love you and Other Stupid Things men Say
12:21 PM
I should offer two warnings to begin. One, to my parents, I’m about to talk about boys. Two to the men reading, there will later be a post titled “I’m Listening and Other Conniving Things Women Say.”
I think we should start at the beginning. In kindergarten while the girls were chasing the boys, I was hanging upside down on the monkey bars with them. My brother and I are close enough in age that we played together all the time. It just seemed that all boys should be as fun and cool as him. Alas, not so. My first introduction to other boys landed me a time out at recess with a bag of ice to my busted lip. The cute brown-haired boy punched me.
Maybe, that’s a little too far back.
One of my first “boyfriends” was in middle school. I was a bit of a late bloomer and most boys still didn’t really keep my interest in that way. I had crushes of course, but I could take or leave the opposite sex. Maybe my standards were just too high even then. Chris was dating my friend Lindsay. They held hands, went to movies, and played put-put. For whatever reason, they got bored and went their separate ways. Lindsay in her infinite wisdom said Chris should ask me out. I shrugged my shoulders and said OK. Why not? He gave me a bouquet of daffodils in a Pepsi can one day. It was sweet but what was I to do with them at school? I put them in my locker and they died by the end of the day. My locker and all surrounding ones reaked of dead flowers.
I love that in our middle school the true sign of a relationship always centered around two things. Either you held hands with this person at ALL times, or you were a piece of possibly bad costume jewelry the other had given you. I may have lived in a town of late bloomers.
Let’s skip ahead to my freshman year, where I had my first kiss and first “I love you.” Stupid boy.
I knew Josh years earlier when he both attended a day care, which may have possibly been the worst in the state. I’m not lying here. The paper even wrote about them. It was a good southern day care, with good southern women, who believed spanking still had it’s place in discipline, whether they were their own children or not. Josh was three years older than I was, and even at that time, I thought he was one of the biggest dorks ever. We didn’t see each other for a few years. Puberty seemed to help both our outlooks, and in the end, I thought he was somewhat hot. Now I know I really just thought he looked a whole let better, and that seemed good enough. He broke up with a neighbor friend of mine and two weeks after homecoming, he was holding my hand in the halls. If my first boyfriends hadn’t had such sweaty hands, I might find the act more bearable. Some director – sorry, I don’t remember – decided to redo Hitchcock’s masterpiece, Psycho. I don’t remember, because the parts I did see weren’t that great, and the experience of seeing the movie in general left a sour taste in my mouth. Josh ruined that movie for at least three people opening night: me, and my two friends who came along as a double date. One friend still brings this up on random occasions.
Within the first few scenes of the movie, Josh was trying out his moves. He wasn’t clever, just the basics of the arm around the shoulder and the slow moving in to test his limits.
“Shit,” I thought. “He’s going to kiss me now?!” I really wanted to see the movie. I like Hitchcock films.
But there it was. His big face and wet lips pushing me back. The entire time I should have been thinking about what I was supposed to be doing. It’s not as if you really get lessons in this. However, I think he should have had lessons. All I could think was, “Really?! This is what I’ve been waiting for? What the hell?” A peck from my boyfriend in middle school playing spin the bottle was more entertaining than this.
He pulled away and tried his best to have this proud smile. It reminded me of a cheesy 80’s teen drama. Spot on John Hughes, spot on.
Before I could see the poor blond step into the dreaded shower scene, he was on me again. I remember trying to pull away from him to catch some air. I had sat in the seat against the wall though and there really wasn’t anywhere to go. I sunk down in my chair to get away but this apparently gave him the wrong idea. He just kept coming. I remember thinking that he probably was a good swimmer. Twenty minutes later - my friends had decided to time it from the save the distance they had moved to – he stopped. I breathed a huge sigh of relieve and began to think of a subtle way to wipe his slobber off my mouth. He sat back smug in his chair as the crowd discovered the lonely inn keeper was also the lonely inn keeper’s mother. “We all go a little crazy sometime.”
A few days later, he passed me a note. I waited to read it when I got to class. “I know it seems too soon, and you don’t have to reply if you don’t want to. But I love you.” Thank god, it was a note. If he would have said it to my face, I don’t think I could have hidden my emotions. I was confused and a little angry that we throw this on me so soon. It had to be lie, or at least some line he thought would convince me of other things. Being young and stupid though, I would later reply. Wasn’t that what I supposed to do? Of course, as soon as I said it I knew it wasn’t right.
He would have almost gotten away with the entire routine except one important thing. A year after I decided he really was a bad kisser and just lame, my best friend came to me. “Would you mind if I went out with him?”
“Knock yourself out. Why should I care?” And really why should I care? It’s high school. Even then, I knew the statistics of how many high school sweet hearts actually stayed together through college and beyond.
Men, well boys, should know that girls ALWAYS talk. And sadly, good girl friends talk about everything, sometimes too much. I think for a little while there, she stayed with him just too check if he would use the same pattern as with me. He said he loved her. He wined and dined her, brought her flowers, and unfortunately left her wanting to wipe her mouth after every kiss.
This led to both my girlfriend and I to make an almost unspoken pact. You always upgrade.
…….
I should offer two warnings to begin. One, to my parents, I’m about to talk about boys. Two to the men reading, there will later be a post titled “I’m Listening and Other Conniving Things Women Say.”
I think we should start at the beginning. In kindergarten while the girls were chasing the boys, I was hanging upside down on the monkey bars with them. My brother and I are close enough in age that we played together all the time. It just seemed that all boys should be as fun and cool as him. Alas, not so. My first introduction to other boys landed me a time out at recess with a bag of ice to my busted lip. The cute brown-haired boy punched me.
Maybe, that’s a little too far back.
One of my first “boyfriends” was in middle school. I was a bit of a late bloomer and most boys still didn’t really keep my interest in that way. I had crushes of course, but I could take or leave the opposite sex. Maybe my standards were just too high even then. Chris was dating my friend Lindsay. They held hands, went to movies, and played put-put. For whatever reason, they got bored and went their separate ways. Lindsay in her infinite wisdom said Chris should ask me out. I shrugged my shoulders and said OK. Why not? He gave me a bouquet of daffodils in a Pepsi can one day. It was sweet but what was I to do with them at school? I put them in my locker and they died by the end of the day. My locker and all surrounding ones reaked of dead flowers.
I love that in our middle school the true sign of a relationship always centered around two things. Either you held hands with this person at ALL times, or you were a piece of possibly bad costume jewelry the other had given you. I may have lived in a town of late bloomers.
Let’s skip ahead to my freshman year, where I had my first kiss and first “I love you.” Stupid boy.
I knew Josh years earlier when he both attended a day care, which may have possibly been the worst in the state. I’m not lying here. The paper even wrote about them. It was a good southern day care, with good southern women, who believed spanking still had it’s place in discipline, whether they were their own children or not. Josh was three years older than I was, and even at that time, I thought he was one of the biggest dorks ever. We didn’t see each other for a few years. Puberty seemed to help both our outlooks, and in the end, I thought he was somewhat hot. Now I know I really just thought he looked a whole let better, and that seemed good enough. He broke up with a neighbor friend of mine and two weeks after homecoming, he was holding my hand in the halls. If my first boyfriends hadn’t had such sweaty hands, I might find the act more bearable. Some director – sorry, I don’t remember – decided to redo Hitchcock’s masterpiece, Psycho. I don’t remember, because the parts I did see weren’t that great, and the experience of seeing the movie in general left a sour taste in my mouth. Josh ruined that movie for at least three people opening night: me, and my two friends who came along as a double date. One friend still brings this up on random occasions.
Within the first few scenes of the movie, Josh was trying out his moves. He wasn’t clever, just the basics of the arm around the shoulder and the slow moving in to test his limits.
“Shit,” I thought. “He’s going to kiss me now?!” I really wanted to see the movie. I like Hitchcock films.
But there it was. His big face and wet lips pushing me back. The entire time I should have been thinking about what I was supposed to be doing. It’s not as if you really get lessons in this. However, I think he should have had lessons. All I could think was, “Really?! This is what I’ve been waiting for? What the hell?” A peck from my boyfriend in middle school playing spin the bottle was more entertaining than this.
He pulled away and tried his best to have this proud smile. It reminded me of a cheesy 80’s teen drama. Spot on John Hughes, spot on.
Before I could see the poor blond step into the dreaded shower scene, he was on me again. I remember trying to pull away from him to catch some air. I had sat in the seat against the wall though and there really wasn’t anywhere to go. I sunk down in my chair to get away but this apparently gave him the wrong idea. He just kept coming. I remember thinking that he probably was a good swimmer. Twenty minutes later - my friends had decided to time it from the save the distance they had moved to – he stopped. I breathed a huge sigh of relieve and began to think of a subtle way to wipe his slobber off my mouth. He sat back smug in his chair as the crowd discovered the lonely inn keeper was also the lonely inn keeper’s mother. “We all go a little crazy sometime.”
A few days later, he passed me a note. I waited to read it when I got to class. “I know it seems too soon, and you don’t have to reply if you don’t want to. But I love you.” Thank god, it was a note. If he would have said it to my face, I don’t think I could have hidden my emotions. I was confused and a little angry that we throw this on me so soon. It had to be lie, or at least some line he thought would convince me of other things. Being young and stupid though, I would later reply. Wasn’t that what I supposed to do? Of course, as soon as I said it I knew it wasn’t right.
He would have almost gotten away with the entire routine except one important thing. A year after I decided he really was a bad kisser and just lame, my best friend came to me. “Would you mind if I went out with him?”
“Knock yourself out. Why should I care?” And really why should I care? It’s high school. Even then, I knew the statistics of how many high school sweet hearts actually stayed together through college and beyond.
Men, well boys, should know that girls ALWAYS talk. And sadly, good girl friends talk about everything, sometimes too much. I think for a little while there, she stayed with him just too check if he would use the same pattern as with me. He said he loved her. He wined and dined her, brought her flowers, and unfortunately left her wanting to wipe her mouth after every kiss.
This led to both my girlfriend and I to make an almost unspoken pact. You always upgrade.
…….
Surviving the Givens' Curse
originally 2-26-2010
I was born into a long line of interesting women. I’m not even sure which words to use. They all seem to walk a fine line between psychic and psychotic. It’s an unfortunate situation, but I know I’m not the only one. My mother says that through the generations we’ve become more bearable. With any luck, my daughter won’t eat her own young.
For the longest time we thought these issues only ran through the female side, but since talking to my uncle, we’ve decided it’s just more obvious with the women. Anyone dating us has learned key things to do and look for to warn him/her. I have to say though; the advice for dating a Givens may equally help the general public. My one main advice though, is to have a safe word. When it’s looking bad, just say the safe word, and run from each other. Other wise you will feel the wrath whether we mean it or not. Insults and psychological abuse are an art form we’ve almost mastered.
Men have passed on key phrases through farther and son that you do not say. Yes, you do look fat in that. No, I really don’t like your family. You’re wrong. It’s not that I’m not hungry; you just can’t cook anything edible. You must be on your period to be that angry.
At a very unfortunate time in my young life, I learned there are much worse things to say. When your mother is yelling at you irrationally, do not laugh secretly at her flushed face or bulging vein, and do not ask “are you out of your medication?” The reaction to this can be Hiroshima compared to the blow up of asking about a woman’s period. You also for no reason should ever say, “You’re acting just like your mother.” No matter how serious the argument, don’t throw this out! Even if you think it’s the last option you have, think again. There is ALWAYS something better.
I recently was given the permission to tell my mother if she ever started acting like my grandmother. Even if this ever happens, I still don’t think I could say it.
“You’re acting just like……” Nope. I can’t even pretend to say it. I can already feel myself wincing. Not from a physical lashing, mind you. We never as children received physical punishment that we didn’t deserve. If we did, I at least don’t remember.
You know that phrase “If looks could kill?” Well my family perfected it. We don’t just kill you with a look; we torture you and bury you alive.
I have to say though that it’s not all bad. In fact, a lot of it is quite funny. Then again, I can laugh at just about anything after it’s happened. Looking back on it, the memory of asking my mom if she was out of drugs, is funny. I don’t even fully remember what we were getting in trouble for originally, but I like to remember it as something silly like a fork wasn’t cleaned to perfection but still put back in the drawer. Who knows, maybe I used a wire hanger.
There are stories of my grandmother’s aggression too that have there place even in stand-up comedy. You just can’t make it up. My favorite has always been a punishment dealt out to my uncle. Sadly, the rest of the family was caught in the shockwave. In the history of the family, it is actually a more subtle act for my grandmother, but I love it just the same.
One summer my uncle, Don, had been playing outside shirtless. With all the heat and humidity, it’s a pretty common thing. I’m sure my grandfather worked outside shirtless too. But no matter what the day’s events held grandmother always wanted you to be a bit more formal at dinner. That included a shirt. Don showed up a few times to dinner shirtless and was warned and made to put on a shirt. One fine day my grandmother set the table and waited for everyone to sit down. Don sat down shirtless, again. Grandmother quietly stands up from her chair and leaves the table. I assume everyone thought she had forgotten something in the kitchen. (Thankfully, I was not remotely in existence yet. I’ll have to get the full details later from the family)
Grandmother returns a few minutes later and sits down putting her napkin in her lap. At this point, I’m certain Don let out a muffled scream and thought of his escape to get a shirt. My grandmother sat there making her plate with everything hanging out. Does anything kill a young boy's appetite like seeing their mother topless?
I still laugh at his face to this day when he tells the story. I can’t imagine it was so bad though. I had to help her get into a shower after having open heart surgery a few years ago. I think that imagine may be more unsettling than decades ago with her just topless.
He would like for me at some point to write a full novel dedicated to “Surviving the Givens Curse” complete with stories, advice and possible solutions. Personally, I like my mother’s idea better, “living better through chemicals.” Doctors really have come far.
I was born into a long line of interesting women. I’m not even sure which words to use. They all seem to walk a fine line between psychic and psychotic. It’s an unfortunate situation, but I know I’m not the only one. My mother says that through the generations we’ve become more bearable. With any luck, my daughter won’t eat her own young.
For the longest time we thought these issues only ran through the female side, but since talking to my uncle, we’ve decided it’s just more obvious with the women. Anyone dating us has learned key things to do and look for to warn him/her. I have to say though; the advice for dating a Givens may equally help the general public. My one main advice though, is to have a safe word. When it’s looking bad, just say the safe word, and run from each other. Other wise you will feel the wrath whether we mean it or not. Insults and psychological abuse are an art form we’ve almost mastered.
Men have passed on key phrases through farther and son that you do not say. Yes, you do look fat in that. No, I really don’t like your family. You’re wrong. It’s not that I’m not hungry; you just can’t cook anything edible. You must be on your period to be that angry.
At a very unfortunate time in my young life, I learned there are much worse things to say. When your mother is yelling at you irrationally, do not laugh secretly at her flushed face or bulging vein, and do not ask “are you out of your medication?” The reaction to this can be Hiroshima compared to the blow up of asking about a woman’s period. You also for no reason should ever say, “You’re acting just like your mother.” No matter how serious the argument, don’t throw this out! Even if you think it’s the last option you have, think again. There is ALWAYS something better.
I recently was given the permission to tell my mother if she ever started acting like my grandmother. Even if this ever happens, I still don’t think I could say it.
“You’re acting just like……” Nope. I can’t even pretend to say it. I can already feel myself wincing. Not from a physical lashing, mind you. We never as children received physical punishment that we didn’t deserve. If we did, I at least don’t remember.
You know that phrase “If looks could kill?” Well my family perfected it. We don’t just kill you with a look; we torture you and bury you alive.
I have to say though that it’s not all bad. In fact, a lot of it is quite funny. Then again, I can laugh at just about anything after it’s happened. Looking back on it, the memory of asking my mom if she was out of drugs, is funny. I don’t even fully remember what we were getting in trouble for originally, but I like to remember it as something silly like a fork wasn’t cleaned to perfection but still put back in the drawer. Who knows, maybe I used a wire hanger.
There are stories of my grandmother’s aggression too that have there place even in stand-up comedy. You just can’t make it up. My favorite has always been a punishment dealt out to my uncle. Sadly, the rest of the family was caught in the shockwave. In the history of the family, it is actually a more subtle act for my grandmother, but I love it just the same.
One summer my uncle, Don, had been playing outside shirtless. With all the heat and humidity, it’s a pretty common thing. I’m sure my grandfather worked outside shirtless too. But no matter what the day’s events held grandmother always wanted you to be a bit more formal at dinner. That included a shirt. Don showed up a few times to dinner shirtless and was warned and made to put on a shirt. One fine day my grandmother set the table and waited for everyone to sit down. Don sat down shirtless, again. Grandmother quietly stands up from her chair and leaves the table. I assume everyone thought she had forgotten something in the kitchen. (Thankfully, I was not remotely in existence yet. I’ll have to get the full details later from the family)
Grandmother returns a few minutes later and sits down putting her napkin in her lap. At this point, I’m certain Don let out a muffled scream and thought of his escape to get a shirt. My grandmother sat there making her plate with everything hanging out. Does anything kill a young boy's appetite like seeing their mother topless?
I still laugh at his face to this day when he tells the story. I can’t imagine it was so bad though. I had to help her get into a shower after having open heart surgery a few years ago. I think that imagine may be more unsettling than decades ago with her just topless.
He would like for me at some point to write a full novel dedicated to “Surviving the Givens Curse” complete with stories, advice and possible solutions. Personally, I like my mother’s idea better, “living better through chemicals.” Doctors really have come far.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
The Bucket List
There's nothing clever about this post. I’m working on something a bit wittier for the next post. This is just the basic, would like to do at some point in my life, in no particular order. Some are the basic common ones; others are a little bit more complicated.
See a symphony play “The Planets.”
Dance a waltz at a real masquerade.
See a Broadway play and then go out for burgers. I want to wear an awesome evening dress to both events.
Ice skate. I’m now the closest to being able to do this living in the north and yet I still haven’t. This is also true for my wish of skiing and snowboarding.
I want to surf on North Shore, or possibly wipe out on the beach.
Take surfing lessons.
Take an adult beginners lesson in ballet, jazz, or tap dance.
Learn to play the cello or stand up bass.
Visit another country. At one time, I was picky about this, now not so much. But if I’m winning the lottery and get to choose then, Ireland, Scotland, Italy, Australia, New Zealand, Canada, Germany, Tibet, and Japan. That’s just to name a few. Others of course are dependent on other wishes farther on the list.
See the main opera by Wagner in Germany. I’ll be honest; I don’t remember the name of the opera right now.
Swim with manta rays, but hopefully not the same ones the crocodile hunter dove with.
Sail.
Take a cruise.
Break dance.
Play the steel drums or maybe even make my own.
Design a surf board. Not the body itself, but the artwork on it.
See a roller derby competition.
“Flip” a house, and paint it the best shade of yellow ever.
Have a decent garden and grove with all of my favorite fruits. I’ll then make tons of jelly and jam for everyone.
Stand in front of a Jackson Pollack painting.
See the northern lights.
Taste a Bordeaux wine in Bordeaux. After that, I’ll have to go to the Louvre.
Slide down a stair banister big enough for adults.
Solve a corn maze.
Jump from a perfectly good plane.
See a Circe De Soleil performance.
Own a white bull terrier named Frankie.
Star gaze in a dessert.
Climb a tree to get a coconut.
Carve a piece of marble, as well as ice.
See Julia Child’s kitchen at the Smithsonian. There’s tons of other stuff I want to see there too.
Eat at the Whistle Stop Café. Though I’m sure, it’s not open anymore.
Watch the running of the bulls.
See the Taj Mahal.
Create a floor size mosaic with one inch tiles.
Learn to sew.
Learn to throw knives and/or axes. I don’t want to for protection or as a weapon. I like the sport.
See the Jim Henson studio and hopefully one of the numerous Kermits.
See a midnight showing of Rocky Horror Picture Show, complete with participants.
See a Chinese New Year parade. I’ll settle for a China Town.
Hit someone with a fish. I also want to throw a tomato at someone.
Shoot a bow and arrow.
Weave a basket underwater.
See at least one match of the following sporting events, Rugby, Polo, Cricket, and NCAA basketball. A World Cup, Olympics, Bowl Game, or March Madness final would also be nice.
Get published, but you already knew that.
I’m sure there are others, but that is my thirty minutes.
See a symphony play “The Planets.”
Dance a waltz at a real masquerade.
See a Broadway play and then go out for burgers. I want to wear an awesome evening dress to both events.
Ice skate. I’m now the closest to being able to do this living in the north and yet I still haven’t. This is also true for my wish of skiing and snowboarding.
I want to surf on North Shore, or possibly wipe out on the beach.
Take surfing lessons.
Take an adult beginners lesson in ballet, jazz, or tap dance.
Learn to play the cello or stand up bass.
Visit another country. At one time, I was picky about this, now not so much. But if I’m winning the lottery and get to choose then, Ireland, Scotland, Italy, Australia, New Zealand, Canada, Germany, Tibet, and Japan. That’s just to name a few. Others of course are dependent on other wishes farther on the list.
See the main opera by Wagner in Germany. I’ll be honest; I don’t remember the name of the opera right now.
Swim with manta rays, but hopefully not the same ones the crocodile hunter dove with.
Sail.
Take a cruise.
Break dance.
Play the steel drums or maybe even make my own.
Design a surf board. Not the body itself, but the artwork on it.
See a roller derby competition.
“Flip” a house, and paint it the best shade of yellow ever.
Have a decent garden and grove with all of my favorite fruits. I’ll then make tons of jelly and jam for everyone.
Stand in front of a Jackson Pollack painting.
See the northern lights.
Taste a Bordeaux wine in Bordeaux. After that, I’ll have to go to the Louvre.
Slide down a stair banister big enough for adults.
Solve a corn maze.
Jump from a perfectly good plane.
See a Circe De Soleil performance.
Own a white bull terrier named Frankie.
Star gaze in a dessert.
Climb a tree to get a coconut.
Carve a piece of marble, as well as ice.
See Julia Child’s kitchen at the Smithsonian. There’s tons of other stuff I want to see there too.
Eat at the Whistle Stop Café. Though I’m sure, it’s not open anymore.
Watch the running of the bulls.
See the Taj Mahal.
Create a floor size mosaic with one inch tiles.
Learn to sew.
Learn to throw knives and/or axes. I don’t want to for protection or as a weapon. I like the sport.
See the Jim Henson studio and hopefully one of the numerous Kermits.
See a midnight showing of Rocky Horror Picture Show, complete with participants.
See a Chinese New Year parade. I’ll settle for a China Town.
Hit someone with a fish. I also want to throw a tomato at someone.
Shoot a bow and arrow.
Weave a basket underwater.
See at least one match of the following sporting events, Rugby, Polo, Cricket, and NCAA basketball. A World Cup, Olympics, Bowl Game, or March Madness final would also be nice.
Get published, but you already knew that.
I’m sure there are others, but that is my thirty minutes.
Basically Frightened
In the words of Col. Bruce Hampton, “I am basically frightened.” I have irrational fears, lots of them. I know I’m not alone though. Anyone who says they aren’t scared of anything is lying. They’re lying to themselves and attempting to convince blind fools. I don’t trust these people, any more than I trust people who say they have no stereotypes or prejudices. Get over yourself. Step down from the pedestal and join the every man. I think the only difference in people is how rationally they handle the irrational. Screeching and running away is NOT a rational response. Knowing this however does not stop me from doing just that.
How about instead we just laugh at the scary monsters? I pretty much have to laugh to keep from letting the irrational take over. In no particular order, the following are my most irrational fears.
In Athens, I feared granddaddy longlegs. The scorpions freaked me out at first. After realizing they mainly were stuck in lights or I stepped on them before seeing them, I lost the fear. Not to mention, those scorpions were babies in comparison to their cousins overseas.
My brother one Halloween thought it would be the best prank ever to throw a granddaddy longlegs at me in the middle of the kitchen. I’m sure if the parents had been home, they would have stopped him. Then again, they may have laughed more at my reaction. I’m sure we did quite a comedic routine running circles around the dining room table. I may even have locked myself in my room. Either way, I don’t remembering passing out much candy that night.
Granddaddies luckily lost their creepiness when I moved to Savannah. A much more devilish creature lives there, the Kamikaze Palmetto Bug. If you’re not near palms, it’s a massive roach with wings. I think the only one I’ve killed died by shoe shot-put. Ten feet seems like a reasonable safe distance from the nuclear blast surviving creepy crawlies. They see it differently. You’re not safe from them anywhere. Walking downtown in crowds of people, I could still see them bee lining for a show. It was like a twisted game of Frogger. They find their way into houses through various cracks, windows, and worst of all sink and tub drains. If I found one in one bathroom of the house, I would run to the other and pray someone else found and destroyed it for me. One summer I even had one so determined to fly around my living room that I gave up and decided to live upstairs for a few days. Thankfully, it made itself scarce within a few hours. Nothing however prepares you for a true attack from the trees. I thought only a leaf had fallen on my head. Imagine my surprise when I went to brush the leaf out of my hair and it brushed back. I may have created a new dance that night.
Thankfully, no one was harmed in my fit. I however almost lost an arm because of someone else’s irrational fit. My brother and I were oddly enough taught at a young age about snakes. I won’t say they’re my friends, but I do respect them and can easily be in the same room, as long as can both see each other.
One of my aunts though is terrified of snakes. She is so scared that she feels the need to save everyone from them, including her seven year old niece. I remember standing on the boat ramp waiting for my dad to pull in when it happened. A scream broke the air at the same time I felt a death grip around my arm. I looked down to see my feet leaving the asphalt and the river getting farther and farther away. At a save distance, she let me go.
“What?!” I demanded rubbing my arm.
“SNAKE!” she pointed towards the river bank.
I didn’t even have to look. As a kid taught to respect snakes, you also had to learn where to look for them.
“It’s dead.” I sassed.
“But…” she panted, “it’s a snake!”
“And it’s belly up and bloated.”
No matter my argument, it apparently was still a snake. I was not aloud to leave my post until my parents were out of the boat and calmed her down. Let’s just say she didn’t get in the river that day.
Creepy crawlies and slithery, slimy beasts I assume are the more common irrational fears. How about some ridiculous ones?
I am scared of Martha Stewart. I watch her show, but only because she’s trapped in a studio then. I’m almost certain the woman would kill a neighbor’s mutt if it pissed on the wrong rose bush.
I am scared of people who don’t know who Jim Henson is. You’re not worth talking to.
I’m not scared of dying so much as finding out we’re all wrong about after life. This is of course stupid though, because I won’t exist then.
I’m scared of the Law and Order theme song. I run to change the channel as soon as hear the tone. I only recently started changing the channel back to try to watch an episode.
I’m scared of being upside down or going fast with out being in control. I’m getting better at though.
I’m scared of people who dress like their dogs when it’s not a holiday or a parade.
I’m scared of shriners’ cars.
I’m scared of unlit basements with drains. It puts the lotion on its skin.
I’m scared of people who think aliens and other life forms don’t exist. It seems selfish to think we’re the only ones in such a big universe.
I’m scared of parent’s who don’t read Dr. Seuss to their kids.
I’m scared of baby pink bride’s maid dresses.
I’m scared of people who have their own names tattooed on them. Does their family have a long line of amnesia patients? Or do they think they’ll be unconscious without any other form of ID at some point?
But most of all, I’m scared of Santa Clause, the Easter Bunny, mascots and clowns. I’ve learned to deal with Harry Dawg of UGA some how. However, the last time I saw Chuckie Cheese I almost pissed myself and dove into the ball pit. It wasn’t until I found out a friend was in the costume that I calmed down slightly. Did I mention I was in high school at the time?
I’ve read different theories on the causes of such fears. One said it comes from subconscious memories of childhood. Another theory said it comes from your past life. We won’t argue reincarnation as fact or fiction now. Let’s just think hypothetically with these theories. I’d say some crazy parties were in my past.
How about instead we just laugh at the scary monsters? I pretty much have to laugh to keep from letting the irrational take over. In no particular order, the following are my most irrational fears.
In Athens, I feared granddaddy longlegs. The scorpions freaked me out at first. After realizing they mainly were stuck in lights or I stepped on them before seeing them, I lost the fear. Not to mention, those scorpions were babies in comparison to their cousins overseas.
My brother one Halloween thought it would be the best prank ever to throw a granddaddy longlegs at me in the middle of the kitchen. I’m sure if the parents had been home, they would have stopped him. Then again, they may have laughed more at my reaction. I’m sure we did quite a comedic routine running circles around the dining room table. I may even have locked myself in my room. Either way, I don’t remembering passing out much candy that night.
Granddaddies luckily lost their creepiness when I moved to Savannah. A much more devilish creature lives there, the Kamikaze Palmetto Bug. If you’re not near palms, it’s a massive roach with wings. I think the only one I’ve killed died by shoe shot-put. Ten feet seems like a reasonable safe distance from the nuclear blast surviving creepy crawlies. They see it differently. You’re not safe from them anywhere. Walking downtown in crowds of people, I could still see them bee lining for a show. It was like a twisted game of Frogger. They find their way into houses through various cracks, windows, and worst of all sink and tub drains. If I found one in one bathroom of the house, I would run to the other and pray someone else found and destroyed it for me. One summer I even had one so determined to fly around my living room that I gave up and decided to live upstairs for a few days. Thankfully, it made itself scarce within a few hours. Nothing however prepares you for a true attack from the trees. I thought only a leaf had fallen on my head. Imagine my surprise when I went to brush the leaf out of my hair and it brushed back. I may have created a new dance that night.
Thankfully, no one was harmed in my fit. I however almost lost an arm because of someone else’s irrational fit. My brother and I were oddly enough taught at a young age about snakes. I won’t say they’re my friends, but I do respect them and can easily be in the same room, as long as can both see each other.
One of my aunts though is terrified of snakes. She is so scared that she feels the need to save everyone from them, including her seven year old niece. I remember standing on the boat ramp waiting for my dad to pull in when it happened. A scream broke the air at the same time I felt a death grip around my arm. I looked down to see my feet leaving the asphalt and the river getting farther and farther away. At a save distance, she let me go.
“What?!” I demanded rubbing my arm.
“SNAKE!” she pointed towards the river bank.
I didn’t even have to look. As a kid taught to respect snakes, you also had to learn where to look for them.
“It’s dead.” I sassed.
“But…” she panted, “it’s a snake!”
“And it’s belly up and bloated.”
No matter my argument, it apparently was still a snake. I was not aloud to leave my post until my parents were out of the boat and calmed her down. Let’s just say she didn’t get in the river that day.
Creepy crawlies and slithery, slimy beasts I assume are the more common irrational fears. How about some ridiculous ones?
I am scared of Martha Stewart. I watch her show, but only because she’s trapped in a studio then. I’m almost certain the woman would kill a neighbor’s mutt if it pissed on the wrong rose bush.
I am scared of people who don’t know who Jim Henson is. You’re not worth talking to.
I’m not scared of dying so much as finding out we’re all wrong about after life. This is of course stupid though, because I won’t exist then.
I’m scared of the Law and Order theme song. I run to change the channel as soon as hear the tone. I only recently started changing the channel back to try to watch an episode.
I’m scared of being upside down or going fast with out being in control. I’m getting better at though.
I’m scared of people who dress like their dogs when it’s not a holiday or a parade.
I’m scared of shriners’ cars.
I’m scared of unlit basements with drains. It puts the lotion on its skin.
I’m scared of people who think aliens and other life forms don’t exist. It seems selfish to think we’re the only ones in such a big universe.
I’m scared of parent’s who don’t read Dr. Seuss to their kids.
I’m scared of baby pink bride’s maid dresses.
I’m scared of people who have their own names tattooed on them. Does their family have a long line of amnesia patients? Or do they think they’ll be unconscious without any other form of ID at some point?
But most of all, I’m scared of Santa Clause, the Easter Bunny, mascots and clowns. I’ve learned to deal with Harry Dawg of UGA some how. However, the last time I saw Chuckie Cheese I almost pissed myself and dove into the ball pit. It wasn’t until I found out a friend was in the costume that I calmed down slightly. Did I mention I was in high school at the time?
I’ve read different theories on the causes of such fears. One said it comes from subconscious memories of childhood. Another theory said it comes from your past life. We won’t argue reincarnation as fact or fiction now. Let’s just think hypothetically with these theories. I’d say some crazy parties were in my past.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Who won the bet?
This was written last night. Could not get the neighbors router to work until this morning.
I will be perfectly honest. I don’t feel like writing tonight. We all knew it would happen right? So who won the bet? Who had six nights? Obviously, I’m not god. I couldn’t wait until the seventh day to rest.
I wasn’t really in the mood to do anything artistic today. I started to work on a tattoo and worked fast, just so I could be done. The poor pummello didn’t see it coming. By the way, yes that is a real fruit. After I’ve had my fun tattooing it, I’ll have to try it and see what it actually tastes like. The grocery store says it taste like a cross between a grapefruit and an orange. It’s the largest citrus fruit I’ve ever seen.
The only semi-artistic or creative thing I do tonight will probably be to knit. It is quite funny to see next to my couch the juxtaposition of supplies. There is the box of tattoo needles, machine, and ink. On top of the box is an over filled bag of baby soft yarn, blunt needles, and patterns.
I may be the oddest “crafter” ever.
I’m just glad I have a family that loves homemade gifts. Even at my age, the family is happier to get home made gifts as opposed to bought ones. Sometimes this saves me money, but I’m not sure it saves me any time. I’ve turned into a grandmother in my twenties. I'm planning Christmas presents in March. After this last Christmas, I had to start thinking of things the next day. Some part of me feels like I need to better each year, or at least stay par. Staying par with children’s’ portraits, painted wine glasses, and a homemade Christmas Story inspired leg lamp, is not going to be easy. I have ideas though. Let’s just hope I don’t rest on the sixth day with these ideas.
Yep. No ideas. I don't think the TV on is helping. Monday nights are my guilty pleasure. I still love sitcoms. I also enjoy sitcoms that feature actors from other sitcoms I use to obsess over. I know Jenna Elfman is not the best actress ever, but Dharma and Greg made me happy and I keep looking for that in Accidently on Purpose. My mother and I use to watch Roseanne possibly too much. I had a crush on a particular glasses wearing, dorky, brunette character now on Big Bang Theory. And should we discuss Two and a Half Men? I once had a roommate whose favorite movie was Pretty in Pink. She loves Jon Cryer. Every character he plays always reminds me of one of my best friends, who we shall call, hmmm, Jonathan. Charlie Sheen comes with his own history, but that would take more than just one blog entry. It may even take more than just one blog. My one issue with the show is the kid. I’ll give him credit, he’s getting better. I think I’m biased though. To me, most kid actors don’t belong on sitcoms. Maybe they don’t get enough attention from the director. I’m not sure. Either way they just can’t act and bring down a lot of the humor. The Cosby children might be one of the best exceptions though to this theory. I’m not even sure the Beave was that great. This of course does not stop my dad from still watching it and laughing with nostalgia. Leave it to Beaver is funnier in Spanish.
It’s been 30 minutes and I think I’ve stared and tapped my fingers more than typed.
I’ll accept ideas now for tomorrow night, just in case my brain is still on vacation. This depends on if the borrowed internet works.
I will be perfectly honest. I don’t feel like writing tonight. We all knew it would happen right? So who won the bet? Who had six nights? Obviously, I’m not god. I couldn’t wait until the seventh day to rest.
I wasn’t really in the mood to do anything artistic today. I started to work on a tattoo and worked fast, just so I could be done. The poor pummello didn’t see it coming. By the way, yes that is a real fruit. After I’ve had my fun tattooing it, I’ll have to try it and see what it actually tastes like. The grocery store says it taste like a cross between a grapefruit and an orange. It’s the largest citrus fruit I’ve ever seen.
The only semi-artistic or creative thing I do tonight will probably be to knit. It is quite funny to see next to my couch the juxtaposition of supplies. There is the box of tattoo needles, machine, and ink. On top of the box is an over filled bag of baby soft yarn, blunt needles, and patterns.
I may be the oddest “crafter” ever.
I’m just glad I have a family that loves homemade gifts. Even at my age, the family is happier to get home made gifts as opposed to bought ones. Sometimes this saves me money, but I’m not sure it saves me any time. I’ve turned into a grandmother in my twenties. I'm planning Christmas presents in March. After this last Christmas, I had to start thinking of things the next day. Some part of me feels like I need to better each year, or at least stay par. Staying par with children’s’ portraits, painted wine glasses, and a homemade Christmas Story inspired leg lamp, is not going to be easy. I have ideas though. Let’s just hope I don’t rest on the sixth day with these ideas.
Yep. No ideas. I don't think the TV on is helping. Monday nights are my guilty pleasure. I still love sitcoms. I also enjoy sitcoms that feature actors from other sitcoms I use to obsess over. I know Jenna Elfman is not the best actress ever, but Dharma and Greg made me happy and I keep looking for that in Accidently on Purpose. My mother and I use to watch Roseanne possibly too much. I had a crush on a particular glasses wearing, dorky, brunette character now on Big Bang Theory. And should we discuss Two and a Half Men? I once had a roommate whose favorite movie was Pretty in Pink. She loves Jon Cryer. Every character he plays always reminds me of one of my best friends, who we shall call, hmmm, Jonathan. Charlie Sheen comes with his own history, but that would take more than just one blog entry. It may even take more than just one blog. My one issue with the show is the kid. I’ll give him credit, he’s getting better. I think I’m biased though. To me, most kid actors don’t belong on sitcoms. Maybe they don’t get enough attention from the director. I’m not sure. Either way they just can’t act and bring down a lot of the humor. The Cosby children might be one of the best exceptions though to this theory. I’m not even sure the Beave was that great. This of course does not stop my dad from still watching it and laughing with nostalgia. Leave it to Beaver is funnier in Spanish.
It’s been 30 minutes and I think I’ve stared and tapped my fingers more than typed.
I’ll accept ideas now for tomorrow night, just in case my brain is still on vacation. This depends on if the borrowed internet works.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
How Babies are like Puppies
I’m sure some readers were just turned off by the title. Get over it.
To begin with, we all we seem to think puppies and babies are the cutest sweetest things ever. Recently I even saw a documentary on why we think this. Did you know it’s the roundness of the eyes? Apparently, the features of babies and puppies stir some instinct in us. We see them and automatically want to protect them. Of course, those that hate babies possibly hate small terrier puppies too.
It’s still however a front for something that is in no way cute other than at that age.
Babies put everything in their mouths, like a teething puppy. Nothing is safe from slobber and teeth marks. They seem to know to what object you most desire. Puppies grab the favorite red pumps, while babies find jewelry, or even your hair.
Things seem to come out of both creatures that make you wonder. Constantly I have heard dog owners and new parents exclaim, “You should have seen the shit come out of ‘em last night!” At least puppies don’t go through the multiple shade phases. Babies seem to however hit that one point where changing a diaper is like a grab bag. You never know what it’s going to look like.
It goes without saying too, that both go through an awkward movement time. Puppies trip over their massive paws or floppy ears. Babies, well they just trip over everything. At least they have diapers then. It’s like a built in cushion, saving you from breaking any ass bones.
In retail, you discover other similarities, possibly faster than other professions. When one baby lets out a blood curdling scream in a store, it triggers other children. Eventually, if you don’t stop the first one, the entire store is listening to a symphony of cries. Any one who lives in a neighborhood of dogs has heard this with barking. One dog can not howl alone, which leads to night time behaviors.
I don’t know a single parent who hasn’t had to wake up in the middle of the night or at least extremely early in the morning. I think puppies and babies were made with the same internal clock. They don’t understand what a weekend is. I’d like to say they’re cheaper and more effective than an alarm clock, but they aren’t. They’re definitely not cheaper. Not by a long shot.
I would even argue that we put both critters in cages. They only difference is I can lock my dog in a cage and leave the house. Not sure we’re aloud to do that with babies. Wouldn’t it be nice sometimes if we could? Something tells me that the parents who feel the need to put a leash on their toddlers, probably consider this almost every day.
I’m fairly certain too that parents of bad children yell at their offspring as often and unnecessarily as owners of bad dogs. They tend to clap at them just as much too when they succeed at something. “Good job!” clap, clap, clap. “You got the ball!”
I have to end this short blog with one other fact.
There is such thing as an ugly baby. I know I’ve seen them. Of course, no baby in my family is ugly. And if there were, I still wouldn’t say it. Luckily, dogs have a way out. You can easily say, “That dog is just so ugly it’s cute!” You say this about a child and I’m certain you’ll be the owner of a new black eye. But they do exist. They exist even more than Santa Clause does.
On a side note, I apologize for the shortness. People are at the house and I can not enjoy my usual 30 minutes. This also means I did not edit/proofread. Tomorrow, I will have to tack on more time.
To begin with, we all we seem to think puppies and babies are the cutest sweetest things ever. Recently I even saw a documentary on why we think this. Did you know it’s the roundness of the eyes? Apparently, the features of babies and puppies stir some instinct in us. We see them and automatically want to protect them. Of course, those that hate babies possibly hate small terrier puppies too.
It’s still however a front for something that is in no way cute other than at that age.
Babies put everything in their mouths, like a teething puppy. Nothing is safe from slobber and teeth marks. They seem to know to what object you most desire. Puppies grab the favorite red pumps, while babies find jewelry, or even your hair.
Things seem to come out of both creatures that make you wonder. Constantly I have heard dog owners and new parents exclaim, “You should have seen the shit come out of ‘em last night!” At least puppies don’t go through the multiple shade phases. Babies seem to however hit that one point where changing a diaper is like a grab bag. You never know what it’s going to look like.
It goes without saying too, that both go through an awkward movement time. Puppies trip over their massive paws or floppy ears. Babies, well they just trip over everything. At least they have diapers then. It’s like a built in cushion, saving you from breaking any ass bones.
In retail, you discover other similarities, possibly faster than other professions. When one baby lets out a blood curdling scream in a store, it triggers other children. Eventually, if you don’t stop the first one, the entire store is listening to a symphony of cries. Any one who lives in a neighborhood of dogs has heard this with barking. One dog can not howl alone, which leads to night time behaviors.
I don’t know a single parent who hasn’t had to wake up in the middle of the night or at least extremely early in the morning. I think puppies and babies were made with the same internal clock. They don’t understand what a weekend is. I’d like to say they’re cheaper and more effective than an alarm clock, but they aren’t. They’re definitely not cheaper. Not by a long shot.
I would even argue that we put both critters in cages. They only difference is I can lock my dog in a cage and leave the house. Not sure we’re aloud to do that with babies. Wouldn’t it be nice sometimes if we could? Something tells me that the parents who feel the need to put a leash on their toddlers, probably consider this almost every day.
I’m fairly certain too that parents of bad children yell at their offspring as often and unnecessarily as owners of bad dogs. They tend to clap at them just as much too when they succeed at something. “Good job!” clap, clap, clap. “You got the ball!”
I have to end this short blog with one other fact.
There is such thing as an ugly baby. I know I’ve seen them. Of course, no baby in my family is ugly. And if there were, I still wouldn’t say it. Luckily, dogs have a way out. You can easily say, “That dog is just so ugly it’s cute!” You say this about a child and I’m certain you’ll be the owner of a new black eye. But they do exist. They exist even more than Santa Clause does.
On a side note, I apologize for the shortness. People are at the house and I can not enjoy my usual 30 minutes. This also means I did not edit/proofread. Tomorrow, I will have to tack on more time.
Dear Future Renters and Homeowners
In the few short years I’ve been out of my parents’ house, I’ve lived in a myriad of homes. I’ve suffered the dorm, apartments, townhomes, ghetto shacks, shanties, and houses. This in no way makes me an expert at living arrangements, but I have however learned a few things, and have a little advice on choosing the best town and living situation. This knowledge I will dispense now.
When shopping for homes in a low country, always look on rainy days. Nothing says “welcome to the neighborhood” quite like a flash flood. Houses on a slope may seem like a fix, but where do you park your car?
A fenced in yard protects your dogs only as much as the children in the neighborhood. If they’re little shits, they’ll inevitably leave the gate open.
Speaking of pets, always drive the “walking route” first. You’ll save yourself the annoyance of the critter walking on the half broken bottle of a bar fight or eating that trash you just really don’t want to see twice.
Your best friend is NOT your best roommate. This rule thankfully has exceptions. Just remember, hanging out with someone all the time is not like living with him or her. (This of course also replies to relationships.)
Do NOT have sex with your roommate. Even if you want to date him/her, don’t do it. Kick them out, and then see if you still want to go down that road. Chances are you were really just bored or lonely, and it was an easy lay. The only upside to said arrangement is you don’t have to feel the awkwardness like sleeping somewhere else. You don’t have to ask yourself, “How long do I stay here? Can I leave while they’re sleeping? Jeeze, I wish I had my own pillow. What is that weird smell?”
Living with people you work with isn’t always the best idea ever either. Sometimes when you leave the house, you really just want to LEAVE the house and all behind you.
Back to the town itself.
Drive the main part of town between 5-8pm. How many restaurants are full? Some of you may be laughing, but I’m dead serious about this. We’ve established in our current town that NO ONE cooks. Well maybe the German Baptist and Mennonite, but they don’t count. Every where, including fast food places are packed. Yet, somehow, when I applied at a restraint here they said servers brought in $100 Saturday nights. Coming from a touristy town, that sucks. So, they’re cheap, hungry people.
The Verizon Wireless store I also always packed, but I haven’t figured out the cause of that yet. Maybe it’s because there are no other carriers locally.
When we chose this town, I thought I did the mature thing by checking tax information, cost of living, and unemployment history. I forgot however to check carriers for phone, cable, internet, and more importantly bank. Bank of America may need to change their name. Bank of the South? Or Bank of Places we can find on the map?
I didn’t realize how different some food prices are either. This however is trivial now that you can get everything on the internet.
If still of a “party age,’ find a local and ask where they go. If every bar/club they mention is out of town, you may want to think again. I like going out, but no drink is worth an hour drive. Maybe Patron shots for a dollar? No, not even that.
Maybe I’m too practical.
I’m learning too, there are certain key things about a town that will tell you how ghetto, white trash, dirty, or red neck the place is. Ask yourself these following questions.
How many locally owned donut or waffle places are there?
How many restaurants can you see the cooks without aprons or hair nets?
How many roads dead end?
How many churches are there “down town?”
Does any one walk?
How many $5k and under car lots are there?
Are there sculptures of art in places you don’t understand?
Is someone standing at the gas station wearing a trench coat and looking like he has no car?
Check your local pharmacy. Are the condoms and preggo tests behind a locked case?
How many obese children are under 8?
Do apartment complexes look like a place they shun people?
Is there a hotel or a motel of about eight rooms?
Which leads to – Do they rent by the hour?
And last, but certainly not least, go to the nearest Wal-mart or K-Mart. How many customers are shopping in their pajama bottoms??
When shopping for homes in a low country, always look on rainy days. Nothing says “welcome to the neighborhood” quite like a flash flood. Houses on a slope may seem like a fix, but where do you park your car?
A fenced in yard protects your dogs only as much as the children in the neighborhood. If they’re little shits, they’ll inevitably leave the gate open.
Speaking of pets, always drive the “walking route” first. You’ll save yourself the annoyance of the critter walking on the half broken bottle of a bar fight or eating that trash you just really don’t want to see twice.
Your best friend is NOT your best roommate. This rule thankfully has exceptions. Just remember, hanging out with someone all the time is not like living with him or her. (This of course also replies to relationships.)
Do NOT have sex with your roommate. Even if you want to date him/her, don’t do it. Kick them out, and then see if you still want to go down that road. Chances are you were really just bored or lonely, and it was an easy lay. The only upside to said arrangement is you don’t have to feel the awkwardness like sleeping somewhere else. You don’t have to ask yourself, “How long do I stay here? Can I leave while they’re sleeping? Jeeze, I wish I had my own pillow. What is that weird smell?”
Living with people you work with isn’t always the best idea ever either. Sometimes when you leave the house, you really just want to LEAVE the house and all behind you.
Back to the town itself.
Drive the main part of town between 5-8pm. How many restaurants are full? Some of you may be laughing, but I’m dead serious about this. We’ve established in our current town that NO ONE cooks. Well maybe the German Baptist and Mennonite, but they don’t count. Every where, including fast food places are packed. Yet, somehow, when I applied at a restraint here they said servers brought in $100 Saturday nights. Coming from a touristy town, that sucks. So, they’re cheap, hungry people.
The Verizon Wireless store I also always packed, but I haven’t figured out the cause of that yet. Maybe it’s because there are no other carriers locally.
When we chose this town, I thought I did the mature thing by checking tax information, cost of living, and unemployment history. I forgot however to check carriers for phone, cable, internet, and more importantly bank. Bank of America may need to change their name. Bank of the South? Or Bank of Places we can find on the map?
I didn’t realize how different some food prices are either. This however is trivial now that you can get everything on the internet.
If still of a “party age,’ find a local and ask where they go. If every bar/club they mention is out of town, you may want to think again. I like going out, but no drink is worth an hour drive. Maybe Patron shots for a dollar? No, not even that.
Maybe I’m too practical.
I’m learning too, there are certain key things about a town that will tell you how ghetto, white trash, dirty, or red neck the place is. Ask yourself these following questions.
How many locally owned donut or waffle places are there?
How many restaurants can you see the cooks without aprons or hair nets?
How many roads dead end?
How many churches are there “down town?”
Does any one walk?
How many $5k and under car lots are there?
Are there sculptures of art in places you don’t understand?
Is someone standing at the gas station wearing a trench coat and looking like he has no car?
Check your local pharmacy. Are the condoms and preggo tests behind a locked case?
How many obese children are under 8?
Do apartment complexes look like a place they shun people?
Is there a hotel or a motel of about eight rooms?
Which leads to – Do they rent by the hour?
And last, but certainly not least, go to the nearest Wal-mart or K-Mart. How many customers are shopping in their pajama bottoms??
Friday, February 19, 2010
Stranger in a Strange Land
Growing up in the south, you learn how to name those from an unfortunate northern state. When they visit, they’re Yankees. When they decide to move and make a home, they’re called Damn Yankees.
When I found out, I would be moving north to a smaller town, I half expected to get the same in reverse. Instead, I felt like an oddity.
Truly though, not every southerner has a dislike for the north. Honestly, most are more than excited to meet and welcome most to their community. The phrase “Southern Hospitality” was not created as a joke. There is a different politeness I took for granted. I don’t find the north rude in any way, just different. Fast food employees look at me funny when I reply with no and yes ma’am.
In a small town in Ohio, it is even more than just different. I’ve decided I must have moved into the Twilight Zone. Growing up in Georgia and South Carolina, I dealt with my fair share of rednecks, white trash, hicks, country folk, and what ever other name you want to throw out to go with the stereotypes. Some how even with all the experience nothing prepared me for the racism of this town. Some times, it is over whelming. I’m embarrassed to be near some of them when they open their mouths and know not what they say. However not a day goes by that I don’t see multiple mix-race couples and their children.
I also don’t have a day without being followed by the confederate flag. Yes, the confederate flag. Every other pick-up truck seems to wave the red x in some fashion. I thought at first that these vehicles belonged to out of state students coming to get an education at the local tech college. All seem to have Ohio and Michigan plates. Now I know I am no history scholar, but I’m pretty sure neither state fought on that losing side. (And yes I am a southern fully aware of the fact that we lost. We completely ran out of funds and healthy soldiers and lost. I shouldn't even say "we." I wasn't there) Wasn’t Michigan even one of those neutral states?
I asked one local about the battle flag every where. His reply “Well I don’t wave it because of the south. I wave because of what it means.”
“And what exactly do you think it means?” I tried my best not to sound condescending. It’s hard though when you studied the history and were raised to be knowledgeable about such things. I was in no way made to be proud about the history, but at least to know it.
“Well the whole idea of being a rebel and not willing under to some bigger corporation or government.”
Really!?
I guess that’s not all completely wrong. But you have to wonder why you don’t just go ahead and draw an A and wrap a circle around it. In my effort to try to see the good in people I’m going to hope that the rest of the “Dixie Folk” in town also think the same way and are not just waving it because they are racist pricks or think that it’s cool.
I also get to hear constantly, “Where is your accent??”
The funny story here is that my parents truly did not want us to end up sounding extremely southern. Look at your media. Would you want your children to be forever associated with the stereotypes that follow that twangy drawl? Blue Collar Comedy Tour? Dukes of Hazard? Deliverance? King of the Hill? I happen to laugh at all of that. Well maybe not Deliverance. I don’t however want someone to hear my accent and expect me to be any of these characters.
At a tender young age in a town called Swainsboro, Georgia, my brother and I attend a day care while our parents worked. One day we came home and my brother proceeded to tell my mother about his day.
“Momma, my Fainger hurts.” For those that don’t know, you pronounce the word “finger” as “fay-en-ger.”
This was quite possibly the last time my brother mispronounced that word.
A friend asked the other day after I explained this, “but how do you just not have an accent? I don’t understand how you get rid of it.”
Have you ever seen My Fair Lady?
The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plains. I am awesome at the song, but still tone deaf.
With all the practice though of sounding as un-accented as possible, I still can not avoid the slip up when drunk, tired, or talking to my Nana.
Even without the accent, I still stand out like a sore thumb. I use words that are native apparently to only the south. A soft drink is a soda. That small rodent in the field is a critter. Pepsi is not a drink of choice. Coke is better. Pecan is pea-can not pea-con. And when I ask for an onion, I’m really asking for a very specific sweet onion, a Vidalia.
And speaking of food, I never knew there was a difference in southern fried chicken, southern biscuits, and southern pound cake. In fact, I laughed when I saw these labels at the grocery store. “What the hell is the difference?” Sadly, I found out.
In our local Meijer, (which is just a unionized version of a super Wal-Mart)there is a “world foods” aisle. The basics of Asian, Spanish, German, and what they call Italian are there. There is even a small section of British foods. Nestled between the German and “other” category, I found something so unsettling that I laughed aloud in the middle of the store.
There is a Southern Section!
Four feet devoted to what is supposed to introduce the north to southern cooking. I will tell you though; I haven’t bought a single thing in the section. No good southern woman should. There are canned black eyed-peas, collard, mustard, and turnip greens. There is a succotash that looks like a cafeteria lady made it. If you like extremely overcooked summer squash, they have it. I did see a cornbread mix, but wouldn’t you know it’s made by Jiffy, along with the southern biscuit mix that claims “just add water.” If I’m making biscuits, there are other necessities such as lard/Crisco and buttermilk. The rest of the section is littered with Cajun and Creole mixes. A note to the rest of the world: Cajun is not really just southern food. It is such a mix of French, Spanish and southern that it belongs in its own particular class. If you're going to put Tony Chachere's in a southern section, you might as well move the Zatarain’s out of the rice aisle too.
I am extremely thankful that my family taught me how to cook. It’s also good they are only a phone call away when I need them. What passes here for “soul food” is well, just plain interesting to me. This would be one of those times that "interesting" is not really said with a positive connatation. Mashed potatoes in my opinion, and this is only my opinion, do not belong in bowl with home made egg noodles and chicken broth. However, three different meats are completely acceptable on the table, as well as hot sauce when you serve me breakfast.
Some days I miss a good southern town where a few things are certain. There is always a Baptist church, a waffle house and the smell of a local BBQ and fried chicken shack.
When I found out, I would be moving north to a smaller town, I half expected to get the same in reverse. Instead, I felt like an oddity.
Truly though, not every southerner has a dislike for the north. Honestly, most are more than excited to meet and welcome most to their community. The phrase “Southern Hospitality” was not created as a joke. There is a different politeness I took for granted. I don’t find the north rude in any way, just different. Fast food employees look at me funny when I reply with no and yes ma’am.
In a small town in Ohio, it is even more than just different. I’ve decided I must have moved into the Twilight Zone. Growing up in Georgia and South Carolina, I dealt with my fair share of rednecks, white trash, hicks, country folk, and what ever other name you want to throw out to go with the stereotypes. Some how even with all the experience nothing prepared me for the racism of this town. Some times, it is over whelming. I’m embarrassed to be near some of them when they open their mouths and know not what they say. However not a day goes by that I don’t see multiple mix-race couples and their children.
I also don’t have a day without being followed by the confederate flag. Yes, the confederate flag. Every other pick-up truck seems to wave the red x in some fashion. I thought at first that these vehicles belonged to out of state students coming to get an education at the local tech college. All seem to have Ohio and Michigan plates. Now I know I am no history scholar, but I’m pretty sure neither state fought on that losing side. (And yes I am a southern fully aware of the fact that we lost. We completely ran out of funds and healthy soldiers and lost. I shouldn't even say "we." I wasn't there) Wasn’t Michigan even one of those neutral states?
I asked one local about the battle flag every where. His reply “Well I don’t wave it because of the south. I wave because of what it means.”
“And what exactly do you think it means?” I tried my best not to sound condescending. It’s hard though when you studied the history and were raised to be knowledgeable about such things. I was in no way made to be proud about the history, but at least to know it.
“Well the whole idea of being a rebel and not willing under to some bigger corporation or government.”
Really!?
I guess that’s not all completely wrong. But you have to wonder why you don’t just go ahead and draw an A and wrap a circle around it. In my effort to try to see the good in people I’m going to hope that the rest of the “Dixie Folk” in town also think the same way and are not just waving it because they are racist pricks or think that it’s cool.
I also get to hear constantly, “Where is your accent??”
The funny story here is that my parents truly did not want us to end up sounding extremely southern. Look at your media. Would you want your children to be forever associated with the stereotypes that follow that twangy drawl? Blue Collar Comedy Tour? Dukes of Hazard? Deliverance? King of the Hill? I happen to laugh at all of that. Well maybe not Deliverance. I don’t however want someone to hear my accent and expect me to be any of these characters.
At a tender young age in a town called Swainsboro, Georgia, my brother and I attend a day care while our parents worked. One day we came home and my brother proceeded to tell my mother about his day.
“Momma, my Fainger hurts.” For those that don’t know, you pronounce the word “finger” as “fay-en-ger.”
This was quite possibly the last time my brother mispronounced that word.
A friend asked the other day after I explained this, “but how do you just not have an accent? I don’t understand how you get rid of it.”
Have you ever seen My Fair Lady?
The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plains. I am awesome at the song, but still tone deaf.
With all the practice though of sounding as un-accented as possible, I still can not avoid the slip up when drunk, tired, or talking to my Nana.
Even without the accent, I still stand out like a sore thumb. I use words that are native apparently to only the south. A soft drink is a soda. That small rodent in the field is a critter. Pepsi is not a drink of choice. Coke is better. Pecan is pea-can not pea-con. And when I ask for an onion, I’m really asking for a very specific sweet onion, a Vidalia.
And speaking of food, I never knew there was a difference in southern fried chicken, southern biscuits, and southern pound cake. In fact, I laughed when I saw these labels at the grocery store. “What the hell is the difference?” Sadly, I found out.
In our local Meijer, (which is just a unionized version of a super Wal-Mart)there is a “world foods” aisle. The basics of Asian, Spanish, German, and what they call Italian are there. There is even a small section of British foods. Nestled between the German and “other” category, I found something so unsettling that I laughed aloud in the middle of the store.
There is a Southern Section!
Four feet devoted to what is supposed to introduce the north to southern cooking. I will tell you though; I haven’t bought a single thing in the section. No good southern woman should. There are canned black eyed-peas, collard, mustard, and turnip greens. There is a succotash that looks like a cafeteria lady made it. If you like extremely overcooked summer squash, they have it. I did see a cornbread mix, but wouldn’t you know it’s made by Jiffy, along with the southern biscuit mix that claims “just add water.” If I’m making biscuits, there are other necessities such as lard/Crisco and buttermilk. The rest of the section is littered with Cajun and Creole mixes. A note to the rest of the world: Cajun is not really just southern food. It is such a mix of French, Spanish and southern that it belongs in its own particular class. If you're going to put Tony Chachere's in a southern section, you might as well move the Zatarain’s out of the rice aisle too.
I am extremely thankful that my family taught me how to cook. It’s also good they are only a phone call away when I need them. What passes here for “soul food” is well, just plain interesting to me. This would be one of those times that "interesting" is not really said with a positive connatation. Mashed potatoes in my opinion, and this is only my opinion, do not belong in bowl with home made egg noodles and chicken broth. However, three different meats are completely acceptable on the table, as well as hot sauce when you serve me breakfast.
Some days I miss a good southern town where a few things are certain. There is always a Baptist church, a waffle house and the smell of a local BBQ and fried chicken shack.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Lessons Learned and Things Pondered
“Are you going to turn into one of those blogger people?” my boyfriend says after I finished my first post. “Isn’t that just feeding into the system? I mean you’re already watching that lame Fatty Show.” There is a slight smirk on his face as he jabs me.
The “Fatty Show” is also known as Biggest Loser. I don’t endorse the show, but let’s face it if you only watch TV on the old rabbit ears you are bound to have to watch a reality show at some point. I would like to watch one with a positive outcome as opposed to ones with even more over exaggerated drama. However, I do tend to eat copious amounts of snack food while watching.
“Yes. I will be one of those people.” I smiled and sipped my wine. Then as gracefully as I could, I turned to my computer to consider the next post. Honestly though how graceful can you be when the only place you can pick up the neighbors’ internet is perched on the corner of your sofa’s arm?
I learned two important lessons last night. Our cat would much rather be given a sponge bath than be put into a tub of water, and the dog will most likely not want to even approach the bathroom after hearing the cat get bathed.
If you’ve never given a cat a bath, I think you should at least once. The noises out of its little body gave me more reason to believe that they are most evil. I was truly surprised to not find every demon in a ten mile radius on my door step. “We heard the call. What’s up?” Their pitch forks waving and tails wagging.
The cat obviously hates the water. I fully understand that. But why does he jump in the tub after my shower and stare at the water droplets falling down the curtain? He needs to make up his mind.
In any case the poor thing ended up soaked, and I left with claw marks down the arm. He unfortunately has one stiff section of fur on his neck. We both gave up on rinsing him completely.
During this ordeal, my dog curled into the smallest ball possible in the corner of the hallway dreading what was next. Normally she acts like a constant three year old. I tell her to do something and she gives me the “do I have to?” look. I say yes, and she eventually does it stomping her feet the whole way. Last night though, you would think I was asking her to step into a tub of lava. I can’t say I blame her after hearing the dying demon only moments earlier.
Have you ever seen a 50 pound dog shake like a Chihuahua? It’s both unsettling and the funniest thing ever.
The next funniest, is said mutt shaking every water droplet off her body sending half of the water flying to the pitiful cat in the corner trying to dry.
Now, for something completely different.
At work today we pondered something that I think may be just as epic and important as the debate of whether Goofy is a dog, and whether animal crackers are really crackers or cookies.
“If everyone had x-ray vision what do you think you’d wear?” a co-worker asks as we unwrap the days clothing shipment.
“I’d wear nothing. What’s the point? You can already see it all.” I reply in my infinite wisdom.
“Well I at least wouldn’t wear bad lingerie.”
“Why would I even want to have x-ray vision? There are tons of people I don’t want to see!” a third employee gets involved. (It's of note, she also watches the Fatty Show religiously.)
“Do you think if you dated superman you’d wear sexy underwear, or would it just be pointless, kind of like knowing the ending to a movie?”
“If I dated superman and we got into an argument, I think I would find a sharpie and write on my stomach ‘you’re not getting laid tonight’.”
I wish I could say the conversation continued but someone opened quite possibly one of the ugliest pants so far. We all of course had to comment on it then.
The “Fatty Show” is also known as Biggest Loser. I don’t endorse the show, but let’s face it if you only watch TV on the old rabbit ears you are bound to have to watch a reality show at some point. I would like to watch one with a positive outcome as opposed to ones with even more over exaggerated drama. However, I do tend to eat copious amounts of snack food while watching.
“Yes. I will be one of those people.” I smiled and sipped my wine. Then as gracefully as I could, I turned to my computer to consider the next post. Honestly though how graceful can you be when the only place you can pick up the neighbors’ internet is perched on the corner of your sofa’s arm?
I learned two important lessons last night. Our cat would much rather be given a sponge bath than be put into a tub of water, and the dog will most likely not want to even approach the bathroom after hearing the cat get bathed.
If you’ve never given a cat a bath, I think you should at least once. The noises out of its little body gave me more reason to believe that they are most evil. I was truly surprised to not find every demon in a ten mile radius on my door step. “We heard the call. What’s up?” Their pitch forks waving and tails wagging.
The cat obviously hates the water. I fully understand that. But why does he jump in the tub after my shower and stare at the water droplets falling down the curtain? He needs to make up his mind.
In any case the poor thing ended up soaked, and I left with claw marks down the arm. He unfortunately has one stiff section of fur on his neck. We both gave up on rinsing him completely.
During this ordeal, my dog curled into the smallest ball possible in the corner of the hallway dreading what was next. Normally she acts like a constant three year old. I tell her to do something and she gives me the “do I have to?” look. I say yes, and she eventually does it stomping her feet the whole way. Last night though, you would think I was asking her to step into a tub of lava. I can’t say I blame her after hearing the dying demon only moments earlier.
Have you ever seen a 50 pound dog shake like a Chihuahua? It’s both unsettling and the funniest thing ever.
The next funniest, is said mutt shaking every water droplet off her body sending half of the water flying to the pitiful cat in the corner trying to dry.
Now, for something completely different.
At work today we pondered something that I think may be just as epic and important as the debate of whether Goofy is a dog, and whether animal crackers are really crackers or cookies.
“If everyone had x-ray vision what do you think you’d wear?” a co-worker asks as we unwrap the days clothing shipment.
“I’d wear nothing. What’s the point? You can already see it all.” I reply in my infinite wisdom.
“Well I at least wouldn’t wear bad lingerie.”
“Why would I even want to have x-ray vision? There are tons of people I don’t want to see!” a third employee gets involved. (It's of note, she also watches the Fatty Show religiously.)
“Do you think if you dated superman you’d wear sexy underwear, or would it just be pointless, kind of like knowing the ending to a movie?”
“If I dated superman and we got into an argument, I think I would find a sharpie and write on my stomach ‘you’re not getting laid tonight’.”
I wish I could say the conversation continued but someone opened quite possibly one of the ugliest pants so far. We all of course had to comment on it then.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
In the beginning
To start with I thought I should give the basics. This was supposed to be a New Year's Resolution. Then it turned into a Fiscal New Year's Resolution. And finally, my friends kicked me around and said I needed to just do it. So, for at least 30 minutes a day I will make myself write. I won't apologize for any of what's to come, but I will at least warn that there is no way that everyday will be the most clever. With that said, here is the first 30.
In the beginning, I was told I had talent. For the last 25, wait 26 years, I’ve been trying to figure out what exactly that is in. I enjoy way too many things and practice everything. This makes me in a master of nothing but ideas and procrastination. Do they have a trophy for that? Or at least a job for it?
They, whoever they are, say that if you go to art school you should already start practicing how to say “Would you like fries with that?” Among the things I refuse to do is work fast food. Not because I think it’s gross, or that I’m too proud. Honestly, I like certain fast food. I would like to continue liking food made by these individuals and let’s face it, if I really knew what was in my food, I wouldn’t eat it.
As a person who can’t seem to always finish all my goals, I ended up in retail. It doesn’t help that I’m also currently living in an area that easily has one of the highest unemployment rates in the entire country. Retail is what is available and beggars can’t be choosers.
It’s taken me a while but I have to say I finally see the good in many situations. My boyfriends mom recently even helped by reminding me of a Chinese proverb. Forgive me if I don’t remember the exact words, but it’s something to the degree of I’m glad my barn burned down because now I can see the stars better.
I hate people. When I’m not working, I often like to sit at home and do absolutely nothing. However, people also fascinate me. I’ve worked in the service industries long enough to learn how to enjoy the crazies, smile at the jerks, and laugh my happy little ass of at all of them. Seriously, people as a whole are ridiculous. Individuals aren’t so bad.
For a few months last year, I worked in a mass retail store. Hmm, what shall we call it? Wally-world, K-fart, Tarshey, or Meijer? Honestly, in the end they’re all about the same. In towns like this one with limited shopping, everyone ends up living in these stores. I would come home with some of the best stories about the loveliness of people. My significant other truly thought I was complaining about them, but I really just want to share so others can enjoy in my observations.
My favorites always appeared while I was straightening the shelves in the pharmacy section. Two types of people come up to you working in a pharmacy. Those that are too scared and embarrassed to ask, but are exhausted from walking up and down every aisle. The second has lost all modesty and seems to think that you have to know all in order to work any where close to this area. The second are determined and usually talk, a lot.
One night as I was minding my own business fixing the shampoo aisle an elderly woman approached me looking slightly disheveled and smelling like old makeup. I will say though she had the most genuine smile.
“Sweetie can you help me with the Douches??”
Years of practice thankfully gave me the patience to reply eagerly, "Yes" before even realizing what she had just asked.
“Right over here ma’am,” I walked and did my best Vanna White arm move to the four foot section of prophylactics, preggo test, and all v-jay-jay cleaning paraphernalia.
“I saw them all ready honey. I just want to know what happened to the stuff to put in the douches. I already got a bag. I need more juice you know?” The woman talked with her hands and patted me on the shoulder as if we were old friends. I’ll be honest here; I’ve never needed to buy a douche.
“Well ma’am now they have these kits. So it’s even easier.” Another lesson in retail – when all else fails B.S.
“Yeah those just aren’t big enough. Old woman like me needs a little something else. And my pussy just isn’t as fresh you know?”
What I wanted to say, “No ma’am, I can’t say I know what a 60 year old pussy smells or feels like. I’m not sure I want to. And how big do you need?”
What I did say “Well we also carry various washes which might help.” Again the Vanna White.
“That vagasil doesn’t do shit.”
At this point I thankfully got a phone call and could divert with the classic “Well if we have what you need it would be here. If not the best I can suggest would be going to a more specialized pharmacy.”
What’s sad is by the time I ran away and pretended to do something else she somehow found a way to ask another customer for help. I returned to find the two of them discussing the ins and outs of douching properly. I was so happy it was late in the night and not that busy. But seeing her talking to another customer has to make you think she’s possibly lonely and really just wanted to talk.
If any lonely people are reading, please approach the need to talk with a different topic.
Retail workers will probably agree with this. I have a theory that at every retail store there is at least one regular, that every one knows who is this lonely. She (or he, but it’s usually a she) will find reasons to not only shop as often as possible, but also ask for your advice on every purchase. We have to just breathe and try our best, because obviously no one else loves them as much as they need.
I have another theory too, that at any time of the day Law and Order is possibly on TV. But that will be for tomorrow.
In the beginning, I was told I had talent. For the last 25, wait 26 years, I’ve been trying to figure out what exactly that is in. I enjoy way too many things and practice everything. This makes me in a master of nothing but ideas and procrastination. Do they have a trophy for that? Or at least a job for it?
They, whoever they are, say that if you go to art school you should already start practicing how to say “Would you like fries with that?” Among the things I refuse to do is work fast food. Not because I think it’s gross, or that I’m too proud. Honestly, I like certain fast food. I would like to continue liking food made by these individuals and let’s face it, if I really knew what was in my food, I wouldn’t eat it.
As a person who can’t seem to always finish all my goals, I ended up in retail. It doesn’t help that I’m also currently living in an area that easily has one of the highest unemployment rates in the entire country. Retail is what is available and beggars can’t be choosers.
It’s taken me a while but I have to say I finally see the good in many situations. My boyfriends mom recently even helped by reminding me of a Chinese proverb. Forgive me if I don’t remember the exact words, but it’s something to the degree of I’m glad my barn burned down because now I can see the stars better.
I hate people. When I’m not working, I often like to sit at home and do absolutely nothing. However, people also fascinate me. I’ve worked in the service industries long enough to learn how to enjoy the crazies, smile at the jerks, and laugh my happy little ass of at all of them. Seriously, people as a whole are ridiculous. Individuals aren’t so bad.
For a few months last year, I worked in a mass retail store. Hmm, what shall we call it? Wally-world, K-fart, Tarshey, or Meijer? Honestly, in the end they’re all about the same. In towns like this one with limited shopping, everyone ends up living in these stores. I would come home with some of the best stories about the loveliness of people. My significant other truly thought I was complaining about them, but I really just want to share so others can enjoy in my observations.
My favorites always appeared while I was straightening the shelves in the pharmacy section. Two types of people come up to you working in a pharmacy. Those that are too scared and embarrassed to ask, but are exhausted from walking up and down every aisle. The second has lost all modesty and seems to think that you have to know all in order to work any where close to this area. The second are determined and usually talk, a lot.
One night as I was minding my own business fixing the shampoo aisle an elderly woman approached me looking slightly disheveled and smelling like old makeup. I will say though she had the most genuine smile.
“Sweetie can you help me with the Douches??”
Years of practice thankfully gave me the patience to reply eagerly, "Yes" before even realizing what she had just asked.
“Right over here ma’am,” I walked and did my best Vanna White arm move to the four foot section of prophylactics, preggo test, and all v-jay-jay cleaning paraphernalia.
“I saw them all ready honey. I just want to know what happened to the stuff to put in the douches. I already got a bag. I need more juice you know?” The woman talked with her hands and patted me on the shoulder as if we were old friends. I’ll be honest here; I’ve never needed to buy a douche.
“Well ma’am now they have these kits. So it’s even easier.” Another lesson in retail – when all else fails B.S.
“Yeah those just aren’t big enough. Old woman like me needs a little something else. And my pussy just isn’t as fresh you know?”
What I wanted to say, “No ma’am, I can’t say I know what a 60 year old pussy smells or feels like. I’m not sure I want to. And how big do you need?”
What I did say “Well we also carry various washes which might help.” Again the Vanna White.
“That vagasil doesn’t do shit.”
At this point I thankfully got a phone call and could divert with the classic “Well if we have what you need it would be here. If not the best I can suggest would be going to a more specialized pharmacy.”
What’s sad is by the time I ran away and pretended to do something else she somehow found a way to ask another customer for help. I returned to find the two of them discussing the ins and outs of douching properly. I was so happy it was late in the night and not that busy. But seeing her talking to another customer has to make you think she’s possibly lonely and really just wanted to talk.
If any lonely people are reading, please approach the need to talk with a different topic.
Retail workers will probably agree with this. I have a theory that at every retail store there is at least one regular, that every one knows who is this lonely. She (or he, but it’s usually a she) will find reasons to not only shop as often as possible, but also ask for your advice on every purchase. We have to just breathe and try our best, because obviously no one else loves them as much as they need.
I have another theory too, that at any time of the day Law and Order is possibly on TV. But that will be for tomorrow.
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