Monday, October 22, 2012
Also...
WTF? They killed Ned Stark!!! If they kill "The Imp" in season 2, I'm gonna be seven shades of pissed!
Blog? It's me, Trisha
It's been a long time. It is what it is. I always get a bee up my britches when I first start a new blog. But then... life-a-rama. Whatever, Blog, I don't have to answer to you. I am currently slouching, typing with one hand while eating Hot Pockets and Almond Joys off of a paper plate. I'm not huge on being held accountable.
But life-a-rama is feeling strange to me lately. And I need this again. Silly aspirations of being a well-paid writer who never has to speak publicly, but gets to travel all over... I need that idiotic dream. I need to feel like I have some compassion towards an activity. I need to sit at the kitchen table on the rare night that I can't sleep and type away. I need to pour myself a glass of murder-red merlot and light up a cigarette. Despite not really liking smoking or being able to drink wine without immediately falling ill and then asleep. It's fun to sit there, greasy haired, and pretend I'm tortured. It helps me get into the mood.
So, the news since I wrote last...
I got engaged and married to the same man, Brian.
My grim-gram died. It's okay, she was 92.
Brian and I bought a house.
Last weekend, I cut two of my fingers across the nails while reassembling a shelf that Brian did not want me to take apart in the first place. Girl Power! Anyway, my one finger is starting to look a little Heroin Bob. This may be my last entry ever. Glad we caught up.
I lost 45 pounds since this past April, which I will undoubtedly gain back if I don't stop eating like a coconut-addicted, mutant hippo. That would be sad, because being thinner is awesome! The caliber of dudes that hit on me in bars is way higher.
Hmmm... That's the big stuff. I have an appointment coming in soon that I need to prepare for, so I'll write more later. I think. Maybe. If I don't forget or lose the ambition or die of a gangrene finger.
XOXOX
Trish
P.S: I will leave you with this...
Monday, February 14, 2011
My charter school speech
It feels a little bit strange for me when I am asked back here to talk about how the charter school has helped me become a successful adult. I happily do it, because I know this school did wonders for me. Nonetheless, it's strange because I don't really appear all that successful on paper.
I'm 24 years old. And yet I only have an associates degree instead of the the doctorate I thought I would have. I work two jobs just to make ends meet. One of which requires me to touch people's back hair. The other requires me to ask, “Did anyone save room for dessert?” I am not a home owner. I'm not a mother. I haven't traveled. I can't dance. I talk about my cats too often. I live a whopping half-hour from the town where I grew up. I don't have an overabundance of nice clothing. And my cell phone isn't due for an upgrade for another whole year.
However, one really important idea this school introduced me to was that success is a very personal thing. In this school, there are no two identical routes to a student's diploma. Students design plans that work for their individual educational needs. I have found it's no different after school. There are no two identical routes to what makes a person successful in life.
So, yes, to someone who does not know my personal aspirations, I probably seem like a pretty big loser.
As it turns out, my #1 objective in life is to simply be happy. I have approached this undertaking just as I would a charter school project. I looked at what elements I needed to take to be successful. And I came up with two big ones.
First, I need to be in close proximity to my loved ones to be happy. So I live near my loved ones. Check.
Second, I need to feel fulfilled in what I do. I am a massage therapist during the day and then I moonlight as a waitress part time. I like them, but they're just jobs. I don't really feel attached to them as if I expect them to define me. I have yet to officially decide what I want to do when I grow up. This used to really bother me. In college, I had no clue. I knew I wanted to be a writer in some way, but I was terrified of settling for something that used my passion, but didn't make me feel good in doing so. For example, writing textbooks.
So, instead of choosing a college major and possibly ending up with a life in textbook purgatory, I graduated at two years of college instead of more. I know college is always there for me to go back to.
“What I do” has been about my writing ever since I was a student at this school. I had inklings of it previous to coming to the charter school as a senior, but not the confidence in myself or my grammar to ever even take any classes above what I was required at the traditional school.
I was and still am a slow reader. Every time I was called on to read out loud, I would stutter due to nerves. I thought that this meant I was only a stone's throw away from being completely illiterate. I needed my time here at the charter school to realize that writing was that proverbial baby I was throwing out with my anxiety bathwater.
Ms. M was my adviser during my year at the charter school. I was very fortunate because she really helped me overcome my debilitating neuroticism by making me talk to people all the time. Don't get me wrong, I'm still pretty neurotic. Public speaking rates right up there with heights and death on my list of fears. But I've come a long, long way. I owe her an organ donation somewhere down the road.
My senior year was this school's first year. I had all of my required courses out of the way. Pretty much, I had to bide a year's time since my parents didn't want me to graduate early. In fact, the reason I decided to try the charter school in the first place was because I was miffed at my guidance councilor for telling me that colleges would frown upon a course load of nothing by art and study hall.
I was given the freedom to spend a whole school year studying anything I wanted. And with a little stern encouragement from Ms. M and Ms. L, I decided to write something. If I failed, it wouldn't damage my GPA, because there are no formal grades given at this school. Moreover, if I failed, it would be in front of a relatively small group of people, half of which were under the age of 15 anyway.
I wrote a play, which in and of itself might not sound like a big of a deal. But for me, this was the longest single thing I'd ever written before. Forty five pages. It was the first thing I accomplished in school that actually excited me.
With the collaboration of a lot of fellow students, community members and staff, we were able to put my play on as a dinner theater that spring. This involved everything from proposing the purchase of these expensive curtains, to designing and creating costumes, casting, directing, serving the food. Being at least a little bit involved in every single facet of this project taught me that the thing I truly enjoyed above all else was the writing.
I have written every day since then. I don't usually get paid for it. Sometimes I do. But I am rewarded with positive feedback and the enjoyment of doing it. Among other writing projects, I blog, I journal and I have been doing a weekly newspaper column for the last four years. I challenge myself with it by forcing myself to write things I will actually allow other people to read. For me, this is success.
This is the sort of success I want in my life. I think my time at this school has shown me how to look at my own life's progression. Consequently, it has been a very long time since I thought myself a loser, even during the most loserly-looking times of my adult life so far. I am involved in what I want out of my life. Because it's my life and my individual journey, just like it's each individual's education here at this school.
Thank you.
I'm 24 years old. And yet I only have an associates degree instead of the the doctorate I thought I would have. I work two jobs just to make ends meet. One of which requires me to touch people's back hair. The other requires me to ask, “Did anyone save room for dessert?” I am not a home owner. I'm not a mother. I haven't traveled. I can't dance. I talk about my cats too often. I live a whopping half-hour from the town where I grew up. I don't have an overabundance of nice clothing. And my cell phone isn't due for an upgrade for another whole year.
However, one really important idea this school introduced me to was that success is a very personal thing. In this school, there are no two identical routes to a student's diploma. Students design plans that work for their individual educational needs. I have found it's no different after school. There are no two identical routes to what makes a person successful in life.
So, yes, to someone who does not know my personal aspirations, I probably seem like a pretty big loser.
As it turns out, my #1 objective in life is to simply be happy. I have approached this undertaking just as I would a charter school project. I looked at what elements I needed to take to be successful. And I came up with two big ones.
First, I need to be in close proximity to my loved ones to be happy. So I live near my loved ones. Check.
Second, I need to feel fulfilled in what I do. I am a massage therapist during the day and then I moonlight as a waitress part time. I like them, but they're just jobs. I don't really feel attached to them as if I expect them to define me. I have yet to officially decide what I want to do when I grow up. This used to really bother me. In college, I had no clue. I knew I wanted to be a writer in some way, but I was terrified of settling for something that used my passion, but didn't make me feel good in doing so. For example, writing textbooks.
So, instead of choosing a college major and possibly ending up with a life in textbook purgatory, I graduated at two years of college instead of more. I know college is always there for me to go back to.
“What I do” has been about my writing ever since I was a student at this school. I had inklings of it previous to coming to the charter school as a senior, but not the confidence in myself or my grammar to ever even take any classes above what I was required at the traditional school.
I was and still am a slow reader. Every time I was called on to read out loud, I would stutter due to nerves. I thought that this meant I was only a stone's throw away from being completely illiterate. I needed my time here at the charter school to realize that writing was that proverbial baby I was throwing out with my anxiety bathwater.
Ms. M was my adviser during my year at the charter school. I was very fortunate because she really helped me overcome my debilitating neuroticism by making me talk to people all the time. Don't get me wrong, I'm still pretty neurotic. Public speaking rates right up there with heights and death on my list of fears. But I've come a long, long way. I owe her an organ donation somewhere down the road.
My senior year was this school's first year. I had all of my required courses out of the way. Pretty much, I had to bide a year's time since my parents didn't want me to graduate early. In fact, the reason I decided to try the charter school in the first place was because I was miffed at my guidance councilor for telling me that colleges would frown upon a course load of nothing by art and study hall.
I was given the freedom to spend a whole school year studying anything I wanted. And with a little stern encouragement from Ms. M and Ms. L, I decided to write something. If I failed, it wouldn't damage my GPA, because there are no formal grades given at this school. Moreover, if I failed, it would be in front of a relatively small group of people, half of which were under the age of 15 anyway.
I wrote a play, which in and of itself might not sound like a big of a deal. But for me, this was the longest single thing I'd ever written before. Forty five pages. It was the first thing I accomplished in school that actually excited me.
With the collaboration of a lot of fellow students, community members and staff, we were able to put my play on as a dinner theater that spring. This involved everything from proposing the purchase of these expensive curtains, to designing and creating costumes, casting, directing, serving the food. Being at least a little bit involved in every single facet of this project taught me that the thing I truly enjoyed above all else was the writing.
I have written every day since then. I don't usually get paid for it. Sometimes I do. But I am rewarded with positive feedback and the enjoyment of doing it. Among other writing projects, I blog, I journal and I have been doing a weekly newspaper column for the last four years. I challenge myself with it by forcing myself to write things I will actually allow other people to read. For me, this is success.
This is the sort of success I want in my life. I think my time at this school has shown me how to look at my own life's progression. Consequently, it has been a very long time since I thought myself a loser, even during the most loserly-looking times of my adult life so far. I am involved in what I want out of my life. Because it's my life and my individual journey, just like it's each individual's education here at this school.
Thank you.
Love / Hate
The dreaded V Day has come. There are a lot of haters of Valentine's Day. It's so commercial, blah, blah, blah. I feel a little bad about singles and the unhappily married being excluded. Despite that, I love Valentine's Day. I don't care if it was invented solely for the purpose of making money. This is America. Capitalism is sort of our schtick, isn't it? It's a nice holiday to stop and appreciate your partner. And even if you don't have a partner, it's an excuse to eat chocolate. Not that I ever needed an excuse, but I am a little more hedonistic than most.
If nothing else, the passing of Valentine's Day plants the notion in my head to take stock of the things I love. And going with the theme of my package of Star Wars valentines, where there's a light side, there's a Darth Vader dark side too to keep everything balanced.
For example, I love my family.
Conversely, I hate ABBA.
I love pajama days. On occasion, I still pretend the carpet is lava and leaving the couch will burn my feet. Jumping from one piece of furniture to another is exponentially more fun as an adult, because when you break that vase, it's your vase and you don't have to worry about the trouble you will get in “when your father gets home.” Furthermore, when you're twenty-four like me, you probably have a vase-free apartment in the first place. And if you don't, there's probably a dead relative in one of those vases, which you would care so much about, you would not allow it to be in the same room as carpet lava.
I hate when people cut across the yellow lines in the back of parking lots. This drives me insane. Especially since nobody ever seems to look all around. Driving is not something to be done with reckless abandon. I'm a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad driver and I've gotten this concept. Driving rule #1, stay out of a semi's blind spots. Driving rule #2, don't cut across the stinking yellow lines! They're there for a reason! All other driving rules can be winged.
I love asiago cheese.
I hate hangnails. Plus, for those of you who saw Black Swan... That was totally gross, right?
I love all of the new and fun technology that keeps popping up. Everything is just so fun!
I hate when people ask me to hang out with them someplace and I reluctantly agree (even though I was having a lot of fun at home playing with my cats, watching Dollhouse on Netflix and doing laundry) and then they spend the whole time text messaging someone else.
I love office supplies! Especially Post-It notes! I hoard office supplies like a some sort of buggy-eyed chipmunk. After I am the only survivor of the apocalypse, it will be years before I have to worry about finding a new supply.
I hate prejudice. Everyone is guilty to some varying degree. I complain about the continuing difference in wages between the genders, but I'm a hypocrite every time I assume that that Buick Regal driving in front of me going ten under the posted speed limit during perfectly clear weather with the turn signal on and no actual plans of turning is being operated by someone who is geriatrically-inclined.
I love jokes. Mean jokes, dirty jokes, disgusting jokes. Not practical jokes, though. Practical jokes always start out harmless, like mooning your coworkers. But they always escalate into horrible, mean-spirited pranks like dumping pig's blood on the prom dress of the unhinged girl with rage super powers.
I hate illness. Not the sort of illness that makes you throw up into a coffee cart garbage receptacle during your trip to Madison because Tibetan food is just not for you (although that's not really enjoyable, either).
I'm talking, of course, about the bad stuff. Everyone has to go sometime, I guess. But I just wish everyone could die healthy and old and in their sleep with a belly full of garlic mashed potatoes after all of life's aspirations have been accomplished.
This has all become a bit of a drag, so I will end on a love without a hate to balance it out. Take that, Darth Vador!
I love the people who have taught me how to live my life with hutzpah. My family who showed me to always have busy hands, try my best and at least look like I'm paying attention. The other people around me who are involved with writing, who never cease to amaze me. Two of my former teachers who still expect full reports of my activities, probably to make sure I stay on task. And, of course, Miley Cyrus.
If nothing else, the passing of Valentine's Day plants the notion in my head to take stock of the things I love. And going with the theme of my package of Star Wars valentines, where there's a light side, there's a Darth Vader dark side too to keep everything balanced.
For example, I love my family.
Conversely, I hate ABBA.
I love pajama days. On occasion, I still pretend the carpet is lava and leaving the couch will burn my feet. Jumping from one piece of furniture to another is exponentially more fun as an adult, because when you break that vase, it's your vase and you don't have to worry about the trouble you will get in “when your father gets home.” Furthermore, when you're twenty-four like me, you probably have a vase-free apartment in the first place. And if you don't, there's probably a dead relative in one of those vases, which you would care so much about, you would not allow it to be in the same room as carpet lava.
I hate when people cut across the yellow lines in the back of parking lots. This drives me insane. Especially since nobody ever seems to look all around. Driving is not something to be done with reckless abandon. I'm a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad driver and I've gotten this concept. Driving rule #1, stay out of a semi's blind spots. Driving rule #2, don't cut across the stinking yellow lines! They're there for a reason! All other driving rules can be winged.
I love asiago cheese.
I hate hangnails. Plus, for those of you who saw Black Swan... That was totally gross, right?
I love all of the new and fun technology that keeps popping up. Everything is just so fun!
I hate when people ask me to hang out with them someplace and I reluctantly agree (even though I was having a lot of fun at home playing with my cats, watching Dollhouse on Netflix and doing laundry) and then they spend the whole time text messaging someone else.
I love office supplies! Especially Post-It notes! I hoard office supplies like a some sort of buggy-eyed chipmunk. After I am the only survivor of the apocalypse, it will be years before I have to worry about finding a new supply.
I hate prejudice. Everyone is guilty to some varying degree. I complain about the continuing difference in wages between the genders, but I'm a hypocrite every time I assume that that Buick Regal driving in front of me going ten under the posted speed limit during perfectly clear weather with the turn signal on and no actual plans of turning is being operated by someone who is geriatrically-inclined.
I love jokes. Mean jokes, dirty jokes, disgusting jokes. Not practical jokes, though. Practical jokes always start out harmless, like mooning your coworkers. But they always escalate into horrible, mean-spirited pranks like dumping pig's blood on the prom dress of the unhinged girl with rage super powers.
I hate illness. Not the sort of illness that makes you throw up into a coffee cart garbage receptacle during your trip to Madison because Tibetan food is just not for you (although that's not really enjoyable, either).
I'm talking, of course, about the bad stuff. Everyone has to go sometime, I guess. But I just wish everyone could die healthy and old and in their sleep with a belly full of garlic mashed potatoes after all of life's aspirations have been accomplished.
This has all become a bit of a drag, so I will end on a love without a hate to balance it out. Take that, Darth Vador!
I love the people who have taught me how to live my life with hutzpah. My family who showed me to always have busy hands, try my best and at least look like I'm paying attention. The other people around me who are involved with writing, who never cease to amaze me. Two of my former teachers who still expect full reports of my activities, probably to make sure I stay on task. And, of course, Miley Cyrus.
The Boss
There are some people who go out of their way to avoid being stereotypes. Then there's my best gal pal and her family. She's of Italian ancestry. Her husband is of Italian and Polish ancestry. And they refer to their three daughters as “Wopollocks.” Again, her word, not mine. No hate mail, please. This family embraces the feisty, pasta-eating, passionate (note: passionate usually means people yell a lot), tanning, fitness-concious Italian-American mold that has recently been popularized and erroneously misrepresented by certain East Coast television shows that I will not mention here.
(I won't mention it, but I will post a picture.)
And perhaps it isn't their heritage that makes them who they are, but their East Coast roots. Both my friend and her husband were raised in New Jersey where looks matter a million times more than they do here, blood boils easily, families come first and the horses are very worried about the mob. (Was that a bad joke? I don't know. Being relatively removed from my ancestry, I don't really get upset about these things. So, please don't be offended. But if you are, I'm half Irish and half Swedish. You have my permission to accost me with as many “Swedish sin,” angry temperament, ABBA, Pope, whiskey and meatball comments as you would like. But if you really want to hurt my feelings, I'd just stick with the fat jokes.)
I've always had good friends who were female. But it's been, like, since the sixth grade the last time I had a best girl friend. Someone who I can talk about even the most disgusting of bodily functions with. I usually got along better with boys as a kid, since I was raised with only brothers. And if I'm going to be completely honest, armpit noises have always fascinated me more than Barbie Dream Date. (Although Barbie Dream Date definitely has its redeeming qualities, even if it did erroneously lead me to believe that every date would be accompanied by fancy chocolates, huge bouquets of flowers and a buff, tuxedoed man with good grooming skills and knowledge of ballroom dancing.) But now, that neurotic, hyperactive, Jersey-accented Italian lady who rolls her eyes when her mother calls, tans herself into a tizzy, spends an absolutely ridiculous amount of money on designer pants and mispronounces the word coffee... She's it. She's my best girl friend.
She's not what I would have expected. She's 14 years my senior. A mother of three. Unfairly gorgeous. And my boss. Well, my landlord, technically. I rent space from her salon. But she could terminate my rental agreement if I showed up in sweatpants that say “juicy” across the butt or something. I call her Boss. More as a term of endearment than anything else.
Much like jobs, boyfriends, good apartments, I've come to the conclusion that best girl friends come along when a person is least expecting it. I'm not going to lie. My college social experience was pretty miserable because while I am very good at keeping friends and treating friends well, I'm not so good at making friends. I'm weird, dorky and shy—a bad friend-making combo. Only having five friends, though, made studying a priority. I was on honor roll every semester! Whoop, whoop! Even the semesters I took math!
Now that I'm a grown up and at an age where I thought I'd be too old to have social engagements, meaningful friendships and, well, fun in general... I've found that I have those things. (I don't know what I was envisioning for life after college. A squeaky rocking chair, two knitting needles and Paul Harvey Jr. perhaps?) Granted, when I moved back to Wisconsin, I felt the need to compensate for the fun I missed in college. Went a little overboard. Not dancing on the bar while scantily-clad and inebriated-overboard. But overboard in the way that it seemed logical to say screw saving money for food, I want to go see a hip-hop show! (In Wisconsin, we call it hip-hap.)
It's refreshing to have a girl to do things with. Not that shopping and confessing my every neurotic insecurity with Brian isn't fun, but it isn't really the same. She keeps talking about taking me to Las Vegas, because I've never been. Every other day she says how we need to go to the mall. We signed up for a belly dancing class together. We just saw The Blue Man Group. We vent every morning to each other about toilet seats being left up and her kids being mouthy and my kitten slowly destroying everything I own. It truly is nice to have such a close female friend. Someone who I can talk about even the most disgusting of bodily functions with.
(I won't mention it, but I will post a picture.)
And perhaps it isn't their heritage that makes them who they are, but their East Coast roots. Both my friend and her husband were raised in New Jersey where looks matter a million times more than they do here, blood boils easily, families come first and the horses are very worried about the mob. (Was that a bad joke? I don't know. Being relatively removed from my ancestry, I don't really get upset about these things. So, please don't be offended. But if you are, I'm half Irish and half Swedish. You have my permission to accost me with as many “Swedish sin,” angry temperament, ABBA, Pope, whiskey and meatball comments as you would like. But if you really want to hurt my feelings, I'd just stick with the fat jokes.)
I've always had good friends who were female. But it's been, like, since the sixth grade the last time I had a best girl friend. Someone who I can talk about even the most disgusting of bodily functions with. I usually got along better with boys as a kid, since I was raised with only brothers. And if I'm going to be completely honest, armpit noises have always fascinated me more than Barbie Dream Date. (Although Barbie Dream Date definitely has its redeeming qualities, even if it did erroneously lead me to believe that every date would be accompanied by fancy chocolates, huge bouquets of flowers and a buff, tuxedoed man with good grooming skills and knowledge of ballroom dancing.) But now, that neurotic, hyperactive, Jersey-accented Italian lady who rolls her eyes when her mother calls, tans herself into a tizzy, spends an absolutely ridiculous amount of money on designer pants and mispronounces the word coffee... She's it. She's my best girl friend.
She's not what I would have expected. She's 14 years my senior. A mother of three. Unfairly gorgeous. And my boss. Well, my landlord, technically. I rent space from her salon. But she could terminate my rental agreement if I showed up in sweatpants that say “juicy” across the butt or something. I call her Boss. More as a term of endearment than anything else.
Much like jobs, boyfriends, good apartments, I've come to the conclusion that best girl friends come along when a person is least expecting it. I'm not going to lie. My college social experience was pretty miserable because while I am very good at keeping friends and treating friends well, I'm not so good at making friends. I'm weird, dorky and shy—a bad friend-making combo. Only having five friends, though, made studying a priority. I was on honor roll every semester! Whoop, whoop! Even the semesters I took math!
Now that I'm a grown up and at an age where I thought I'd be too old to have social engagements, meaningful friendships and, well, fun in general... I've found that I have those things. (I don't know what I was envisioning for life after college. A squeaky rocking chair, two knitting needles and Paul Harvey Jr. perhaps?) Granted, when I moved back to Wisconsin, I felt the need to compensate for the fun I missed in college. Went a little overboard. Not dancing on the bar while scantily-clad and inebriated-overboard. But overboard in the way that it seemed logical to say screw saving money for food, I want to go see a hip-hop show! (In Wisconsin, we call it hip-hap.)
It's refreshing to have a girl to do things with. Not that shopping and confessing my every neurotic insecurity with Brian isn't fun, but it isn't really the same. She keeps talking about taking me to Las Vegas, because I've never been. Every other day she says how we need to go to the mall. We signed up for a belly dancing class together. We just saw The Blue Man Group. We vent every morning to each other about toilet seats being left up and her kids being mouthy and my kitten slowly destroying everything I own. It truly is nice to have such a close female friend. Someone who I can talk about even the most disgusting of bodily functions with.
24
By the time this column gets printed, I will have turned 24 years old. Which means, essentially, that I only have five more years to tell the truth about my age. And then I will be 29, presumably until I am fooling no one, at which point, I will be the lowest age I can pass as. And after I can no longer pass as that age, I hope I am a cool old lady in hot pink stretch pants with blue hair and a gun in my purse. Those are the most admirable of old ladies. Also, the most dangerous.
To celebrate my birthday, I am making my boyfriend take me to Madison for a few days. I don't know what it is, but I need frequent vacations from the northwoods in the winter. Maybe it's laziness on my part or that matter of really disliking the lack of sun. I won't complain about the snow and cold (except in idle conversation to fill awkward silences with people I don't that well). I won't wine excessively though, because, yes, I could move. But moving is a lot of work, and I've already established that I'm lazy. Moreover, I would love to go coastal, but living close to my family is more important than staving off cabin fever and sore snow shoveling muscles.
Travel is completely different. I want to do as much of that as I can. At this point in my life, however, I am not in the financial position to travel to Timbuktu or Guam. So when the opportunity arises to go on even the most tiny of excursions, such as Madison, I do my best to pack as much fun and relaxation into it as I possibly can. Our hotel has a pool. We are going to see a concert. And, essentially, the rest of our time will be spent wandering the State Street shops and eating ethnic food. Swimming, concert-going, shopping and eating are four of my favorite things. I am very happy with my decision to spend my birthday in my state's capitol city. I also plan on spending a good amount of time people-watching the plentiful number of weirdos that always seem to flock to more populated places and college towns.
I couldn't really ask for a better gift than a trip away from winter's monotony. January, February and part of March always seem to drain my energy. Grueling seems to be the right word. January. The car won't start. Ice cream brings no relief from stress. The credit card bill from Christmas comes. It is an all together horrible month. Except for my birthday, that is.
Oh! I'd be remiss if I didn't tell you that I share a birthday with FDR! Isn't that cool? FDR is one of the coolest presidents! And one of the most controversial. And one of the cutest! Obama and W have way too big of ears. Clinton sceeves me out. Bush senior looks like his dentures are always on the cusp of falling out. I don't much like cowboys, so that eliminates Reagan for me. Carter makes me think of liver pills which makes me think about liver and onions. Not pleasant. Ford had a caveman forehead. Nixon... I am generally not attracted to men who I've never seen smile. Nixon was too much of a sourpuss. Johnson reminds me of Gomer Pyle. JFK was okay, but I saw a bunch gory brain pictures on the internet that may or may not have been of him, so that spoils it for me. Plus, not to speak ill of the dead or anything, but that Kennedy family is cursed. Eisenhower is cute, but more in a grandpa way. Not a sexy president kind of way. Same goes for Truman. Martin Van Buren had those crazy-awesome sideburns, but other than that, no one really stands out in my mind as being even half as cute as good ol' Frankie D. Elanor was no uggo either, but if I were her, and born earlier in time of course, I would have a hard time keeping my little gloved hands to myself.
Rereading the previous paragraph, I'd say this is probably one of my most asinine columns to date. Aw well, I am giving myself slack. It's my birthday!
To celebrate my birthday, I am making my boyfriend take me to Madison for a few days. I don't know what it is, but I need frequent vacations from the northwoods in the winter. Maybe it's laziness on my part or that matter of really disliking the lack of sun. I won't complain about the snow and cold (except in idle conversation to fill awkward silences with people I don't that well). I won't wine excessively though, because, yes, I could move. But moving is a lot of work, and I've already established that I'm lazy. Moreover, I would love to go coastal, but living close to my family is more important than staving off cabin fever and sore snow shoveling muscles.
Travel is completely different. I want to do as much of that as I can. At this point in my life, however, I am not in the financial position to travel to Timbuktu or Guam. So when the opportunity arises to go on even the most tiny of excursions, such as Madison, I do my best to pack as much fun and relaxation into it as I possibly can. Our hotel has a pool. We are going to see a concert. And, essentially, the rest of our time will be spent wandering the State Street shops and eating ethnic food. Swimming, concert-going, shopping and eating are four of my favorite things. I am very happy with my decision to spend my birthday in my state's capitol city. I also plan on spending a good amount of time people-watching the plentiful number of weirdos that always seem to flock to more populated places and college towns.
I couldn't really ask for a better gift than a trip away from winter's monotony. January, February and part of March always seem to drain my energy. Grueling seems to be the right word. January. The car won't start. Ice cream brings no relief from stress. The credit card bill from Christmas comes. It is an all together horrible month. Except for my birthday, that is.
Oh! I'd be remiss if I didn't tell you that I share a birthday with FDR! Isn't that cool? FDR is one of the coolest presidents! And one of the most controversial. And one of the cutest! Obama and W have way too big of ears. Clinton sceeves me out. Bush senior looks like his dentures are always on the cusp of falling out. I don't much like cowboys, so that eliminates Reagan for me. Carter makes me think of liver pills which makes me think about liver and onions. Not pleasant. Ford had a caveman forehead. Nixon... I am generally not attracted to men who I've never seen smile. Nixon was too much of a sourpuss. Johnson reminds me of Gomer Pyle. JFK was okay, but I saw a bunch gory brain pictures on the internet that may or may not have been of him, so that spoils it for me. Plus, not to speak ill of the dead or anything, but that Kennedy family is cursed. Eisenhower is cute, but more in a grandpa way. Not a sexy president kind of way. Same goes for Truman. Martin Van Buren had those crazy-awesome sideburns, but other than that, no one really stands out in my mind as being even half as cute as good ol' Frankie D. Elanor was no uggo either, but if I were her, and born earlier in time of course, I would have a hard time keeping my little gloved hands to myself.
Rereading the previous paragraph, I'd say this is probably one of my most asinine columns to date. Aw well, I am giving myself slack. It's my birthday!
So it's been a while...
I have sorta neglected my blog. :(... But I have been writing during my sabbatical, so... Blog explosion? That's a good way to start the week, right?
Fo' Sho'
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