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'
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Deep Impact
I am pretty good at being mean in my everyday life. I steal candy from babies and rob liquor stores and arm wrastle big, tough dudes with tattoos! However, since I have cheesy fantasies of contributing to the world of The Arts, I feel bad bashing any artistic project. If I were in any position to criticize others, I'd be a lot more successful than I currently am.
This is not to say that criticism is not important. It lets the consumer know what he will probably like or dislike. Moreover, it lets the artist know what she can improve upon, if she chooses to read the critiques, which I would suggest she didn't if she wants to stay in the realm of the sane.
Critiquing has become an art form of its own. It's another venue to write and be on the internet and gain writing credit (which, from what I understand, works a lot like a financial credit history in the eyes of publishing houses. No credit = no opportunities). It is also an art form that I'm not very familiar with doing, so I thought I'd at least try my hand on it. Since I am quite sure that nobody in Hollywood reads my column, I feel all right with fiddling around with reviewing some of the movies I saw in 2010. I, uh, don't really know that much about cinema. So this will be Clueless's Layman Guide to the Some of the Movies She Saw in 2010!
The A-Team: Lots of explosions! I wished they would have drugged B.A. Baracus more to get him to fly. Face was totally adorable. The plot was forgettable, though... I mean, I forgot the plot. But I saw it a long time ago, so sue me. Four out of five stars!
Alice in Wonderland: Pretty colors. I am a Tim Burtin fan, although I was a little disappointed with him going computer graphic-crazy-bananas. I miss the days of Burtin cutting up his own leather couch to make costumes. Sweeny Todd was awesome, though, so that redeems him in advance. The rabbit and Johnny Depp's dancing was, admittedly, way lame. But casting was perfect from Alice, to the queens to the Mad Hatter. Professor Snape as the caterpillar? Sweet! Four and a half stars overall.
Hot Tub Time Machine: Why John Cusack? I trusted you! Two stars.
The Book of Eli: Whoa! Apocalypse! Cannibals! Braille! Four and a half stars!
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Of all of the movies in this series, this one was probably my favorite. Too much camping, though. I've read the books, but this movie left me excited to see the last movie as if I didn't know what was going to happen! Four stars and a half stars!
Inception: Loved it. See it. The end will drive you crazy like athlete's foot! Five stars.
A Nightmare on Elm Street: I get dragged to horror movies against my will because my friends like to see me jump and squirm. They are gross. I do not like them. But the make-up and fake blood was pretty convincing, so, one and a half stars. Well, okay, if I liked serious and unmockable horror movies, I'd probably give it three stars, since it was pretty suspenseful. And lot of people got gorily mangled to death.
Kick Ass: Even though Nick Cage usually makes me nauseous, this is a truly original and enjoyable movie. Hit Girl steals the show. I just wish it didn't have a cuss in its title because I want every little girl to see it. Four and a half stars.
True Grit: Supposedly John Wayne's autopsy showed he had between 40 and 70 pounds of impacted feces in his colon. That's totally false! John Wayne died of stomach cancer and everybody knew it, so there was no autopsy. People made that stuff up to sell enema kits and scare people off of red meat. Now you know. Anyhoo, this Cohen Brother's remake was truly wonderful. When Matt Damon is the weakest of the three leads, you know you've just seen something off the charts. Five stars.
Scott Pilgrim vs. the World: Five stars. Much like Kick Ass, it was a totally quirky and original movie. Micheal Cera makes my heart skip a beat, too.
The Social Network: My forth and final five-star movie of the year. I don't care if it's accurate or not. I guess it's not. I love movies about angry nerds. And Justin Timberlake plays such a convincing jerk!
So there you go. If you didn't see any movies this past year, now you know what I think. A pretty good year for movies overall. Now I'm off to debunk more fictitious celebrity gossip!
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Merry Christmas to all, and to all here's six grapefruit!
As I write this, the Christmas holiday is but a mere week away.
I get teased all the time by my family about two things in particular. The first thing is, they say I'm a horrible hypochondriac. I am not. I am simply in-tune with my body and grow appropriately concerned when there are weird lumps on the back of my neck (“You're probably just growing a second, less ugly head.” “Shut up, Tyler!”). Moreover, hypochondria is not the same as simply being paranoid about getting ill. That's just paranoia. It may be just as serious of a condition, true, but nobody ever teases me about my belief that China is going to eventually hack into our grid and reap havoc on our little liberty-lovin' heads. Nobody ever teases me about no longer using public gym equipment for fear of getting herpes or hepatitis despite vigorously wiping down anything I am about to touch with alcohol. But really, that's neither here nor there, since this is a Christmas-oriented column.
The second thing my family always teases me about is my inability to keep secrets. In my defense, I don't tell negative secrets (Telling negative secrets is different than gossiping. Unfortunately for my character, I am quite good at gossiping... Karma will get me, I'm sure, but I impotently justify it by only gossiping to my mother and my best girlfriend who are already knowledgeable of the fact that I am full of crap and can't site my sources.) Who has cheated on whom and who wears a hairpiece and who texts while he drives... That's all up in the vault never to be spoken of. But good secrets... Good secrets, I have a hard time containing myself. This is especially troublesome at Christmastime because I want to exclaim, “I got you this! Love me!” I'm sure it all stems from my deep-seeded and insatiable neediness for affection and attention.
So, I've gotten a bad reputation when it comes to secret keeping. “You have to pretend to act surprised when you open it, but Bobby-Sue got you a year's supply of yule logs!”
This is especially hard for me, because I don't think I got anybody any stinker presents this year. I think everyone will genuinely like what I got them. Admittedly, it was easier this year because I didn't have so many people to buy for. My brothers plus Brian (my boyfriend) exchanged names instead of doing our usual everybody-gets-everybody-something method (although I will still exchange gifts with Brian). We all agreed at my work that instead of doing gifts this year, we'd go out for dinner after the holidays instead. And my honorary nephew is just a wee one who I could have bought onesies that say things like “Daddy's little tax deduction” and “dinner's on me!” Instead I got him a Magnadoodle, though. Magnadoodles rock! I know from personal experience. Relax. He's not even two. He won't learn how to proficiently read this blog before this Christmas. So, most of the shopping was easy-peasey.
But then there are my parents. My brothers plus Brian decided to all go in together on their gifts for the sake of quality over quantity. My mom and dad are difficult to buy for. So when Troy wanted to pick out the gifts, I was more than happy to leave that pressure on him. Tyler and I gave him the money. Shortly after this decision was made, Padre called. Padre is always really good at getting Christmas information out of me (he is an instigator who picks the Achilles heal of the group!), so he was privy to this information. His response was, “Aw, but Troy never sticks to my wish list!”
Without mentioning this to Troy, we started conversing via email about what gifts to get. I nearly peed my pants with laughter when Troy wrote, “Dad's Christmas list, as usual, is stinking terrible. It's basically a $20 trip to the hardware store.” I don't know if this is a universally hilarious story or not, but it is for me because it's so true. This is Padre's list: Single edge razor blades, a wire cooling rack (he bakes a lot of cakes), peg board, a drill bit, screwdrivers, a can of Fisher's cashews and, sigh, he wants six Ruby Red pink grapefruit. Why six? I do not know. I'm sure he wants more that five because grapefruit are such a rare, holiday commodity.
Hopefully, I can keep my secrets and everybody is happy on Christmas.
Happy holidays, everybody! Be safe and please don't drink and drive. My driving skills are so sub-standard that it is all I can do to avoid collisions with other cards under the best of circumstances.
I get teased all the time by my family about two things in particular. The first thing is, they say I'm a horrible hypochondriac. I am not. I am simply in-tune with my body and grow appropriately concerned when there are weird lumps on the back of my neck (“You're probably just growing a second, less ugly head.” “Shut up, Tyler!”). Moreover, hypochondria is not the same as simply being paranoid about getting ill. That's just paranoia. It may be just as serious of a condition, true, but nobody ever teases me about my belief that China is going to eventually hack into our grid and reap havoc on our little liberty-lovin' heads. Nobody ever teases me about no longer using public gym equipment for fear of getting herpes or hepatitis despite vigorously wiping down anything I am about to touch with alcohol. But really, that's neither here nor there, since this is a Christmas-oriented column.
The second thing my family always teases me about is my inability to keep secrets. In my defense, I don't tell negative secrets (Telling negative secrets is different than gossiping. Unfortunately for my character, I am quite good at gossiping... Karma will get me, I'm sure, but I impotently justify it by only gossiping to my mother and my best girlfriend who are already knowledgeable of the fact that I am full of crap and can't site my sources.) Who has cheated on whom and who wears a hairpiece and who texts while he drives... That's all up in the vault never to be spoken of. But good secrets... Good secrets, I have a hard time containing myself. This is especially troublesome at Christmastime because I want to exclaim, “I got you this! Love me!” I'm sure it all stems from my deep-seeded and insatiable neediness for affection and attention.
So, I've gotten a bad reputation when it comes to secret keeping. “You have to pretend to act surprised when you open it, but Bobby-Sue got you a year's supply of yule logs!”
This is especially hard for me, because I don't think I got anybody any stinker presents this year. I think everyone will genuinely like what I got them. Admittedly, it was easier this year because I didn't have so many people to buy for. My brothers plus Brian (my boyfriend) exchanged names instead of doing our usual everybody-gets-everybody-something method (although I will still exchange gifts with Brian). We all agreed at my work that instead of doing gifts this year, we'd go out for dinner after the holidays instead. And my honorary nephew is just a wee one who I could have bought onesies that say things like “Daddy's little tax deduction” and “dinner's on me!” Instead I got him a Magnadoodle, though. Magnadoodles rock! I know from personal experience. Relax. He's not even two. He won't learn how to proficiently read this blog before this Christmas. So, most of the shopping was easy-peasey.
But then there are my parents. My brothers plus Brian decided to all go in together on their gifts for the sake of quality over quantity. My mom and dad are difficult to buy for. So when Troy wanted to pick out the gifts, I was more than happy to leave that pressure on him. Tyler and I gave him the money. Shortly after this decision was made, Padre called. Padre is always really good at getting Christmas information out of me (he is an instigator who picks the Achilles heal of the group!), so he was privy to this information. His response was, “Aw, but Troy never sticks to my wish list!”
Without mentioning this to Troy, we started conversing via email about what gifts to get. I nearly peed my pants with laughter when Troy wrote, “Dad's Christmas list, as usual, is stinking terrible. It's basically a $20 trip to the hardware store.” I don't know if this is a universally hilarious story or not, but it is for me because it's so true. This is Padre's list: Single edge razor blades, a wire cooling rack (he bakes a lot of cakes), peg board, a drill bit, screwdrivers, a can of Fisher's cashews and, sigh, he wants six Ruby Red pink grapefruit. Why six? I do not know. I'm sure he wants more that five because grapefruit are such a rare, holiday commodity.
Hopefully, I can keep my secrets and everybody is happy on Christmas.
Happy holidays, everybody! Be safe and please don't drink and drive. My driving skills are so sub-standard that it is all I can do to avoid collisions with other cards under the best of circumstances.
Friday, December 3, 2010
Dorky Facebook Quiz Makes Its Way to Blogger!
25 Things About You...
1) The first car I was allowed to drive was a white, soft-top, 1992 Geo Tracker with a purple and pink splash decal streaking down both sides. Every time I passed another Geo Tracker on the road, I would put my fist in the air and declare “Geo Trackers unite!” It did not matter whether I was alone in the car or not.
2) I aspire to be a homeowner. A homeowner who has a lot of cool junk laying around... Like shrunken heads and incense and silk scarves! I want to be a homeowner who always has an open door. Not literally. That would kill me in heating costs. But you know what I mean. And I want to host weekly board game/burrito night where everyone is invited!
Plus
Plus
Equals heart star smiley face!
3) The first R movie I ever sneaked into was Deep Blue Sea. It remains one of my all-time favorite movies. Smart sharks are awesome!
4) Whenever I eat an orange, I cut it so I can make a pretend dental retainer out of the peel.
5) I love being read aloud to. I think almost every bedtime of my early childhood involved one of my parents or my grandma reading to me. Book on tape is nice, but there is something comforting about snuggling up on the couch, closing my eyes and nagging the person who is reading to me to do different voices for each character.
6) I bought a Ronco fruit dehydrator. AND IT WAS NOT A WASTE OF MONEY!
7) I have been drinking coffee since I was about ten or eleven.
8) Famous people I have met (and can remember): David Sedaris (author), Kevin Cronin (REO Speedwagon front man), Tom Pease (children's musician... sort of like Raffi, except skinnier), Herb Kohl (Politician and guy who owns Kohl's stores), The skinny guy from American Pickers... Wow. I'm kind of lame in the stalking-famous-people department.
9) You know that thing about how if you take a loose eyelash and make a wish as you blow it away, you'll get your wish? Well, when I was little, I mistakenly thought that I was supposed to eat the eyelash to make my wish come true. I have eaten a lot of eyelashes in my time. This is probably gross to most people, but I don't even bat an eye when I get a hair in my food at a restaurant. Really, what's the big deal when I probably have a whole eyelash hairball stuck in some gastrointestinal cranny.
10) I bite my nails.
11) I keep a Sacajawea dollar in my purse at all times. Padre gave it to me for luck when I graduated from NMU.
12) My favorite color is pink. Blue, green and black tie for second.
13) I have never been cool, but I've always had enough friends to ward off anyone looking at me suspiciously and declaring “It's always the quiet ones.”
14) I have never found a pizza I didn't like.
15) My boss throws erasers at my head.
16) I had a crush on Sonic the Hedgehog as a little girl.
17) I have been pulled over by the police several times. I never got a ticket for anything, probably because the officers saw the look of genuine guilt, fear, panic on my face. Also I sweat a lot when I'm nervous. I did, however, get nailed for a parking ticket once. What can I say? I park where I want.
18) If I ever come into more money than I can use, I want to donate my zillions to space research and bio-domes on the moon and self-sustaining space ships and stuff like that. I am pretty terrified about the way we as a species have other interests in mind than our own self-preservation. Why are we squabbling about politics? There are asteroids out there that we need to knock off course! Asteroids! Moreover, we're nearly on the brink of massive pandemics and nuclear wars. We need to save and breed all of the smart people! We need to keep them in space bio-domes! We need to act now!!! Go Stevie Hawkins! Get on the shuttle!
19) When I was eight, I declared one night at the dinner table that I wanted to be a stripper when I grew up. Silence. I was watching a lot of TV Land at that time. I guess that is what I thought Barbara Eaden's job title was.
20) I want someone to buy me a teeth-whitening gift certificate for Christmas. Then I will have to stop drinking coffee and tea. :(
21) I wrote a novel that I will never show anyone. That is, unless I wake up one day and it suddenly transforms into something I'm not completely embarrassed about.
22) I have had this reoccurring dream since I was really little. I am Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz. I go into a closet and through a knot hole in the wood wall, I see an eye. I somehow know it's the eye of Robo Cop (I have never actually seen Robo Cop.). Then I fall into a completely different world where mean claymation rocks with faces spit pebbles at me and tell me I'm stupid. I go down a manhole to escape the rocks. I find yet another world. I am a human game piece on a giant Monopoly board. The other game pieces are Santa Claus and the devil. I tell Santa I want to go home. He tells me I can, but I can never come back. Santa's voice echos and I am transported back home. Then that's it. Screwed up, right?
23) I have two big brothers.
24) My driving skills are substandard.
25) My biggest fear is heights. I stayed in the basement when my class took us to the Sears Tower. I'd rather eat spiders. Dead, non-poisonous spiders. But spiders nonetheless.
1) The first car I was allowed to drive was a white, soft-top, 1992 Geo Tracker with a purple and pink splash decal streaking down both sides. Every time I passed another Geo Tracker on the road, I would put my fist in the air and declare “Geo Trackers unite!” It did not matter whether I was alone in the car or not.
2) I aspire to be a homeowner. A homeowner who has a lot of cool junk laying around... Like shrunken heads and incense and silk scarves! I want to be a homeowner who always has an open door. Not literally. That would kill me in heating costs. But you know what I mean. And I want to host weekly board game/burrito night where everyone is invited!
Plus
Plus
Equals heart star smiley face!
3) The first R movie I ever sneaked into was Deep Blue Sea. It remains one of my all-time favorite movies. Smart sharks are awesome!
4) Whenever I eat an orange, I cut it so I can make a pretend dental retainer out of the peel.
5) I love being read aloud to. I think almost every bedtime of my early childhood involved one of my parents or my grandma reading to me. Book on tape is nice, but there is something comforting about snuggling up on the couch, closing my eyes and nagging the person who is reading to me to do different voices for each character.
6) I bought a Ronco fruit dehydrator. AND IT WAS NOT A WASTE OF MONEY!
7) I have been drinking coffee since I was about ten or eleven.
8) Famous people I have met (and can remember): David Sedaris (author), Kevin Cronin (REO Speedwagon front man), Tom Pease (children's musician... sort of like Raffi, except skinnier), Herb Kohl (Politician and guy who owns Kohl's stores), The skinny guy from American Pickers... Wow. I'm kind of lame in the stalking-famous-people department.
9) You know that thing about how if you take a loose eyelash and make a wish as you blow it away, you'll get your wish? Well, when I was little, I mistakenly thought that I was supposed to eat the eyelash to make my wish come true. I have eaten a lot of eyelashes in my time. This is probably gross to most people, but I don't even bat an eye when I get a hair in my food at a restaurant. Really, what's the big deal when I probably have a whole eyelash hairball stuck in some gastrointestinal cranny.
10) I bite my nails.
11) I keep a Sacajawea dollar in my purse at all times. Padre gave it to me for luck when I graduated from NMU.
12) My favorite color is pink. Blue, green and black tie for second.
13) I have never been cool, but I've always had enough friends to ward off anyone looking at me suspiciously and declaring “It's always the quiet ones.”
14) I have never found a pizza I didn't like.
15) My boss throws erasers at my head.
16) I had a crush on Sonic the Hedgehog as a little girl.
17) I have been pulled over by the police several times. I never got a ticket for anything, probably because the officers saw the look of genuine guilt, fear, panic on my face. Also I sweat a lot when I'm nervous. I did, however, get nailed for a parking ticket once. What can I say? I park where I want.
18) If I ever come into more money than I can use, I want to donate my zillions to space research and bio-domes on the moon and self-sustaining space ships and stuff like that. I am pretty terrified about the way we as a species have other interests in mind than our own self-preservation. Why are we squabbling about politics? There are asteroids out there that we need to knock off course! Asteroids! Moreover, we're nearly on the brink of massive pandemics and nuclear wars. We need to save and breed all of the smart people! We need to keep them in space bio-domes! We need to act now!!! Go Stevie Hawkins! Get on the shuttle!
19) When I was eight, I declared one night at the dinner table that I wanted to be a stripper when I grew up. Silence. I was watching a lot of TV Land at that time. I guess that is what I thought Barbara Eaden's job title was.
20) I want someone to buy me a teeth-whitening gift certificate for Christmas. Then I will have to stop drinking coffee and tea. :(
21) I wrote a novel that I will never show anyone. That is, unless I wake up one day and it suddenly transforms into something I'm not completely embarrassed about.
22) I have had this reoccurring dream since I was really little. I am Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz. I go into a closet and through a knot hole in the wood wall, I see an eye. I somehow know it's the eye of Robo Cop (I have never actually seen Robo Cop.). Then I fall into a completely different world where mean claymation rocks with faces spit pebbles at me and tell me I'm stupid. I go down a manhole to escape the rocks. I find yet another world. I am a human game piece on a giant Monopoly board. The other game pieces are Santa Claus and the devil. I tell Santa I want to go home. He tells me I can, but I can never come back. Santa's voice echos and I am transported back home. Then that's it. Screwed up, right?
23) I have two big brothers.
24) My driving skills are substandard.
25) My biggest fear is heights. I stayed in the basement when my class took us to the Sears Tower. I'd rather eat spiders. Dead, non-poisonous spiders. But spiders nonetheless.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Attack!
Ever since we adopted our feisty, little kitten, Frankie Pandora Pickles Henderson-Webber, the word “feral” is on my mind. Frankie is not entirely untamed: She snuggles when she wants to. She has a natural curiosity about the toilet bowl. She eats and drinks out of the dish. She poops in the poop box. And on rare occasions, she even leaves our older, lazy cat, Mr. Leo, alone.
But other than that... I think she is merely one level of refinement above an alley cat with ruffled fur and a lust for blood. I have scratches covering my ams. To avoid catching anything from my massage clients, I have taken to whitewashing my arms with New Skin. New Skin is awesome, but when a person washes her hands as often as I do in my line of work, New Skin starts to flake off, and then I really look like I have something wrong with me.
But in any case, I've been analyzing what it would mean to be a feral person. Wild. Ravenous.
On a quasi-related note, I saw this one YouTube video where a crack addict was tethered to a post (he complied completely at the time). His crack stash was placed just out of the man's reach. The video was edited to make the hours look like moments. I watched as this man came down. He did everything but chew his own leg off in attempts to get the drugs. He begged and pleaded and stretched himself as far as his limbs would allow until he was laying with his belly flat on the pavement. This video was suggested to me by a friend who thought I'd think it was funny since the tethered man was reminiscent of a more hyper-active Chris Tucker. And believe me, I love Chris Tucker. But this just wasn't an amusing video. I felt really sad afterward. I couldn't figure out if this person was feral or just ill. In any case, I hope what you young and impressionable readers take away from this anecdote is steal cars, get in bar fights, cheat on your significant other with his or her best friend if you have to, but please don't do any of the scary drugs. Nancy Reagan will step off her soap box now and continue with her fluff article about feral cats. But seriously, don't do crack.
If I was left to my own devices, without technology, companionship, civilization or domestication... No coffee, no TV, not a single luxury... How would I live my life? Certainly I would learn how to build a decent fire for the first time, despite the years of being a camp councilor and the youngest sibling to two Eagle scouts. But let's just assume that building an iPod out of coconuts is out of my realm of capabilities.
I suppose all the time I used to spend grooming myself, doing laundry, scooping cat poop, procrastinating exercise, microwaving my dinners and working would be freed up. Although, that same amount of time would more than likely be redistributed to killing stuff, finding berries and fashioning shoes out of tree bark and my own hair. Oh, yes, and continuously smearing myself with mud so that my hair-free hide wouldn't become sunburned. Evolution. Puh. I have too much hair to fit in with the human females, but not enough to do any sort of animalistic good. I'm in a fuzziness limbo.
Feral people would not get excited about the idea of owning a heated foot spa to replace Ol' Bessy (my former foot spa, who desperately wants to retire). Feral people chew off their toenails with their tartar-stained teeth. Grrr. Snort, snort.
However, feral people don't have to eat as many Tums as I do to ward off the indigestion caused by the anxiety caused by the awkward conversations at parties and restless people in line behind me at the grocery store. Feral people may have to worry about getting eaten by predators, but they don't have to worry about romantic rival bank tellers or inevitable future colonoscopies or getting cornered at a bar and aggressively badgered about politics. Feral people might have to worry about hoof and mouth, but we regular people have to worry about delicate matters such as foot in mouth.
But the long and short of it is, no matter how miserable or enjoyable being a wild woman would be, I can't run off to the wilderness to find my inner Nell. I have just adopted a kitten, who needs a lot of attention, discipline, cuddling so that she turns out well. So she will stop destroying everything in our apartment from my apple-slice window garland to Brian's decorative beer stein collection to Mr. Leo's fragile self-image. Who knows what manic mischief she could be up to right now?
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Mmmm.... Post-It Notes...
Well, I made it a whole week without soda. Okay, that's a lie. I was eating a piece of bread a couple days ago. A piece got lodged in my throat all goofy. In my panic, I took a sip of the nearest beverage, which was a paper cup of old and flat Diet Coke that had been sitting on the kitchen counter for Zues knows how long. I can truthfully say that I didn't enjoy any soda this week.
Giving up an unhealthy diet is the opposite of giving up any other addiction. With smoking for example, the first week is the hardest. I once saw a new non-smoker who was trying desperately to “catch his nic-fit” apply multiple nicotine patches all at once. This guy was quite inebriated and had to be sent to the emergency room, but hey, I guess that's the college experience for some folks. In any case, I assume it's difficult to say the least.
Conversely, dieting is easiest in the first week for a lot of people. It's exciting imagining yourself all foxified. All eyes are on you. Nobody puts baby in a corner. The Baywatch theme is your background music and the world is your naturally-delicious and nutritious tomato! You're motivated to keep track of your caloric intake or points or whatever your strategy is. You buy hand weights and one of those cheesy sweat bands so that sweat doesn't drip in your eyes. Maybe I don't sweat enough, but I have never had the need to take precautions against scalp sweat getting in my eyes. That's what my Groucho Marx eyebrows are for. What can I say? Genetics were good to me.
But it's the second week. The third week. The forth week. Then it gets hard. In earlier attempts of mine to get healthy, the excitement tapered off so much, I eventually forgot that I was on a diet in the first place. That is, until the next time I had to go swimsuit shopping. Who knows how many times I vowed to starve myself until I looked like Kate Moss. I'm too young to have to wear a swimsuit with the ruffle skirt! Those who own ruffle-skirted swimsuits: please do not be offended. Unless you were around for the American Civil War, you're too young too.
I'm hoping that for me, this new attempt at giving up unhealthy foods is not a diet, but a change in my lifestyle. And maybe since I am consciously giving something up each week (whether it's as broad as red meat of as specific as Twinkies), I won't forget that I'm on a diet.
Also, I intend to be forgiving of myself. If I fall off the wagon and start eating sticks of butter like Snickers bars and begin keg standing corn syrup, I need to assess my situation, avoid guilt and simply amend the bad behavior.
Although I have never had a problem with adjusting the menus at any of my home events for guests who have special dietary needs, some people seem to seethe genuine hatred for those who “just need to be difficult.” That's just not very hospitable, is it Emily Post? Just kidding. I realize it's hard to be accommodating for Gluten-Free Susie, Nut Allergy Joe, Vegan Billy, No Artificial Coloring Carl and Diabetic Phyllis. It's difficult, true. But that's part of the fun and challenge in being a good host or hostess. Deal with it. *Snaps fingers with attitude*
I realize others probably don't share my enthusiasm to be all-accommodating. I also realize a good portion of my friends and family have seen me eat like a sumo wrestler with a death wish in the past. They've seen me pick my scabs, sit in smoke-filled bars, listen to my music too loud, drive my vehicles into snowbanks, chemically process my hair, chew on my germy fingernails, accidentally roller skate into traffic on several occasions, absentmindedly eat Post-It notes and a million other unhealthy things that range in scale of repulsion. These people might be upset if I suddenly want to make special requests because what they want to prepare at their house for dinner isn't healthy enough for my fancy-pants standards.
So, I intend to eat healthy, yes. But within the parameters of my lifestyle. I'm giving up things each week out of my regular diet, but if I'm at my parent's house and she's serving roast beef, well, I'm going to eat some damned roast beef... And like it! I'm not aiming to make changes to be a rebel. That's what the nose ring is for. I just want to feel better and invest in something. Since I don't have funds to invest in the stock market, I'll invest in my health.
Giving up an unhealthy diet is the opposite of giving up any other addiction. With smoking for example, the first week is the hardest. I once saw a new non-smoker who was trying desperately to “catch his nic-fit” apply multiple nicotine patches all at once. This guy was quite inebriated and had to be sent to the emergency room, but hey, I guess that's the college experience for some folks. In any case, I assume it's difficult to say the least.
Conversely, dieting is easiest in the first week for a lot of people. It's exciting imagining yourself all foxified. All eyes are on you. Nobody puts baby in a corner. The Baywatch theme is your background music and the world is your naturally-delicious and nutritious tomato! You're motivated to keep track of your caloric intake or points or whatever your strategy is. You buy hand weights and one of those cheesy sweat bands so that sweat doesn't drip in your eyes. Maybe I don't sweat enough, but I have never had the need to take precautions against scalp sweat getting in my eyes. That's what my Groucho Marx eyebrows are for. What can I say? Genetics were good to me.
But it's the second week. The third week. The forth week. Then it gets hard. In earlier attempts of mine to get healthy, the excitement tapered off so much, I eventually forgot that I was on a diet in the first place. That is, until the next time I had to go swimsuit shopping. Who knows how many times I vowed to starve myself until I looked like Kate Moss. I'm too young to have to wear a swimsuit with the ruffle skirt! Those who own ruffle-skirted swimsuits: please do not be offended. Unless you were around for the American Civil War, you're too young too.
I'm hoping that for me, this new attempt at giving up unhealthy foods is not a diet, but a change in my lifestyle. And maybe since I am consciously giving something up each week (whether it's as broad as red meat of as specific as Twinkies), I won't forget that I'm on a diet.
Also, I intend to be forgiving of myself. If I fall off the wagon and start eating sticks of butter like Snickers bars and begin keg standing corn syrup, I need to assess my situation, avoid guilt and simply amend the bad behavior.
Although I have never had a problem with adjusting the menus at any of my home events for guests who have special dietary needs, some people seem to seethe genuine hatred for those who “just need to be difficult.” That's just not very hospitable, is it Emily Post? Just kidding. I realize it's hard to be accommodating for Gluten-Free Susie, Nut Allergy Joe, Vegan Billy, No Artificial Coloring Carl and Diabetic Phyllis. It's difficult, true. But that's part of the fun and challenge in being a good host or hostess. Deal with it. *Snaps fingers with attitude*
I realize others probably don't share my enthusiasm to be all-accommodating. I also realize a good portion of my friends and family have seen me eat like a sumo wrestler with a death wish in the past. They've seen me pick my scabs, sit in smoke-filled bars, listen to my music too loud, drive my vehicles into snowbanks, chemically process my hair, chew on my germy fingernails, accidentally roller skate into traffic on several occasions, absentmindedly eat Post-It notes and a million other unhealthy things that range in scale of repulsion. These people might be upset if I suddenly want to make special requests because what they want to prepare at their house for dinner isn't healthy enough for my fancy-pants standards.
So, I intend to eat healthy, yes. But within the parameters of my lifestyle. I'm giving up things each week out of my regular diet, but if I'm at my parent's house and she's serving roast beef, well, I'm going to eat some damned roast beef... And like it! I'm not aiming to make changes to be a rebel. That's what the nose ring is for. I just want to feel better and invest in something. Since I don't have funds to invest in the stock market, I'll invest in my health.
Monday, November 1, 2010
The Phatness
Never have I denied that I. Love. Food. The streets of heaven are not paved in gold, folks, they are paved with bacon-wrapped cheese curds with Raisinette sprinkles and a shoulder made out of warm peach pie. The rivers in heaven rush with chocolate syrup-infused Coca-Cola. The skies precipitate fluffy popcorn with movie theater butter and mocha latte frappe rain drops. And the cherry Jell-O is so good in heaven, even the horses love it.
But back on Earth... There are consequences to living the lifestyle of the fried and the sugary. I am realizing the importance of not sending this body to my glucose-laden heaven too quickly. The whole sad truth of the situation is that people of my generation and younger will be the first group of people who will simply not live as long of a life as our parents. Like, uh... Considering my parents' environments in which they were raised, that is a pretty drastic statement. For my parents' generation, smoking really was cool. Like, super-cool. Like, I dare you to find a man today who looks as attractive in a pair of dirty pants as the Marlboro Man did. My parents' generation were raised pre-Nancy Reagan's “Just Say No” campaign, which most of us admittedly outwardly mock, but probably secretly are appreciative for. My parents' generation were not born into a culture that was seriously conscious about things like AIDS and other communicable diseases. They have lived through more wars. They thought mercury was a fun thing to play with, you know, with their bare hands. And as children, they gleefully ran behind the pesticide-spraying vehicles.
And they are expected to live longer lifespans than my generation. My generation: the supposed organic food-pushing, McDonald's bashing, gym class advocating, D.A.R.E. students are not projected to live as long as our parents. Because of what we do and don't do to our bodies. That is completely horrifying to me.
I'm not saying that it's completely our fault, although most of it probably is. The things they do to our food before the grocers even see it is quite simply one of the most terrifying subjects I have ever been made aware of. Padre is probably rolling his eyes right about here. He tends to write off most conspiracy theories as coming from either hippies or people who wear tin foil hats to keep the government out of their thoughts. But I subscribe wholeheartedly. Not to the tin foil hat part, but the part about our food being progressively less good for us. I believe it, because people are in a position to make money. The processes our food goes through is a problem that needs to find a solution. I use a passive sentence here, because I am not sure how to fix this problem. The politics of food processing is far beyond my intellect.
The only way I can conceive is to express my hope for healthier foods by means of boycott. It is my new goal that every week, I am going to eliminate one unhealthy thing out of my diet. Right about here I should reiterate my compassion for a world made out bacon. I have no desire to become that emaciated girl at the party who stinks like garlic and clove oil and hasn't eaten anything besides her personal garden's asparagus since 1994.
I don't want to be that person, no. But I don't want to be a statistic either. I don't want to develop some horrible ailment that will affect my whole life. Eating the wrong things and living what those pesky gym teachers refer to as a “sedentary lifestyle” has made me feel less than what I can. I am not just talking about adverse affects on my appearance and self-esteem either. Yes, my body type has kept me out of a sting bikini thus far, but there is no reason for me to be walking around with a burlap sack over my head. I have good physical attributes: a pretty symmetrical face, decent hygiene and let's just say that I've never had any trouble holding up a tube top. But I want to feel better. I want my body to work better. I want to be able to survive this zombie apocalypse my friends keep talking about.
So, I am sitting here typing. Drinking my very last chocolate syrup-infused Coca-Cola (until I get to heaven). This week I am forever giving up all soda except for club. Next week, red meat. :( I'm sure there will be times I fall off the wagon. Hopefully the wagon is something I can get back on with ease, knowing that the wagon drives on roads not yet made of bacon.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Dear Alex,
As I am writing you this letter, it is the week before Halloween, 2010. I imagine right now you are probably in the “jumbo shrimp with exaggerated Muppet eyes” phase of your gestational development. It's okay. We all start out shrimpy.
You are very lucky, dear Jumbo Shrimp Alex, because not only are you young enough to have all of the world's splendor and excitement ahead of you (Harry Potter, ice cream, sex and REO Speedwagon among many, many other things), but you are also about to be born into a family that will love and cherish you more than Lucy wants to sing at Ricky's club.
They will love you when you are at your worst. When you are at your best. When you are at your most in-between of behavior. These are the people who will scold you for flushing an entire roll of toilet paper down the toilet, causing the whole bathroom to flood with malodorous TP soup. These are the people who will obsessively tell their friends how wonderful it is that you moved away from formula (Because Alex likes his big boy food. Yes he does. Oh yes he does!). They'll gush about how you got your first pair of training underwear, ate your first crayon, got chewed on by your first goat at the petting zoo, watched your first movie in the theater, lost your first tooth, tied your first lace, stuck your tongue out at your first crush, went on your first school bus ride. These will be the people who will grin with pride when you walk down the aisle of the high school gym to accept your diploma. These will be the people who will help you paint your first single-serving apartment. They will cry when they take you toaster shopping for said apartment.
There is no doubt in my mind that you will have a happy childhood.
True, I do not know your father's side of the family very well. I went to high school with your dad, but other than my trying to embarrass him from time to time by telling fart jokes and other such instances of immaturity, we did not have a tremendous exchange of dialogue.
However, your mom and her side of the family have made a very significant and positive impact on my life, as I'm sure it will on yours—and on a much larger scale. You are a very lucky fetus.
I want you to know that your mother is a wonderful lady. Unfortunately, it took me a while to realize that my mother was a fantastic lady as well. You see, in my case, I saw my mom as my soda pop rationer, my homework slave driver, my own personal disciplinarian and the wiper of my butt. It wasn't until I got a little older that I realized my mom was her own person with her own talents and interests, only one of which is mothering my sorry ass.
Our moms are both multifaceted people. I want you to understand that, because your mother is one of my closest friends. I know how amazing she is. But I know how easily one can lose touch with that concept when that amazing person is using a turkey baster to suction snot out of your nostrils.
I met your mother the summer before we went into sixth grade. That's, like, an eternity if fetus years. We have been friends ever since. We've had millions of slumber parties. We prank called boys together. We went through our ugly scrunchy, Winnie the Pooh, bibbed overall phases together. We've gotten to travel together. Drink together. Get kicked out of Mr. Lewis' class together. Snicker at my father's “horny toad” and flatulent iguanas together. Drive down Main Street blasting opera music with the windows rolled down together. Your mother is a weirdo. However, she is also a whole lot of fun. She has one of the biggest hearts I have ever encountered. She is a wonderful person.
Your mother chose to be your mother. Other than drawing hilariously misshapen airplanes, I've never known her to do anything halfheartedly once she decided that was what she wanted to do. Her heart is all in it. And her heart is with you. Please be good to her, my shrimpy, little Alex. You have a whole lot of awesome to get done.
I sincerely hope I get to be a part of your life.
Love and best wishes,
Trish
As I am writing you this letter, it is the week before Halloween, 2010. I imagine right now you are probably in the “jumbo shrimp with exaggerated Muppet eyes” phase of your gestational development. It's okay. We all start out shrimpy.
You are very lucky, dear Jumbo Shrimp Alex, because not only are you young enough to have all of the world's splendor and excitement ahead of you (Harry Potter, ice cream, sex and REO Speedwagon among many, many other things), but you are also about to be born into a family that will love and cherish you more than Lucy wants to sing at Ricky's club.
They will love you when you are at your worst. When you are at your best. When you are at your most in-between of behavior. These are the people who will scold you for flushing an entire roll of toilet paper down the toilet, causing the whole bathroom to flood with malodorous TP soup. These are the people who will obsessively tell their friends how wonderful it is that you moved away from formula (Because Alex likes his big boy food. Yes he does. Oh yes he does!). They'll gush about how you got your first pair of training underwear, ate your first crayon, got chewed on by your first goat at the petting zoo, watched your first movie in the theater, lost your first tooth, tied your first lace, stuck your tongue out at your first crush, went on your first school bus ride. These will be the people who will grin with pride when you walk down the aisle of the high school gym to accept your diploma. These will be the people who will help you paint your first single-serving apartment. They will cry when they take you toaster shopping for said apartment.
There is no doubt in my mind that you will have a happy childhood.
True, I do not know your father's side of the family very well. I went to high school with your dad, but other than my trying to embarrass him from time to time by telling fart jokes and other such instances of immaturity, we did not have a tremendous exchange of dialogue.
However, your mom and her side of the family have made a very significant and positive impact on my life, as I'm sure it will on yours—and on a much larger scale. You are a very lucky fetus.
I want you to know that your mother is a wonderful lady. Unfortunately, it took me a while to realize that my mother was a fantastic lady as well. You see, in my case, I saw my mom as my soda pop rationer, my homework slave driver, my own personal disciplinarian and the wiper of my butt. It wasn't until I got a little older that I realized my mom was her own person with her own talents and interests, only one of which is mothering my sorry ass.
Our moms are both multifaceted people. I want you to understand that, because your mother is one of my closest friends. I know how amazing she is. But I know how easily one can lose touch with that concept when that amazing person is using a turkey baster to suction snot out of your nostrils.
I met your mother the summer before we went into sixth grade. That's, like, an eternity if fetus years. We have been friends ever since. We've had millions of slumber parties. We prank called boys together. We went through our ugly scrunchy, Winnie the Pooh, bibbed overall phases together. We've gotten to travel together. Drink together. Get kicked out of Mr. Lewis' class together. Snicker at my father's “horny toad” and flatulent iguanas together. Drive down Main Street blasting opera music with the windows rolled down together. Your mother is a weirdo. However, she is also a whole lot of fun. She has one of the biggest hearts I have ever encountered. She is a wonderful person.
Your mother chose to be your mother. Other than drawing hilariously misshapen airplanes, I've never known her to do anything halfheartedly once she decided that was what she wanted to do. Her heart is all in it. And her heart is with you. Please be good to her, my shrimpy, little Alex. You have a whole lot of awesome to get done.
I sincerely hope I get to be a part of your life.
Love and best wishes,
Trish
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Awk Toe Bur
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I get disproportionately excited about Halloween and fall and, well, just about anything that fits into the month of October. Sure, it's sad to see summer end, but that's what we have September for: to be depressed as we nail the coffin shut on sunshine, general happiness, campfires, swimming and being able to walk around without wool socks inside of one's apartment because her Illinois resident landlord controls the heat.
But by October, I get over all that. Because. Ah. I start thinking about what I'm going to get people for Christmas, but I'm not yet stressed out about it, because I have a quarter of a year left before the Santa ho ho ho's me into a full-fledged panic attack. (“What if someone just shows up at my house with a present for me? Maybe I don't consider them a gift-giving friend, but they're ready to put me in their will? I should buy a few gifts to have around the house just in case so I don't make anyone feel bad. Like a couple bottles of wine from the local winery. Reasonably priced, but still trendy because it's all local and stuff. I have trendy friends. They'll like that and love me for being so darn, stinkin' considerate. But what if I have a bottle of wine laying around for this... And someone comes over with a beautiful fruit and cheese platter for me... And I run to grab their custom gift... And he or she is a recovering alcoholic or under the age of 21 or pregnant or Mormon? Or maybe his or her mother was stomped to death in one of those giant grape-mashing barrels and the thought of wine brings him or her to tears? Scratch that off the list, Trisha, you insensitive boob! Do you want everyone to hate you?!) But, like I said, I'm not going to stress out about Christmas until later. Now is the fun part of Christmas shopping, which is window shopping. It's free!
Pumpkin carving is another pinnacle of October enjoyment for me. I'm twenty three years old and I don't think I've ever missed a year of carving. Mind you, I'm not very good at it. Moreover, I have to use the kiddie pumpkin carving tools with the rounded edges because otherwise I'd most certainly lose a finger. But I have fun. It's so liberating thrusting your hand down into an ice-cold cavern of squishy pumpkin goo and yanking out its guts, imagining I am performing some sort of odd pumpkin-sacrificing ceremony to appease the pumpkin gods.
I love the apples. I'm dehydrating a whole bunch right now in my Ronco As Seen on TV dehydrator, which I was teased for purchasing. Jokes on them, because they're still spending fortunes on store dehydrated fruit!
October makes me feel homey as well. It's hard to explain, but I imagine it's the feeling pregnant ladies get when they're nesting. Suddenly, I want to do strange things like regrout my shower tiles and stay in my pajamas while making rice pudding on the stove and crocheting scarves that I will probably never wear.
But the all-time most enjoyable and important part of October, of course, is at the end. Halloween is a lifestyle. Once a year I can look around the room at people dressed up like ghouls, monsters and zombies and think, “these people aren't half bad.”
I usually get stoked about picking out a costume. However, I went a little over my budget last year with my Carmen Miranda costume, so... I will probably be Carmen until I either die or change weight too much to fit into it. Whatever comes first. Hopefully the fruit hat will hold up. Without the costume to make, I still find myself especially gleeful to know the holiday is approaching. I want to throw a party and serve peeled grapes and call them eyeballs. Most people can only get away with that once a year. This is it. Also, I have to redeem myself for the party I threw last year. I accidentally and forcefully threw a Kit Kat bar into a girl's drink who I didn't know so well. It splashed all over her. Yeah... That was sort of unfortunate. I was trying to make sure the candy was evenly distributed. Throwing Kit Kat bars across my jam-packed living room seemed like a good idea at the time... This year I will only throw eyeballs while inebriated from "spooky punch."
Fall used to be something I really, truly despised. It was synonymous with homework and getting cooped up inside. Now that I'm out of school and can leave the house after dark, it's rapidly turning into one of my favorite seasons. Now to go pick out a pumpkin and buy a green bunch of eyeballs.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Cool
I steal candy from babies
I rob liquor stores
I pickpocket old ladies
I short-change my whores
I sneer at the pigs
With a glare none-plainer
As I take a few swigs
From my open container
I loiter on Main Street
I snort a few lines
Guns talk pretty sweet
To evade parking fines
You think
I’m bound for the Joint
I’ll be in for a while
Let me get to my point
Baby, cuffs ain’t my style
**Note: I wrote this poem in high school. It is my favorite poem I have ever written. And it's TOTALLY autobiographical.
I rob liquor stores
I pickpocket old ladies
I short-change my whores
I sneer at the pigs
With a glare none-plainer
As I take a few swigs
From my open container
I loiter on Main Street
I snort a few lines
Guns talk pretty sweet
To evade parking fines
You think
I’m bound for the Joint
I’ll be in for a while
Let me get to my point
Baby, cuffs ain’t my style
**Note: I wrote this poem in high school. It is my favorite poem I have ever written. And it's TOTALLY autobiographical.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Salvador, Dolly, Pandora and Pip
Padre will be turning 65 in a couple of days. I don't know of too much that I've inherited from my father in a physical sense, other than ghost-white skin that peels like the outer layer of an onion every time it sees ten minutes of sunshine. And good fingernail beds. Padre and I both have really good fingernail beds. Padre always sternly reminds me to stop chewing on my fingernails. I think it grosses him out. But he cuts his fingernails with a box cutting razor. That makes me probably equally as squeamish because he is only one sneeze away from the nickname Thumbs Only Ronald.
Everybody has their habits, though. Nobody licks the outside of the jelly or anything... That would be gross. Nope. Nobody does that. Especially not me. But if somebody did lick the outside of the jelly, it would be completely understandable. Jelly wasting is the truly disgusting act in that scenario.
One very important nonphysical trait I did inherit from Padre though is his love of animals. He has always been my encyclopedia to wildlife. “I saw this big, fat thing with an orange face, a mop top and flippers run across the road! What was it?” Padre always knows. He has a degree in zoology.
These days Padre finds more than enough fuzzy companionship with our one old pooch, Oreo. But over the years, he's been the “food man” to iguanas, tarantulas, hermit crabs, horned toads, a multitude of fish, cats, dogs, a gray squirrel named Buckles, frogs, turtles, and his own wild and unruly offspring. Maybe more. Rats? Snakes? Who knows. I know he passed on a three-foot alligator that was offered to him a few years ago... “I did that for your mother. Plus the little guy probably wouldn't be too happy in the bathtub all the time and we'd never get him back if we put him in the lake.”
My personal pet list is not as impressive since a lot of the pets on Padre's list were family pets that I, too, loved. Especially Oreo and Bandit, the adorable pooches of my life so far. But since I've been on my own, I've had sea monkeys, a red squirrel named Buckles II (not quite as easy to domesticate a red squirrel as one would think... I did not succeed... But he still counts), a dozen individually-named earth worms (I dabbled briefly in composting my own garbage... until I accidentally killed my earthworms and developed a terrible fear of raccoons.) and last, but certainly not least, Leo the Siamese-obese kitty. He is on a diet. Brian insists he's just fluffy. Leo is the the awesomest.
Oh yeah... And right now I have a bathtub full of kittens! There's Pip, Pandora, Salvador and Dolly. (Get it? Salvador Dahli? I got to name them... Can you tell?). And the momma cat. I am taking care of them for one of my boyfriend Brian's friends who didn't get the concept that if ya let your non-spayed cat roam around town, the best case scenario is a preggo cat. Which is what happened. Long story short, the cat owner needed to move into a different apartment in a hurry—an apartment that didn't allow any cats, let alone a cat with four adorable kittens. So... Trish with a bathtub full of cats for the next three months until the owner's lease is up on the new apartment and a cat-friendly apartment can be found! Don't tell my landlord though... He wasn't pleased that Leo was in the picture, let alone five other cats... four of which who are new to the concept of pooping in a box and not behind the bookshelf. Or in my shoes.
The kittens are still nursing right now, but after that, they will be given to people I deem suitable cat owners. No, Mom and Padre, this doesn't mean I am keeping all of the kittens. In fact, I think I have homes for all of the kittens if the prospects pan out. I still need to check the CCAPS website to make sure nobody was arrested for, you know, criminal acts to cats.
Speaking of owners... After deciding Leo might be chubby because he doesn't have a companion to play with, Brian and I decided to take the next step in our relationship. Marriage? Nah. Kitten? Okay! It makes perfect sense to me to celebrate the birthday of the man who taught me to love animals by adopting Pandora. And also eating cake. Happy Birthday Padre. I hope your birthday is warm and fuzzy. I love you.
Everybody has their habits, though. Nobody licks the outside of the jelly or anything... That would be gross. Nope. Nobody does that. Especially not me. But if somebody did lick the outside of the jelly, it would be completely understandable. Jelly wasting is the truly disgusting act in that scenario.
One very important nonphysical trait I did inherit from Padre though is his love of animals. He has always been my encyclopedia to wildlife. “I saw this big, fat thing with an orange face, a mop top and flippers run across the road! What was it?” Padre always knows. He has a degree in zoology.
These days Padre finds more than enough fuzzy companionship with our one old pooch, Oreo. But over the years, he's been the “food man” to iguanas, tarantulas, hermit crabs, horned toads, a multitude of fish, cats, dogs, a gray squirrel named Buckles, frogs, turtles, and his own wild and unruly offspring. Maybe more. Rats? Snakes? Who knows. I know he passed on a three-foot alligator that was offered to him a few years ago... “I did that for your mother. Plus the little guy probably wouldn't be too happy in the bathtub all the time and we'd never get him back if we put him in the lake.”
My personal pet list is not as impressive since a lot of the pets on Padre's list were family pets that I, too, loved. Especially Oreo and Bandit, the adorable pooches of my life so far. But since I've been on my own, I've had sea monkeys, a red squirrel named Buckles II (not quite as easy to domesticate a red squirrel as one would think... I did not succeed... But he still counts), a dozen individually-named earth worms (I dabbled briefly in composting my own garbage... until I accidentally killed my earthworms and developed a terrible fear of raccoons.) and last, but certainly not least, Leo the Siamese-obese kitty. He is on a diet. Brian insists he's just fluffy. Leo is the the awesomest.
Oh yeah... And right now I have a bathtub full of kittens! There's Pip, Pandora, Salvador and Dolly. (Get it? Salvador Dahli? I got to name them... Can you tell?). And the momma cat. I am taking care of them for one of my boyfriend Brian's friends who didn't get the concept that if ya let your non-spayed cat roam around town, the best case scenario is a preggo cat. Which is what happened. Long story short, the cat owner needed to move into a different apartment in a hurry—an apartment that didn't allow any cats, let alone a cat with four adorable kittens. So... Trish with a bathtub full of cats for the next three months until the owner's lease is up on the new apartment and a cat-friendly apartment can be found! Don't tell my landlord though... He wasn't pleased that Leo was in the picture, let alone five other cats... four of which who are new to the concept of pooping in a box and not behind the bookshelf. Or in my shoes.
The kittens are still nursing right now, but after that, they will be given to people I deem suitable cat owners. No, Mom and Padre, this doesn't mean I am keeping all of the kittens. In fact, I think I have homes for all of the kittens if the prospects pan out. I still need to check the CCAPS website to make sure nobody was arrested for, you know, criminal acts to cats.
Speaking of owners... After deciding Leo might be chubby because he doesn't have a companion to play with, Brian and I decided to take the next step in our relationship. Marriage? Nah. Kitten? Okay! It makes perfect sense to me to celebrate the birthday of the man who taught me to love animals by adopting Pandora. And also eating cake. Happy Birthday Padre. I hope your birthday is warm and fuzzy. I love you.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
My Dear Greeks.
I didn't take much away from the movie My Girl other then a handful of snot-smeared Kleenexes and a general distrust of bees. Although, I was, like, five when that movie came out, so I'm sure there is a lot more to it than I remember. Dan Aykroyd... Puberty... Death... Something or other like that. I don't really recall anything about My Girl 2 either, for than matter, the exception being the lead boy telling the lead girl that ear piercing was a barbaric custom.
I wouldn't say barbaric is the right word. My cat has a little hole in his earlobe from having some sort of back-alley cat fight club long before he became my squishy, little cuddle-lumpkins-kitty. It's a big enough hole to put an earring through, though I never would, because Leo doesn't even let me dress him up, let alone try to paint his nails and put jewelry on him. It seems barbaric that one cat would chomp another cat's ear just for fun, but cats can't be barbaric, because they're, well, cats. Barbarism is restricted specifically to humans. I looked it up on Dictionary.com. To be barbaric means to be an uncivilized person--or a non-Greek, if we're going with the older definition. So, in any case, other than my love of feta cheese and olives, I have nothing Greek about me. Therefore, automatically, I am a barbarian! So, I might as well just have some fun.
I suppose it's a matter of opinion as to whether a person thinks bod-mods (body modifications: including but not limited to body piercings, tattoos, assorted implants, etc...) are attractive or not. Or barbaric or not. (If you're not Greek, there's no point in really contemplating it too deeply.)
For example, most of my friends my age are tattooed. I am not. Yet, a good majority of my friends hold higher-paying jobs and have a higher level of education than I do. These are some of the people who help me correct my grammar for submissions and remind me not to swear so much. Like, these people are the help-little-old-ladies-cross-the-street types of people. My group of friends have become part of this growing counter-stereotype for bod mods, much like how there is a higher percentage of white collar business people dressed up in leather Harley chaps who motorcycle nowadays than there are actual stab-you-in-the-belly-with-a-broken-beer-bottle-if-you-look-at-me-funny bike gangs.
To my understanding, American tattoos used to be exclusively a military and/or tough guy thing. Military aside, my generation does not really define themselves by toughness, necessarily, because computer skills and a sense of humor will get a person a lot more dates today than being able to pull the plow when the bull dies. And really, isn't the biological imperative to try to obtain dates? Just kidding.
Thus, instead of merely having a bod mod to appeal to prospective dates, or to appeal to one's inner self, or to anger one's parents, one must show originality in his or her bod mod to navigate towards one's own fitting social circle. The days of getting inebriated and going into a reputable tattoo parlor, only to emerge with Miss Piggy's silhouette inked across your back are over. What I'm saying, is body modifications, whether you like them or hate them, are becoming more and more of a statement about what kind of a person you are. They are thought-out and planned. They mean things to people.
There are some people who believe that doing anything to your body is disrespecting it. There are some people who believe exactly the opposite. There are some people who will eat McDonald's three times a week and point fingers and those with bod mods. There are people with elaborate bod mods who haven't eaten red meat or refined sugars since they were old enough to know better. I believe it's all about what your internal compass lets you do. My compass is different from everyone else's, as everyone else's is different from each other's. I suppose one of the greatest things about living in the day and age we do now, is that we can all judge all we want to, but that's not going to do a ink spot's worth of difference. C'est la vie. To each his own. It is what it is, my fellow barbarians. And you too, dear Greeks.
I wouldn't say barbaric is the right word. My cat has a little hole in his earlobe from having some sort of back-alley cat fight club long before he became my squishy, little cuddle-lumpkins-kitty. It's a big enough hole to put an earring through, though I never would, because Leo doesn't even let me dress him up, let alone try to paint his nails and put jewelry on him. It seems barbaric that one cat would chomp another cat's ear just for fun, but cats can't be barbaric, because they're, well, cats. Barbarism is restricted specifically to humans. I looked it up on Dictionary.com. To be barbaric means to be an uncivilized person--or a non-Greek, if we're going with the older definition. So, in any case, other than my love of feta cheese and olives, I have nothing Greek about me. Therefore, automatically, I am a barbarian! So, I might as well just have some fun.
I suppose it's a matter of opinion as to whether a person thinks bod-mods (body modifications: including but not limited to body piercings, tattoos, assorted implants, etc...) are attractive or not. Or barbaric or not. (If you're not Greek, there's no point in really contemplating it too deeply.)
For example, most of my friends my age are tattooed. I am not. Yet, a good majority of my friends hold higher-paying jobs and have a higher level of education than I do. These are some of the people who help me correct my grammar for submissions and remind me not to swear so much. Like, these people are the help-little-old-ladies-cross-the-street types of people. My group of friends have become part of this growing counter-stereotype for bod mods, much like how there is a higher percentage of white collar business people dressed up in leather Harley chaps who motorcycle nowadays than there are actual stab-you-in-the-belly-with-a-broken-beer-bottle-if-you-look-at-me-funny bike gangs.
To my understanding, American tattoos used to be exclusively a military and/or tough guy thing. Military aside, my generation does not really define themselves by toughness, necessarily, because computer skills and a sense of humor will get a person a lot more dates today than being able to pull the plow when the bull dies. And really, isn't the biological imperative to try to obtain dates? Just kidding.
Thus, instead of merely having a bod mod to appeal to prospective dates, or to appeal to one's inner self, or to anger one's parents, one must show originality in his or her bod mod to navigate towards one's own fitting social circle. The days of getting inebriated and going into a reputable tattoo parlor, only to emerge with Miss Piggy's silhouette inked across your back are over. What I'm saying, is body modifications, whether you like them or hate them, are becoming more and more of a statement about what kind of a person you are. They are thought-out and planned. They mean things to people.
There are some people who believe that doing anything to your body is disrespecting it. There are some people who believe exactly the opposite. There are some people who will eat McDonald's three times a week and point fingers and those with bod mods. There are people with elaborate bod mods who haven't eaten red meat or refined sugars since they were old enough to know better. I believe it's all about what your internal compass lets you do. My compass is different from everyone else's, as everyone else's is different from each other's. I suppose one of the greatest things about living in the day and age we do now, is that we can all judge all we want to, but that's not going to do a ink spot's worth of difference. C'est la vie. To each his own. It is what it is, my fellow barbarians. And you too, dear Greeks.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
The Dream
I am fairly certain Picasso's work "The Dream" is about the beauty of female masturbation... But in any case, that's not what it means to me when I look at it. Well, er... Most of the time...
When I look at it, I feel inspired to get shit done. I don't know why. But look at her. She and I... We're about to get some shit done. Important shit. Yeah!
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Pink Caddy Nightmares
I hope that all the Mary Kay, Avon and other cosmetic salespeople are not offended when I say that you could not make me sell make-up even if you hung me up upside-down on a meat hook by my bootstraps and tickle-tortured me.
Let alone not wanting to sell make-up, I honestly believe I really couldn't sell make-up. You wouldn't ask Pavarotti for weight-loss advice. You wouldn't make Elmer Fudd your math tutor. And you wouldn't want me to do your make-up. Especially since I take the all-or-nothing approach to getting gussied up. It's either pet-haired sweatpants, Alice Cooper tee shirt, unshaved legs, bandanna in my slightly-unkempt and moderately-Nick Nolte-looking hair ...OR... Tammy Faye Baker make-up, ironed-smooth hair, skirt, uncomfortable shoes that have been described as “tarted up”and only seventy-five percent of the pet hair that is with me on less tarted up days.
Nevertheless, the only people who would buy make-up from me would be either those who feel too guilty to say no or those who just want me to leave them alone already because I have hounded them relentlessly to make a purchase. I realized, however, that this is a relatively large number of people, or so I thought. I've done a lot of favors for people... Talked them out of unfortunate-looking body art. Burned them sweet mix CDs. Scooped their cats' litter while they were out of town. The least they could do is allow me to sell them cosmetics. Right?
Now, I have no interest in becoming a consultant. I know the consultants will tell you differently, but that all seems like an awful lot of w-o-r-k to me. No matter to me how rewarding it supposedly is.
However, one of my former teachers, Kristin, recently decided to become one, and so I was all for hosting her first party. She was more than just a teacher to me. She was my coach, confidant and cheerleader through all of my high schooling. She did a lot to mend the pieces of self-esteem that had been inevitably shattered by the junior high years. As junior high years just seem to do. So, in a small way, I hoped that hosting her party would somehow reciprocate the encouragement and get me some sweet make-up.
I invited over 30 guests via Facebook. I had every intention of making this the most make-up sellingist party that Kristin would ever have so that subsequent parties would seem like mere disappointments.
Alas, intentions were good. Results were not. I have never hosted a party with such an unintentionally-low attendance before. My mom made up fifty percent of my non-soliciting guests. Not even her delicious home-made brownies could reverse my disappointment and ultimate fear that I have, apparently, become a drag to be around. A party only a mother could love.
I checked my armpits. Not that stinky. I looked at the invitation. Clear directions were given. I don't think people dislike me as a person. And while hectic summer work schedules plague many of my friends, I think my low attendance boils down to the fact that cosmetics is a tough gig that many avoid.
Kristin, me, my mom, Susie and my cat seemed to have fun, even if I didn't make Kristin any sales. But I learned my lesson: cosmetic parties are for other people to host. Not me. Now, would anyone like to hear about the new line of Tupperware?
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