While writing my last post I realized half of it was about how nutty my parents are. And I don’t really think it’s just my parent’s individual personalities that make them crazier than bat shit. I think it’s also the generation they came from and how quickly our generation has labeled them “lame-os.” I mean, these are people we love very much (moms, dads, aunts, uncles, grandparents) but they are like, so totally not informed. If you think about any time in your life that you have wanted to appear awesomely badass, I can guarantee your parents are not a part of that scenario. So these people raised us and essentially molded what we have become; how can they have such a different understanding of things…especially language? It’s as if we speak a different dialect of English. Allow me to explain…
Gay/Queer: Seriously these poor words have been so tangled in a weird web that maybe it isn’t even totally the fault of generations. But still “gay” and “queer” used to mean “happy” and “strange” to a majority of the baby boomers. But now the greater portion of society uses these words as derogatory terms. After being a substitute teacher for a year, I cannot tell you on how many instances I’ve heard “That’s so gay,” or “Stop being such a fucking queer dude.” I really, really would like to say “Oh child. It’s ok. I know using these sophomoric generalized terms for homosexuals makes you feel very confident in your heterosexuality. But I know my fair share of actual gay men. All you need is a trip to Banana Republic and a couple gin and tonics and you’d fit right in. Stop being such a dick. Oh, and you’re tardy. Thanks.”
Thong: Once upon a time my family was going to the Ohio State Fair. Enchanting. My mother looked at me and said “Uh…you’re not going to wear thongs to the fair are you?” I was aghast. First of all, who wears two thongs and second, what business was it of hers what kind of undergarments I wore? (Not that I wear thongs that often. You may tell me that I won’t have panty-lines with them. So friggin’ what. There are a lot worse things than people knowing I’m actually wearing underwear.) After we translated through our language barrier, I realized my mom was talking about my flip-flops. This is an essential word to work out with parents, especially if you hear your dad yell, “Hey! Watch out. You have dog shit on your thong!”
Dutch oven: This is a real good one. One of the small joys in my life is discovering that something juvenile and disgusting (and funny) has an actual name. Dutch oven is one of those things. If you are sleeping with or sitting cozily on the couch with someone and you are flatulent, most people would hope the smell dissipates away quickly before the bomb is smelled. However, if you are a big jerkwad, you pull the covers over your blanket-mate so they most assuredly know you farted…and have to smell it up close and personal. You have just created a Dutch oven. When I heard my aunts talking about a Dutch oven one day I busted up laughing. Why were they talking about farting under the covers and gassing one of my uncles? But of course they weren’t talking about my childish definition of the term…they were talking of the cooking apparatus. I really hope I never cook something that calls for preparation in a Dutch oven. If I open the lid to get a whiff I’ll probably die of laughter before I finish my recipe.
Douche bag: One of my favorite movies is “Wet Hot American Summer.” If you’ve never seen it you really should if only because these actors are in it: Bradley Cooper, Amy Poehler, Chris Meloni (chyeah, the tough-ass from Law and Order:SVU), Michael Ian Black, and Molly Shannon. Good shit right there. One of the best lines is in a scene where a hoity-toity, hot girl calls a nerdy kid a “Douche bag.” His response “Douche bags are a hygienic product; I take that as a compliment.” Imagine what our parents thought when we started tossing that term around. I find myself using it daily and in many different parts of speech: “What a douche bag,” “That’s so douchey,” “He majors in douche baggery,” you get the picture.
Grill: In boomer generation speak, this is my dad’s favorite thing. Grilling me about what jobs I’ve followed up on, marinating a chicken he will eventually grill, looking lovingly (and covetously) at all the grills when we go to the Home Depot. But I think a lot of people my age think of something else when we hear the word. For a long time when someone was invading my space or personal business, I was fond of saying “Get up out my grill, jeez.” Then all our favorite rappers decided that they would make retainers cool buy dipping them in gold and chrome and bedazzling them. What up…we got Grillz!
Junk in the Trunk: This is a favorite of my sister and me because my mom so eloquently shouted it out one day. I think it was the morning my sister was moving back to college and she was cramming all of her stuff in her car. All of the sudden my mom opens the trunk and says with a sigh “Jeez…you’ve got a lot of junk in your trunk.” I believe we were in tears with laughter. And I’m sorry we weren’t laughing with my mom, we were laughing at her. If we had been quick with witty comebacks I’d have treasured if my sister would have said “Thanks for noticing my bootylicious ass Mom. Much apprec!”
Shot your wad: I’m leaving this one for last because it is an epic tale that I still laugh about daily. I’m not kidding. When I’m feeling sad, I simply remember this favorite thing and then I don’t feel so bad. So my parents, sister, and I went shopping at a furniture store because my mom was picking out a loveseat or chair or something. After agonizing over the decision, my mom chose her furniture and we went out for dinner. As we were leaving my sister and I did the requisite chug your drink, refill, and take it with you move. We’re American, come on, when it says free refills you best get several! On the way home, sipping our pop in the back seat we hear my dad say to my mother “Well, you really shot your wad tonight!” Choking and sputtering and general pandemonium from my sister and I. “What did you say Dad??” we shouted. He explained that my mom had really spent a lot of money…so apparently he used the time-honored saying “Shot your wad” to express himself. I don’t know about you…but that phrase most definitely, definitely doesn’t mean the same to the younger generation as it does the older. So I’m not going to go into detail. Parents: just don’t say that. Ever. Please. Thank you.
These are just a few of the many, many examples of the generation gap. Especially when it comes to language. If you have any interesting stories of miscommunication please post a comment with your story. I think the only way we can move past our differences and to once again understand each other is to share our experiences. Haha…or we can just continue to be douche bags and make fun of our loved ones when they make silly blunders. That’s way more fun.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Full House
As of today, I have been living with my parents for 14 months and 15 days. Of all the things I thought I’d do after finishing graduate school, needing to move back home was not on my list. But, if you care to remember, the economy bailed on its American children like a deadbeat Dad. What a douche. So here I am, bunking with Ma and Pa. Before I “analyze” this stage of my life I just want to issue this caveat: I love my parents very much and I am thankful everyday that they welcomed me home with open arms, free living accommodations, and food. That being said…I sure as shit miss my independence. Here are just a few of the pros and cons of my situation…so if you are faced with moving back home (as it appears many people my age are) you will have some points on which to base your decision.
Accommodations
Cons: As often happens when children leave the nest, their space gets turned into an office or guest bedroom. My dad dreamed of a place for his long-hoped for Bowflex, but my mom vetoed that and my room became a huge closet. For instance, right now all the Christmas presents are piled atop my old furniture. So I inhabit my sister’s old bedroom, which has two twin beds in it. Bitch time: I miss my double bed. There I said it. Even my dorm bunk was better because it was extra-long at least. My feet hang over the edge of my current bed and I almost rolled over the side several times before I got used to the size of it. This Thanksgiving it was sort of bizarre to sleep in the same room with my sister. We kinda felt like Bert and Ernie. I also don’t have a lot of room for my clothes so for about six months I lived out of four suitcases (partly because I’m lazy, partly because I thought it felt too permanent and defeatist to unpack).
Pros: I have my own bathroom!! I’ve never had my own bathroom before…and might not ever again when I (finally, hopefully, one day, soon) move out. But right now, in my parent’s house I do! Suffice it to say, no one really wants to use my bathroom because my products and dirty clothes make it nearly impossible. But I have to claim one private space right? Also my parents have Dish network!! Over 200 channels! They got this after I went to college…so I feel like this is my time to make good use of it….which I do…all day.
Food and Beverage
Cons: I’m gaining weight.
Pros: When I was in graduate school I went through a phase of seeing how little I could spend on food. And while one night I found myself eating a bowl of corn and a piece of bread and butter, I lost weight and had plenty of money for weekend festivities. But now that I’m home there’s a veritable smorgasbord in our kitchen. Name brands! Full course meals! And my parents pick up the check when we go out to eat. (It doesn’t help that my dad always orders the onion ring appetizer at Applebee’s). So it seems that prosperity does make people fat. Also I’m convinced that when you move back home you go through a period of light alcoholism. For awhile my mom would oblige when I asked her to buy me a twelve pack, and I took the liberty of casing the liquor cabinet. Look, I know it sounds bad…but I don’t have an Xbox and a whole stash of weed to pass my daytime boredom. I snapped out of it when I saw that half the recycling was Keystone Light cans. Yeah. Embarrassing.
Roommates (aka “My Parents”)
Cons: I’d lived pretty much independently for the six years preceding my return as the prodigal daughter. So since high school I’d only had smallish doses of my parents. But now they are my roommates, landlords, what have you. I think one of the truly horrible and, at the same time, amazing things about parents is that even if you love them they can irritate the living shit out of you. And it’s pretty much universal. Let’s take my mom for instance. She tends to belabor points. (In laymen’s terms she nags…but that’s a tidge harsh no?) I know she does this because she cares and she’s scatterbrained and busy and goofy. But still…I’ve been known to come to my breaking point with a harsh “I GET it Mom, ok?? I GET it!” (You can judge me right now if you want. Go ahead).
And my dad…well he’s a whole different can of nuts. He’s a practical joker and the disregard of societal norms doesn’t embarrass him in the least. He’s like a man-child when it comes to clothing. Some days he decides that he wants to wear cowboy boots with dress pants or…whoa nelly wait for this…white socks with black loafers and a brown belt. He also fancies himself an “artist.” Honestly he borders on genius when it comes to concocting crazy projects he morphs from ideas on the DIY channel. He’s into making lamps out of nontraditional objects (think bowling balls, jars of marbles, liquor bottles, skulls…kidding!!) and recently he began chopping up old records for his designs. I thought he had dropped some acid one day when he said he wanted to buy canvases, spin them around really fast, while dripping paint on top. (Parental drug-based humor. What? I don’t like literary boundaries.) I’m convinced that if he didn’t marry my mom he’d live in a huge house full of his manic designs. And he’d have a long braided pony-tail. And wear white socks with black loafers and a brown belt.
And remember I said he doesn’t have a lot of shame? Well one day he sent me to the local carryout to get a bag of ice for our cookout. When I got to the checkout the cashier girl looked at me rather strangely. I figured it was because I looked like I hadn’t showered in days, when she said “Uh. I think you’re supposed to take home some hot dog buns.” My father had called the carry out because apparently he forgot about cell phone communication. I shudder to think of how he described me: “Uh…yeah she’s got brown hair, is carrying a bag of ice, and looks like a hill jack. Tell her to get some hotdog buns.”
Pros: My parents are so entertaining and actually spoil me way more than they should. Most weekend mornings my dad gets up and makes a big fancy breakfast, and often times he breaks out my grandma’s recipe for carmel toast. Yes…it’s a good as it sounds…and no you can’t have the recipe. And he always makes me laugh…whether it’s intentional or because I catch him watching something on Lifetime Movie Network. And my mom takes care of me even though I’m admittedly too old for such things. She always asks me if there’s anything special I’d like for dinner or if I want to rent a pay-per-view movie with her (even though she always falls asleep before they’re over). I’ve also had a good time turning her into a fan of The Office (“Oh my God, that Dwight is so crazy!”), and I’ll miss watching it with her every night when I move away.
So do the cons of living at home outweigh the pros? Not really in the way I expected. I really shouldn’t be living at home because I do need to be responsible, get a job, and recreate my own adult life. And I know that time will come soon when I am able to do that. But while I’m struggling to make that happen I suppose having my parents as roommates isn’t as bad as it might appear. So if you have to move home, don’t be embarrassed. It happens. But try for a shorter tenure than me. Don’t drink too much. And if your parents are as cool as mine, thank them every once in awhile for welcoming you back into the nest.
Accommodations
Cons: As often happens when children leave the nest, their space gets turned into an office or guest bedroom. My dad dreamed of a place for his long-hoped for Bowflex, but my mom vetoed that and my room became a huge closet. For instance, right now all the Christmas presents are piled atop my old furniture. So I inhabit my sister’s old bedroom, which has two twin beds in it. Bitch time: I miss my double bed. There I said it. Even my dorm bunk was better because it was extra-long at least. My feet hang over the edge of my current bed and I almost rolled over the side several times before I got used to the size of it. This Thanksgiving it was sort of bizarre to sleep in the same room with my sister. We kinda felt like Bert and Ernie. I also don’t have a lot of room for my clothes so for about six months I lived out of four suitcases (partly because I’m lazy, partly because I thought it felt too permanent and defeatist to unpack).
Pros: I have my own bathroom!! I’ve never had my own bathroom before…and might not ever again when I (finally, hopefully, one day, soon) move out. But right now, in my parent’s house I do! Suffice it to say, no one really wants to use my bathroom because my products and dirty clothes make it nearly impossible. But I have to claim one private space right? Also my parents have Dish network!! Over 200 channels! They got this after I went to college…so I feel like this is my time to make good use of it….which I do…all day.
Food and Beverage
Cons: I’m gaining weight.
Pros: When I was in graduate school I went through a phase of seeing how little I could spend on food. And while one night I found myself eating a bowl of corn and a piece of bread and butter, I lost weight and had plenty of money for weekend festivities. But now that I’m home there’s a veritable smorgasbord in our kitchen. Name brands! Full course meals! And my parents pick up the check when we go out to eat. (It doesn’t help that my dad always orders the onion ring appetizer at Applebee’s). So it seems that prosperity does make people fat. Also I’m convinced that when you move back home you go through a period of light alcoholism. For awhile my mom would oblige when I asked her to buy me a twelve pack, and I took the liberty of casing the liquor cabinet. Look, I know it sounds bad…but I don’t have an Xbox and a whole stash of weed to pass my daytime boredom. I snapped out of it when I saw that half the recycling was Keystone Light cans. Yeah. Embarrassing.
Roommates (aka “My Parents”)
Cons: I’d lived pretty much independently for the six years preceding my return as the prodigal daughter. So since high school I’d only had smallish doses of my parents. But now they are my roommates, landlords, what have you. I think one of the truly horrible and, at the same time, amazing things about parents is that even if you love them they can irritate the living shit out of you. And it’s pretty much universal. Let’s take my mom for instance. She tends to belabor points. (In laymen’s terms she nags…but that’s a tidge harsh no?) I know she does this because she cares and she’s scatterbrained and busy and goofy. But still…I’ve been known to come to my breaking point with a harsh “I GET it Mom, ok?? I GET it!” (You can judge me right now if you want. Go ahead).
And my dad…well he’s a whole different can of nuts. He’s a practical joker and the disregard of societal norms doesn’t embarrass him in the least. He’s like a man-child when it comes to clothing. Some days he decides that he wants to wear cowboy boots with dress pants or…whoa nelly wait for this…white socks with black loafers and a brown belt. He also fancies himself an “artist.” Honestly he borders on genius when it comes to concocting crazy projects he morphs from ideas on the DIY channel. He’s into making lamps out of nontraditional objects (think bowling balls, jars of marbles, liquor bottles, skulls…kidding!!) and recently he began chopping up old records for his designs. I thought he had dropped some acid one day when he said he wanted to buy canvases, spin them around really fast, while dripping paint on top. (Parental drug-based humor. What? I don’t like literary boundaries.) I’m convinced that if he didn’t marry my mom he’d live in a huge house full of his manic designs. And he’d have a long braided pony-tail. And wear white socks with black loafers and a brown belt.
And remember I said he doesn’t have a lot of shame? Well one day he sent me to the local carryout to get a bag of ice for our cookout. When I got to the checkout the cashier girl looked at me rather strangely. I figured it was because I looked like I hadn’t showered in days, when she said “Uh. I think you’re supposed to take home some hot dog buns.” My father had called the carry out because apparently he forgot about cell phone communication. I shudder to think of how he described me: “Uh…yeah she’s got brown hair, is carrying a bag of ice, and looks like a hill jack. Tell her to get some hotdog buns.”
Pros: My parents are so entertaining and actually spoil me way more than they should. Most weekend mornings my dad gets up and makes a big fancy breakfast, and often times he breaks out my grandma’s recipe for carmel toast. Yes…it’s a good as it sounds…and no you can’t have the recipe. And he always makes me laugh…whether it’s intentional or because I catch him watching something on Lifetime Movie Network. And my mom takes care of me even though I’m admittedly too old for such things. She always asks me if there’s anything special I’d like for dinner or if I want to rent a pay-per-view movie with her (even though she always falls asleep before they’re over). I’ve also had a good time turning her into a fan of The Office (“Oh my God, that Dwight is so crazy!”), and I’ll miss watching it with her every night when I move away.
So do the cons of living at home outweigh the pros? Not really in the way I expected. I really shouldn’t be living at home because I do need to be responsible, get a job, and recreate my own adult life. And I know that time will come soon when I am able to do that. But while I’m struggling to make that happen I suppose having my parents as roommates isn’t as bad as it might appear. So if you have to move home, don’t be embarrassed. It happens. But try for a shorter tenure than me. Don’t drink too much. And if your parents are as cool as mine, thank them every once in awhile for welcoming you back into the nest.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
“Sometimes You Wanna Go Where Everybody Knows Your Name”
Its not really a secret to those who know me…but I like the sauce. Devil’s brew. Firewater. You get the picture. And surprisingly enough I didn’t start really drinking until I was 21 (gasp…whaaat??) It’s true. But by then I was on a rugby team and my days of sobriety faded into the sunset. One of the benefits of not drinking until I was legally allowed was that I didn’t get an underage intox in college and I didn’t have to hide in a dorm room playing beer pong on a closet door. I got to saunter right up to the bar and stagger out 4 hours later. Bars hold a special place in my heart, most likely because I’ve been to quite a few and I try to find the beauty in each. I enjoy a fancy martini bar where the drinks are served by tenders in all black attire. I like the douchey sports bars where beefy frat guys shout at the flat screens and order wings and loaded potato skins with their pitchers. I adore gay bars where I’m referred to as “girl” or “sweetie” and am complimented on my “gorgeous pashmina scarf.” And I also love Irish Bars where it’s imperative you know the proper way to pour a Guinness and to give the toast “Slainte.” (It don’t rhyme with “ain’t”). But of all my bar boyfriends whom I’ve loved, I have given my heart to my one and only. The Dive Bar. In memory of my hometown’s dive bar which recently closed, I dedicate this post to “The Red Owl Inn.”
My first exposure to what I would come to think of as a Dive Bar was from my one of my parent’s favorite shows “Cheers.” You could argue that Cheers is not a Dive Bar…and you may be right. But I classify it such because of the feeling I get from it. Like the theme song says “Wouldn’t you like to get away…sometimes you wanna go where everybody knows your name. And they’re always glad you came.” Who wouldn’t want to go to a place like that? When I got a little older my dad would take my sister and I to a Dive Bar after work with him (it was a restaurant too…don’t shit your pants). It was called Dewey’s and they had pizza and video games. Like a Chuckie Cheese…with beer. (Sounds like heaven huh?) These bars began to ironically feel safe to me. The sounds of laughter and classic rock. The gentle yet sarcastic jabs from the bartenders to their clientele. These were working class people sitting down for a beer, enjoying time with friends. What could be better?
When I got to college, the Dive Bars were significantly scaled back with preferences towards the clubby type atmosphere where dancing resembled sex and over-priced drinks were served by scantily clad women. There were a few bars I enjoyed more than others and they generally involved cozy venues where the restrooms weren’t filled with sweaty cry-barfing girls, with well-meaning friends saying “He’s an ASS-hole Stephanie. You’re too good for him!”
When I got to graduate school, after a long exhaustive search I found my favorite Dive Bar, which has still not been surpassed. Its name: The Bier Stube. The Bier Stube was a Dive Bar at its finest. The floor was perpetually sticky. They had two dart boards. The juke box specialized in classic rock. You left your tips in a bucket. There was shag carpet stapled to the table legs. And the piece de resistance…they sold beer to go. Yes. The night doesn’t have to end at 2:30 suckas! All in all the Bier Stube was pretty disgusting, and amazing. And ironically enough, when I went to Germany there was a bar in Dresden called the Stube which was amazing as well. (Germany /Beer/Stubes deserve their own post…mostly because of Beer Gardens and liter drinks…and French fries served with mayonnaise dressing. I’m tearing up right now thinking of it.)
So to really understand what a Dive Bar is (in my opinion only mind you), I believe that a bar must have at minimum 5 of these characteristics. Well at least these are the reasons I like Dive Bars.
1) It has to have a cool name
Case in point: The Library in Columbus, Ohio. When someone asks where you’re going, you say “The Library.” You aren’t lying. And you don’t look like an alcoholic by going to a bar at 2 pm on a Tuesday. It has to be a welcoming name that makes you feel like you belong. Sure it’s fun to go to a bar named Club Morocco or Stratosphere Lounge or whatnot…but that is not a Dive Bar name. Some of my favorites over the years: Lottie Moons, Mac and Joe’s, The Thirsty Scholar, Lucky’s, Out R Inn, Surly Girl, Brat Haus, Nate and Wally’s, Zamakazi’s. You get the picture.
2) Beer, Beer, Beer
You’ve gotta serve beer. If you have liquor based drinks as well, all the better. But beer should and must be the center of your drink menu or you cannot be a Dive Bar. It’s best if you offer pitcher specials and if your bartenders know how to do a proper pour, either from the tap or other container. If there’s anything I hate more it’s waiting for 2 inches of head to dissipate (That’s what she said). Also. You are no friend of mine if you don’t have Pilsner glasses. You know, the thick glasses that don’t (normally) shatter if you drop them off the bar (or karaoke stage). Which brings me to….
3) Music
I’ll admit I love techno, fabulous electronic dance music. I already said I like gay bars didn’t I? But to really feel comfortable and enjoy my drinking experience I want to hear some classic rock. Eighties hits are ok too. I mean tell me you wouldn’t enjoy hearing somebody butcher “Wake me up before you Go-Go.” Wham! on a karaoke machine=nothing better. But I love hearing the Stones (Beast of Burden!) or Led Zeppelin (Street Corner Girl!). And everybody has a great time with Piano Man, Sweet Caroline, and Don’t Stop Believin’.
4) Sports and Entertainment
One of my good friends is pretty antsy…or maybe just ADD I dunno. But one of the requirements when bar choosing , and of a good bar, is “What is our drinking activity?” I personally enjoy drinking while watching sports or movies or just talking. But this friend had to be doing something, which soon wore off on me. Our favorite pastime is darts and my dad goes ape for a pool table. We would often move onto those bar-top video games, most notably Erotic Photohunt. (“Is his ass cheek different in the left picture?”) I’ve also seen a drunken friend dominate at Pac Man. It was pretty epic. In the warmer months we would play Cornhole and Hillbilly Golf (lovingly called “Testical Toss”) and we always had a great time with classic drinking games like Flip Cup and the quintessential Beer Pong.
5) Bartenders
I don’t want to be hatey, but a lot of bartenders are lacking in their barside manner. Maybe it’s because they’re busy or don’t really have a love for the craft but I just don’t like if you’re bitchy or flat out ignore me. I understand it can be a rough job, especially when annoying drunks can’t pronounce the beer they want or sign their credit card receipt. But if you show a little grace and spunk when bartending I will, guaranteed, leave you a huge tip for facilitating my drinking.
6) Dress Code
You aren’t allowed to have one. Except the blatantly obvious No Shirt No Shoes No Service (my grandpa used to add “No Shit” at the end of that phrase just to show its “Duh” factor). But I don’t want to have to dress up in my finest attire to go have a beer. Anyplace that embraces me in tennis shoes and a hoodie is perfect in my book. Every time I go out with friends it doesn’t mean I’m looking to impress a guy…so don’t give me that look biatch. I’m just here to have fun.
7)Restrooms
I’m a bit of a freak when it comes to hand washing and cleanliness. But I’ll make a smallish exception for a Dive Bar. Your bathrooms have to verge on gross. I shouldn’t want to sit directly on the toilet (and I never do). And if your men’s urinals resemble a latrine trough…all the better. Guys like peeing in odd places anyway. But under no circumstances should you forgo soap. I draw the line there. Especially since the onslaught of the Swine. Gag. Moving on.
8) Décor
What can I say…you can’t have padded couches with throw pillows at a Dive Bar. No sir. Booths, tables, chairs, and barstools are allowed. I also enjoy old beer posters and neon lights. For some reason St. Pauli Girl and Pabst Blue Ribbon signs seem to fit in dive bars. Anything vintage that has to do with sports is also cool. And if you let your clientele write on the walls…BONUS! My friend and I once wrote “Jew vs. Gentile” on a dart scoring chalk board just to see how long it would stay up there.
9) Emotional Attachments
This may seem silly and girlish (Well…I am a girl), but if a place is a Dive Bar to you, you should have some sort of emotional attachment to it. All the Dive Bars I like have that quirky, special feeling to them, the feeling that if someone insults it I’ll fight them to the death. “Did I just hear you diss on Spanky’s? Oh no you did-int!” And most important of all you should feel at home when you enter your favorite Dive Bar. Just like the Cheers theme song says “Making your way in the world today takes everything you've got. Taking a break from all your worries, sure would help a lot. Wouldn't you like to get away? Sometimes you want to go, Where everybody knows your name, and they're always glad you came. You wanna be where you can see, our troubles are all the same. You wanna go where everybody knows your name.”
My first exposure to what I would come to think of as a Dive Bar was from my one of my parent’s favorite shows “Cheers.” You could argue that Cheers is not a Dive Bar…and you may be right. But I classify it such because of the feeling I get from it. Like the theme song says “Wouldn’t you like to get away…sometimes you wanna go where everybody knows your name. And they’re always glad you came.” Who wouldn’t want to go to a place like that? When I got a little older my dad would take my sister and I to a Dive Bar after work with him (it was a restaurant too…don’t shit your pants). It was called Dewey’s and they had pizza and video games. Like a Chuckie Cheese…with beer. (Sounds like heaven huh?) These bars began to ironically feel safe to me. The sounds of laughter and classic rock. The gentle yet sarcastic jabs from the bartenders to their clientele. These were working class people sitting down for a beer, enjoying time with friends. What could be better?
When I got to college, the Dive Bars were significantly scaled back with preferences towards the clubby type atmosphere where dancing resembled sex and over-priced drinks were served by scantily clad women. There were a few bars I enjoyed more than others and they generally involved cozy venues where the restrooms weren’t filled with sweaty cry-barfing girls, with well-meaning friends saying “He’s an ASS-hole Stephanie. You’re too good for him!”
When I got to graduate school, after a long exhaustive search I found my favorite Dive Bar, which has still not been surpassed. Its name: The Bier Stube. The Bier Stube was a Dive Bar at its finest. The floor was perpetually sticky. They had two dart boards. The juke box specialized in classic rock. You left your tips in a bucket. There was shag carpet stapled to the table legs. And the piece de resistance…they sold beer to go. Yes. The night doesn’t have to end at 2:30 suckas! All in all the Bier Stube was pretty disgusting, and amazing. And ironically enough, when I went to Germany there was a bar in Dresden called the Stube which was amazing as well. (Germany /Beer/Stubes deserve their own post…mostly because of Beer Gardens and liter drinks…and French fries served with mayonnaise dressing. I’m tearing up right now thinking of it.)
So to really understand what a Dive Bar is (in my opinion only mind you), I believe that a bar must have at minimum 5 of these characteristics. Well at least these are the reasons I like Dive Bars.
1) It has to have a cool name
Case in point: The Library in Columbus, Ohio. When someone asks where you’re going, you say “The Library.” You aren’t lying. And you don’t look like an alcoholic by going to a bar at 2 pm on a Tuesday. It has to be a welcoming name that makes you feel like you belong. Sure it’s fun to go to a bar named Club Morocco or Stratosphere Lounge or whatnot…but that is not a Dive Bar name. Some of my favorites over the years: Lottie Moons, Mac and Joe’s, The Thirsty Scholar, Lucky’s, Out R Inn, Surly Girl, Brat Haus, Nate and Wally’s, Zamakazi’s. You get the picture.
2) Beer, Beer, Beer
You’ve gotta serve beer. If you have liquor based drinks as well, all the better. But beer should and must be the center of your drink menu or you cannot be a Dive Bar. It’s best if you offer pitcher specials and if your bartenders know how to do a proper pour, either from the tap or other container. If there’s anything I hate more it’s waiting for 2 inches of head to dissipate (That’s what she said). Also. You are no friend of mine if you don’t have Pilsner glasses. You know, the thick glasses that don’t (normally) shatter if you drop them off the bar (or karaoke stage). Which brings me to….
3) Music
I’ll admit I love techno, fabulous electronic dance music. I already said I like gay bars didn’t I? But to really feel comfortable and enjoy my drinking experience I want to hear some classic rock. Eighties hits are ok too. I mean tell me you wouldn’t enjoy hearing somebody butcher “Wake me up before you Go-Go.” Wham! on a karaoke machine=nothing better. But I love hearing the Stones (Beast of Burden!) or Led Zeppelin (Street Corner Girl!). And everybody has a great time with Piano Man, Sweet Caroline, and Don’t Stop Believin’.
4) Sports and Entertainment
One of my good friends is pretty antsy…or maybe just ADD I dunno. But one of the requirements when bar choosing , and of a good bar, is “What is our drinking activity?” I personally enjoy drinking while watching sports or movies or just talking. But this friend had to be doing something, which soon wore off on me. Our favorite pastime is darts and my dad goes ape for a pool table. We would often move onto those bar-top video games, most notably Erotic Photohunt. (“Is his ass cheek different in the left picture?”) I’ve also seen a drunken friend dominate at Pac Man. It was pretty epic. In the warmer months we would play Cornhole and Hillbilly Golf (lovingly called “Testical Toss”) and we always had a great time with classic drinking games like Flip Cup and the quintessential Beer Pong.
5) Bartenders
I don’t want to be hatey, but a lot of bartenders are lacking in their barside manner. Maybe it’s because they’re busy or don’t really have a love for the craft but I just don’t like if you’re bitchy or flat out ignore me. I understand it can be a rough job, especially when annoying drunks can’t pronounce the beer they want or sign their credit card receipt. But if you show a little grace and spunk when bartending I will, guaranteed, leave you a huge tip for facilitating my drinking.
6) Dress Code
You aren’t allowed to have one. Except the blatantly obvious No Shirt No Shoes No Service (my grandpa used to add “No Shit” at the end of that phrase just to show its “Duh” factor). But I don’t want to have to dress up in my finest attire to go have a beer. Anyplace that embraces me in tennis shoes and a hoodie is perfect in my book. Every time I go out with friends it doesn’t mean I’m looking to impress a guy…so don’t give me that look biatch. I’m just here to have fun.
7)Restrooms
I’m a bit of a freak when it comes to hand washing and cleanliness. But I’ll make a smallish exception for a Dive Bar. Your bathrooms have to verge on gross. I shouldn’t want to sit directly on the toilet (and I never do). And if your men’s urinals resemble a latrine trough…all the better. Guys like peeing in odd places anyway. But under no circumstances should you forgo soap. I draw the line there. Especially since the onslaught of the Swine. Gag. Moving on.
8) Décor
What can I say…you can’t have padded couches with throw pillows at a Dive Bar. No sir. Booths, tables, chairs, and barstools are allowed. I also enjoy old beer posters and neon lights. For some reason St. Pauli Girl and Pabst Blue Ribbon signs seem to fit in dive bars. Anything vintage that has to do with sports is also cool. And if you let your clientele write on the walls…BONUS! My friend and I once wrote “Jew vs. Gentile” on a dart scoring chalk board just to see how long it would stay up there.
9) Emotional Attachments
This may seem silly and girlish (Well…I am a girl), but if a place is a Dive Bar to you, you should have some sort of emotional attachment to it. All the Dive Bars I like have that quirky, special feeling to them, the feeling that if someone insults it I’ll fight them to the death. “Did I just hear you diss on Spanky’s? Oh no you did-int!” And most important of all you should feel at home when you enter your favorite Dive Bar. Just like the Cheers theme song says “Making your way in the world today takes everything you've got. Taking a break from all your worries, sure would help a lot. Wouldn't you like to get away? Sometimes you want to go, Where everybody knows your name, and they're always glad you came. You wanna be where you can see, our troubles are all the same. You wanna go where everybody knows your name.”
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
How Many Quilts Have You Killed Today Vera?
Dear Ms. Vera Bradley,
Hello. You don’t know me (and after you read this letter you won’t want to know me), but I’m an unemployed 25 year old female living in Ohio. I wanted to write you today to express my extreme displeasure/outrage involving your manufacturing process. It is blatantly clear that you are the (decidedly loaded) evil tsarina in charge of a handbag regime in which countless quilts are abused and more often than you’d probably like to admit, murdered. Yes…I’m aware of your heinous secret…you are a patchwork-loving homicidal maniac and I want you to know that I am whole-heartedly against your practices. It’s bad enough that you destroy the very quilted fabric that this country was built upon, but to parade it around in the form of handbags, totes, suitcases and other various zippered receptacles is inexcusable. From this day forward I am starting a one-woman crusade entitled SOQ:VB=M (Save Our Quilts: Vera Bradley=Murder). Consider yourself warned Ms. Bradley.
With sincere contempt,
An employed 25 year old female living in Ohio
If I were to compose a letter to Vera Bradley (is she even a real person? am I focusing my anger on a figment of imagination?) that is most likely how it would look. Why such hate you may wonder. Such anger for a person you do not even know. Don’t fool yourselves. Vera has brainwashed you too, brainwashed you into thinking you need her fancy quilted bags to be fashionable in 2009. Right now, hundreds and hundreds of Vera-crazed ladies are lining up to wreak havoc on mind-numbingly patterned, quilted bags. Oh yes, there is a massive Vera sale going on in Fort Wayne, Indiana…the birthplace of the regime. You know, I’m an advocate of personal safety in the form of pepper spray…but I fear that these Vera Nuts (otherwise known as our normally docile mothers, aunts, grandmas) will use it on one another to get to that paisley-patterned makeup case. I feel like I can hear it now. Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Jones are talking pleasantly in line about their favorite size and model of Vera bag.
“You know Joan, I just go crazy for that flowered mid-sized pocketbook!” to which Joan replies
“Phyllis I couldn’t agree more. Vera’s latest fabric patterns have been precious! Did you even see that gorgeous plaid one with the cardinals and robins on the trim?”
These are nice sentiments from two gals I’m sure we could venture to call Granny Joan and Auntie Phyllis. But just you wait. They open those doors to the bag wholesale and it becomes a quilted massacre. Joan and Phyllis (and all the other nice gals) become blood-thirsty Vera fanatics.
“I saw that pink striped glasses case first Joan! You nasty slut!”
“Shut the fuck up Phyllis. It’s mine. I’m gonna pummel your fat ass.”
“Oh really? You lay a finger on it and you’re gonna see my fist comin’ at your dome!”
“Don’t test me bitch! It’s a limited edition. I’ve killed for less.”
Alright, alright. That was really dramatic. But honestly, even if they don’t actually act out that violent scene you know they’re thinking it. Somehow the quilted bags of Vera Bradley have become something of a pop-culture phenomenon. What you’d think would just be a small faction of middle aged to elderly ladies with a love for these bags has manifested itself into an all-age fashion accessory binge.
If you are a fan I apologize for the following assessment, but again, it’s just my own opinion. I personally (if you can’t tell) am not a fan of them…aesthetically speaking. Quite frankly I think they’re ugly. But what bothers me most about this quilted-mess is that someone thought up the idea to hack apart and sew together bags (which look like blankets) and is now a bajallionaire. And people actually pay shit-tons of money for something my grandma could make in a half hour! (I’m probably just jealous that I didn’t think of it first. You know…if I’d thought up gaucho pants or scrunchies or some other putrid fashion, I wouldn’t be so damn hoity-toity about hating them so much because I’d be a tanning in Barbados right now outside my luxury villa. So go ahead and hold that against me. Rightly so.)
I also don’t really understand young women who carry them around. I can see how a more mature lady would dig them. That’s cool with me. Get on with your fancy-bag-carrying-bad-self mom. But I saw them daily at my undergraduate institution. I’ll admit that some patterns bordered on “cute” or “permissible.” But girlfriend, you’re 20 years old…do you really think that carrying a quilted purse with hens and roosters on it is the epitome of sexiness? I can’t imagine how deluded your mind is if you think so.
*Sidenote: I will make an exception for the breast cancer awareness Vera Bags. I won’t hate on anyone who has one of those because it’s for a great cause. I’ll admit I’m a sardonic bitch at times but I’ve certainly got a heart. During the LiveStrong uproar I owned so many of those multi-colored bracelets I looked like a damn Rainbow Brite doll. Hell, if someone made an IBS awareness Croc maybe I’d buy it. (Seriously, I have loved ones with IBS. Trust this, you don’t want the words “irritable” and “bowel” in the name of a disease YOU have.) *End of Sidenote
Anyhow…I think I’ve made I certainly clear that Vera ain’t my favorite gal. But you know what…go wit it’. If you love you some quilted bags…then be my guest. But then again…I might attack you on the street cause I’m on a mission to reconstruct the quilts of America. And your patterned paisley-shit cosmetics bag is just what I need to finish my blanket.
Hello. You don’t know me (and after you read this letter you won’t want to know me), but I’m an unemployed 25 year old female living in Ohio. I wanted to write you today to express my extreme displeasure/outrage involving your manufacturing process. It is blatantly clear that you are the (decidedly loaded) evil tsarina in charge of a handbag regime in which countless quilts are abused and more often than you’d probably like to admit, murdered. Yes…I’m aware of your heinous secret…you are a patchwork-loving homicidal maniac and I want you to know that I am whole-heartedly against your practices. It’s bad enough that you destroy the very quilted fabric that this country was built upon, but to parade it around in the form of handbags, totes, suitcases and other various zippered receptacles is inexcusable. From this day forward I am starting a one-woman crusade entitled SOQ:VB=M (Save Our Quilts: Vera Bradley=Murder). Consider yourself warned Ms. Bradley.
With sincere contempt,
An employed 25 year old female living in Ohio
If I were to compose a letter to Vera Bradley (is she even a real person? am I focusing my anger on a figment of imagination?) that is most likely how it would look. Why such hate you may wonder. Such anger for a person you do not even know. Don’t fool yourselves. Vera has brainwashed you too, brainwashed you into thinking you need her fancy quilted bags to be fashionable in 2009. Right now, hundreds and hundreds of Vera-crazed ladies are lining up to wreak havoc on mind-numbingly patterned, quilted bags. Oh yes, there is a massive Vera sale going on in Fort Wayne, Indiana…the birthplace of the regime. You know, I’m an advocate of personal safety in the form of pepper spray…but I fear that these Vera Nuts (otherwise known as our normally docile mothers, aunts, grandmas) will use it on one another to get to that paisley-patterned makeup case. I feel like I can hear it now. Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Jones are talking pleasantly in line about their favorite size and model of Vera bag.
“You know Joan, I just go crazy for that flowered mid-sized pocketbook!” to which Joan replies
“Phyllis I couldn’t agree more. Vera’s latest fabric patterns have been precious! Did you even see that gorgeous plaid one with the cardinals and robins on the trim?”
These are nice sentiments from two gals I’m sure we could venture to call Granny Joan and Auntie Phyllis. But just you wait. They open those doors to the bag wholesale and it becomes a quilted massacre. Joan and Phyllis (and all the other nice gals) become blood-thirsty Vera fanatics.
“I saw that pink striped glasses case first Joan! You nasty slut!”
“Shut the fuck up Phyllis. It’s mine. I’m gonna pummel your fat ass.”
“Oh really? You lay a finger on it and you’re gonna see my fist comin’ at your dome!”
“Don’t test me bitch! It’s a limited edition. I’ve killed for less.”
Alright, alright. That was really dramatic. But honestly, even if they don’t actually act out that violent scene you know they’re thinking it. Somehow the quilted bags of Vera Bradley have become something of a pop-culture phenomenon. What you’d think would just be a small faction of middle aged to elderly ladies with a love for these bags has manifested itself into an all-age fashion accessory binge.
If you are a fan I apologize for the following assessment, but again, it’s just my own opinion. I personally (if you can’t tell) am not a fan of them…aesthetically speaking. Quite frankly I think they’re ugly. But what bothers me most about this quilted-mess is that someone thought up the idea to hack apart and sew together bags (which look like blankets) and is now a bajallionaire. And people actually pay shit-tons of money for something my grandma could make in a half hour! (I’m probably just jealous that I didn’t think of it first. You know…if I’d thought up gaucho pants or scrunchies or some other putrid fashion, I wouldn’t be so damn hoity-toity about hating them so much because I’d be a tanning in Barbados right now outside my luxury villa. So go ahead and hold that against me. Rightly so.)
I also don’t really understand young women who carry them around. I can see how a more mature lady would dig them. That’s cool with me. Get on with your fancy-bag-carrying-bad-self mom. But I saw them daily at my undergraduate institution. I’ll admit that some patterns bordered on “cute” or “permissible.” But girlfriend, you’re 20 years old…do you really think that carrying a quilted purse with hens and roosters on it is the epitome of sexiness? I can’t imagine how deluded your mind is if you think so.
*Sidenote: I will make an exception for the breast cancer awareness Vera Bags. I won’t hate on anyone who has one of those because it’s for a great cause. I’ll admit I’m a sardonic bitch at times but I’ve certainly got a heart. During the LiveStrong uproar I owned so many of those multi-colored bracelets I looked like a damn Rainbow Brite doll. Hell, if someone made an IBS awareness Croc maybe I’d buy it. (Seriously, I have loved ones with IBS. Trust this, you don’t want the words “irritable” and “bowel” in the name of a disease YOU have.) *End of Sidenote
Anyhow…I think I’ve made I certainly clear that Vera ain’t my favorite gal. But you know what…go wit it’. If you love you some quilted bags…then be my guest. But then again…I might attack you on the street cause I’m on a mission to reconstruct the quilts of America. And your patterned paisley-shit cosmetics bag is just what I need to finish my blanket.
Friday, March 27, 2009
H-Ugg it out, Bitch
After my last assault on footwear you probably don’t want to even hear what I’ve got to say about Uggs. If that’s so…there’s a red button in the upper right corner of this screen that you’re welcome to click. Haha…that was uber-bitchy. Sorry. Please keep reading. It’s not all bad.
But anyways, Uggs aka the fall/winter Crocs. I think every season should have a token pair of intolerable shoes and Uggs shall be that for the colder ones. I’ll start again with the first time I came into contact with Uggs. And lemme tell you…this one is weird. I believe it was Christmas 1996 when these fuzzy, soft leather sexy thangs came into our household. My uncle bought them for each of his brothers (one of those bros being my dad) because he had heard about them from one of his clients and thought they were cool because they were made in Australia by sheep herders or something. Middle-aged men. What can you say? I had never heard of them before this point, but did my dad ever like them. He wore them, as I mentioned before, as “houseshoes.” So my first memory of this shoe staple was seeing my dad trudge out into the snow in Uggs, boxer shorts, and a robe to take out the trash. Real, real fashion forward.
I would randomly put them on as well because they were so soft inside (as Michael Ian Black says on I Love the New Millennium “It’s like sticking your foot into a lamb”). I didn’t really think much of these boots for some time until I went to that fashion obsessed university I mentioned before. To set the scene I’ll just say that this school, in terms of average parental wealth, was a bit out of my league. I got in just fine based upon ACT scores and my GPA…but if I had been trying to get in on Daddy’s good word/dollar (as I assume some did) I would not have made it. The way kids dressed baffled me from day one and never ceased to baffle me until I graduated four years later. I think Uggs crept in my first fall/winter there and didn’t stop (I’m sure it’s still happening now).
First off, based upon my past experiences with Uggs…they just weren’t cool. And I’d have to say that if you were to see your dad traipsing around in them you wouldn’t think they were all that hot either.
Secondly, I had much the same feelings about Uggs as I do with Crocs. There is a time and place for them. With a decent pant in cold weather they are perfectly acceptable in my eyes. But I’ll never forget when girls began wearing them with jean skirts and a skanky ribbed tank...in summer. I don’t even WANT to think what their foot sweat was doing to that poor lamb wool lining. But I’d have to say my favorite look (which I hear is being replicated on college campuses all over the nation) is what my sister and I call the “OMG…I just got outta bed in time for Stats.” A girl throws on a pair of tiny shorts with her respective university stamped across the ass. Then she chooses a Gamma Delta Tri Zeta Beta t-shirt which advertises some “A-mazing” activity she and her “sisters” participated in. Then said gal mashes her hair into a messy bun which is supposed to look like she just did it in 2 seconds (like I do), but in reality it took her 10 minutes to get the appropriate bed-head chic look. After the first layer is appropriately in place she finishes with a North Face fleece (black is preferred…although light pastel colors are a close second) and then our subject footwear, Uggs. She also probably takes along her Vera Bradley bag but I’ve got so much pent-up rage focused on those things that I can’t even go there right now (but don’t you worry…it’s so coming). I can’t even tell you how many girls I would see fitting the “OMG…I just got outta bed in time for Stats” look when I was at school. It was painfully obvious that these girls did not in fact “just get outta bed,” and that they should at least use that prep time for a more put together look. Personally I did indeed “just get outta bed” and it was blatantly clear. I perfected the sweat wear look…but hey I was in a collegiate sport (and valued my sleep more than impressing some douche bag guy in my Stats class) so lay off me k? Anyways back to Uggs.
As time went on this fad continued and continued and continued. I even fell somewhat prey to it when I borrowed a pair of my sister’s fuzzy boots (they weren’t Uggs and they were a lot cuter, but I guess it still is in the same genre). And you know what? They are comfortable and somewhat freeing. I felt like I was a young, svelte woman named Natasha living in cold, Communist Moscow who, although under such a strict regime, looked arctic-fabulous daily.
So what are my true thoughts? Again, in my opinion Uggs are acceptable with a) the proper pant and b) the proper cold season. It’s also important that people who wear them understand that you really aren’t “hot shit.” If you don’t believe me I cordially invite to you my parents quaint country home. You can go on our back porch and witness what a grown man’s 13 year-old Uggs look like…and then, if you can stomach it, you can watch him take out the trash in those boots and a plaid, old man robe. Enjoy.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Go Croc Yourself
I decided to start with this VERY controversial fashion piece for a myriad of reasons. One of my good friends hates Crocs so vehemently that she won’t touch them. I truly believe they make her physically ill. I think footwear that repulses someone that much really deserves a closer look. So I’ll start from the beginning. The first time I was introduced to Crocs (advertised as foot ergonomic, anti-microbial aka stank resistant, extremely comfortable, available in veritable rainbow of colors) was strange because they were the knock-off Payless Brand. One of my college roommates got a pair to wear around the dorm. I tried them on several times and found them to be like walking on that Nickelodeon Floam shit that my mom refused to buy me back in the 90’s. To me they looked like a bloated garden clog with holes to drain out sweat…or whatever other liquid your feet may happen to produce. I really had no qualms about them because I thought they were, for lack of a better term, what my grandma used to call “houseshoes.” You wear them around to do chores, maybe out in the garden, and to do various other household activities I generally avoid. I’d also heard that they were popular amongst medical staff because if you got blood or shit or vomit on them you could just spray them off. Nice thought.I really didn’t think much about the real Crocs (which I saw soon after) or the knock-offs. I went to a relatively fashion-obsessed university (much, much more on that later) and they weren’t really cropping up. But during the summer of 04 my whole footwear world turned upside down. I visited France with a school group, tour-ish thing. *Side note: My four word sage advice on one of those all inclusive tour packages: DON’T FUCKING DO IT. Unless you too want to be involved in high school drama/whining and be drug kicking and screaming to every castle in Northern France without a piss break. The best part of our trip was dining, drinking, and dancing to techno at a winery. But even then they didn’t supply us with enough wine to do any damage. I know I probably sound like a spoiled little bitch right now. But for as much as I paid for the trip…I frankly expected a little more independence. But whatever. Moving on* Apparently, flip-flops are not really a casual footwear staple in France. So when we wore them our tour guide Claudio said “Dey all know dat you ahre A-mEHR-icans.” In our defense we were wearing very nice flips which verged on dressy sandal… whateves. We were fashion douche bags…dually noted. But after being berated for what I was wearing, I was HORRIFIED to see that one faction of our group, some very nice folk from Missourah (their pronunciation…not mine), were wearing fuckin’ Crocs. In fuckin’ Paris, France. These things, which I’d convinced myself to be houseshoes, were being worn in public. And not just any old public…Paris, fucking France…the capital of fashion and European-ness. And to make it worse, they wore them with white socks. Yeah…I’ll let you think about that for awhile. Get it good and ingrained in your memory.
This moment in time was the beginning of my hatred of Crocs. Like I said before…I could honestly care less if you are in the medical profession or are at home/in a botanical garden while wearing them. That’s an acceptable time and place. And if you are a child and you want to collect the little charm things to put in the sweat holes…be my guest. I wore jellies once upon a time so who am I to judge a kid who likes brightly colored plastic footwear. But honestly, if you are above 10 just give it up. I understand that they are comfortable, but so are sports bras and you don’t see me wearing those all over creation do you? I also hear that they are anti-microbial but let me tell you something. I’ve funked up my share of shoes by not wearing socks with them, my bad. But you know what, I did the honorable thing and threw them away. I didn’t elect to buy the shoe equivalent of an animal pen, and when things got a little murky, just spray them off with a high pressure hose.
In researching Crocs (yes I actually do research when I write this blog) I found that there are many sites whose sole mission (haha…sole mission) is to bad-mouth these shoes. Apparently too, the people who seek out these websites are Croc-lovers who leave messages like “Fuck u asshole…don’t u have ne thing better 2 do than bash Crocs? I <3>
But honestly let’s all have a heart to heart. I’ve pretty much made it clear when I feel Crocs are acceptable…and then in all other circumstances they make me kinda physically nauseous as well. If you like/love/want to give all your worldly possessions to the Crocs empire…that is fine. We live in America and along with the right to be fashion douche bags you have the right to your own opinion and the expression of that opinion. But so do I. And don’t be surprised if I (or my Crocs hatin’ friend) encounter you on the street and projectile vomit on your shoes. I’ll be kind and spray them off with a garden hose because…come on…that’s why you wear them right?
A big "I Don't" to CrocsIt’s been such a long time….it’s been such a loooong time
It has been quite awhile since I last posted on my blog. Blame it on my laziness (which is at astoundingly high levels as of late) or that the last month has been a drunken roller coaster of birthdays and spring break festivities. Whatever you choose to believe I am back and I will attempt to write more often because it really is a huge emotional and creative release for me. And because I hope you find my writing minutely entertaining (or at the very least not mind-numbingly dull), I’ll keep posting as many useless thoughts as I can muster.
I’ve decided that a new series of posts will revolve around fashion. This may seem like a curious direction for my blog to veer in, especially since previous posts have been decidedly more forcible in nature. Don’t worry, I’m not going to abandon my penchant for foul language and snarky comments…these posts will concern fashion that I either hate, love, or am whole-heartedly confused about. And if you’re reading this and thinking “Girl…I’ve seen your closet. You aren’t an expert on fashion trends,” I invite you to shut the hell up and/or kiss my ass. Just kidding. But seriously plenty of people talk about things of which they have no clue (ex. Sarah Palin and foreign policy/geography/mainland America…just sayin’). So heretofore I will be the Sarah Palin of fashion. You can disagree with me and say my opinions are ludicrous, but honestly the last time I checked not THAT many people read my blog so I’m not going to be influencing the minds of the greater public.
I’ve decided that a new series of posts will revolve around fashion. This may seem like a curious direction for my blog to veer in, especially since previous posts have been decidedly more forcible in nature. Don’t worry, I’m not going to abandon my penchant for foul language and snarky comments…these posts will concern fashion that I either hate, love, or am whole-heartedly confused about. And if you’re reading this and thinking “Girl…I’ve seen your closet. You aren’t an expert on fashion trends,” I invite you to shut the hell up and/or kiss my ass. Just kidding. But seriously plenty of people talk about things of which they have no clue (ex. Sarah Palin and foreign policy/geography/mainland America…just sayin’). So heretofore I will be the Sarah Palin of fashion. You can disagree with me and say my opinions are ludicrous, but honestly the last time I checked not THAT many people read my blog so I’m not going to be influencing the minds of the greater public.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Super Nanny
My most recent foray into the part-time working world involves three of my favorite past times: eating, drinking, and sleeping. Except that I don't really get to do any of those things. I facilitate those activities for a 4 month old. Its true...I am a nanny. (I guess what I really am is more of a baby sitter since it's only a few days a week...but nanny sounds cooler so I'm going with it k?)
I was asked by my cousin and her husband (news of my unemployment is hot gossip in my family) to watch their 4 month old baby a few times a week while they act like real grown ups and make money at their jobs. I jumped at the chance because a) It's consistent work at a decent salary, b) I could apply for jobs while the baby slept/bounced around in some random piece of baby entertainment furniture, and c) the baby is pretty freaking cute and not one of those monster infants. So far things have been going really well and the little lad (whom I've decided to call Stewie) and I get along swimmingly. But I have observed a few things which I find amusing.
-Babies should be spoken to like adults. Don't patronize them. If anyone saw the E*Trade baby commercial during the Super Bowl you'll know why I'm advocating this. In an effort to be entertained (and get him a commercial gig), I'm trying to teach Stewie to be a day trader with an adult vocubulary...so I always speak to him as though he were such. But don't worry...I watch my language. I don't want my little protegee to wreck his career with a sailor mouth like mine.
-Babies are complicated creatures who require complicated supplies. I can't remember being a baby...and I doubt you can either. But I have a sneaking suspicion our infancies were much simpler than a baby born in 2008. I have never in my life seen so many types of bottles, formulas, baby foods, diapers, and clothes. At one point during my first day on the job while making a bottle for little Stewie, I looked at him while measuring scoops of formula and said "Can you tell I have no idea what I'm doing ?" to which I'm positive I heard him mutter "Bitch please, mix my drink faster. I've got a nap and a crap to finish up by 3."
-Baby food/formula is revolting. I know that babies have a pretty easy life which is why I would like to be one again...but I have a lot of sympathy for them because their nourishment is absolutely gag-inducing. First, whoever invented formula was either a mad genius or a malicious asshole. I understand that it is great for babies because of the vitamins, etc. but it honestly tastes like rotten oatmeal-flavored chalkdust. And I cringe everytime I subject Stewie to it...although he doesn't seem to mind one bit. His reaction to formula and squash baby food is akin to mine with margaritas and loaded nachos: we both go ape-shit.
-Babies make me uber-cautious. I'll admit here and now that one day, yes I do want to be a mother (like after I get a job, home, husband, and Dyson vacuum cleaner). But practicing with Stewie has made me realize what kinds of things will change when I do have my own child. First of all, I'm will become a defensive driver instead of an offensive one (which I currently am). When Stewie rides in my car I find myself analyzing which roads would make for the safest route to our destination. And today I nearly shit myself when an 80 year old pulled out in front of me. Instead of my usual pissed off feelings of having to slow down for them I was geniunely scared and said "Heelllo!! I have a BABY in the car!!" (But remember...I didn't swear or use the finger because I'm teaching Stewie to be a gentleman).
Additionally, I'm really afraid I'm going to do something wrong to Stewie. I've nearly had a panic attack twice about the type and temperature of food I'm giving him (OMG...what if he's allergic to peas!) and was convinced that I was going to bruise him by burping him too hard. I also thought that I may have broken his femur while putting him into a onesie. In case you're wondering, I didn't.
Babies are funny...and you shouldn't lose your sense of humor around them. If there's one thing I've noticed...it's that Stewie cracks me up in the weirdest ways and I love him for it. Case in point: in one short day he spit an entire mouthful of (bleh!) squash baby food on me, he vomited without warning down my leg, and filled his diaper with the most horrendous toxic waste I have ever seen (I swear to God). But all I could do was laugh...and I don't know why.
I also had to keep my sense of humor today at the doctor's office with him. When we arrived the nurses asked me to take his clothes off so they could properly weight and measure and poke thermometers into him (more sympathy from me). So I did as I was told then waited maybe 2 minutes in the examining room with him. When I doctor came in he goes "Oh...you're the babysitter. Well my first bit of advice is that babies get cold very quickly and you need to have clothes on him." I dressed Stewie...again worrying that I was harming him. Then I soon realized this doctor was a certifiable nutjob asswipe because even after Stewie was in 3 layers the doctor continued to berate me for letting him get cold. When Stewie started to cry he said "See...he's cold." No dick...he's crying because you just jammed a tongue depressor down his throat that's why. And look...now he's sweating. Poor Stewie. I couldn't wait to get him out of there.
So, at any rate, lil' Stew and I are becoming fast friends and he always listens to my troubles with rapt attention. Someday (hopefully soon) when I procure full-time employment I'll look back with appreciation to that little guy and thank him for teaching me all he did...namely how to hold my breath for 3 straight minutes while changing a diaper.
I was asked by my cousin and her husband (news of my unemployment is hot gossip in my family) to watch their 4 month old baby a few times a week while they act like real grown ups and make money at their jobs. I jumped at the chance because a) It's consistent work at a decent salary, b) I could apply for jobs while the baby slept/bounced around in some random piece of baby entertainment furniture, and c) the baby is pretty freaking cute and not one of those monster infants. So far things have been going really well and the little lad (whom I've decided to call Stewie) and I get along swimmingly. But I have observed a few things which I find amusing.
-Babies should be spoken to like adults. Don't patronize them. If anyone saw the E*Trade baby commercial during the Super Bowl you'll know why I'm advocating this. In an effort to be entertained (and get him a commercial gig), I'm trying to teach Stewie to be a day trader with an adult vocubulary...so I always speak to him as though he were such. But don't worry...I watch my language. I don't want my little protegee to wreck his career with a sailor mouth like mine.
-Babies are complicated creatures who require complicated supplies. I can't remember being a baby...and I doubt you can either. But I have a sneaking suspicion our infancies were much simpler than a baby born in 2008. I have never in my life seen so many types of bottles, formulas, baby foods, diapers, and clothes. At one point during my first day on the job while making a bottle for little Stewie, I looked at him while measuring scoops of formula and said "Can you tell I have no idea what I'm doing ?" to which I'm positive I heard him mutter "Bitch please, mix my drink faster. I've got a nap and a crap to finish up by 3."
-Baby food/formula is revolting. I know that babies have a pretty easy life which is why I would like to be one again...but I have a lot of sympathy for them because their nourishment is absolutely gag-inducing. First, whoever invented formula was either a mad genius or a malicious asshole. I understand that it is great for babies because of the vitamins, etc. but it honestly tastes like rotten oatmeal-flavored chalkdust. And I cringe everytime I subject Stewie to it...although he doesn't seem to mind one bit. His reaction to formula and squash baby food is akin to mine with margaritas and loaded nachos: we both go ape-shit.
-Babies make me uber-cautious. I'll admit here and now that one day, yes I do want to be a mother (like after I get a job, home, husband, and Dyson vacuum cleaner). But practicing with Stewie has made me realize what kinds of things will change when I do have my own child. First of all, I'm will become a defensive driver instead of an offensive one (which I currently am). When Stewie rides in my car I find myself analyzing which roads would make for the safest route to our destination. And today I nearly shit myself when an 80 year old pulled out in front of me. Instead of my usual pissed off feelings of having to slow down for them I was geniunely scared and said "Heelllo!! I have a BABY in the car!!" (But remember...I didn't swear or use the finger because I'm teaching Stewie to be a gentleman).
Additionally, I'm really afraid I'm going to do something wrong to Stewie. I've nearly had a panic attack twice about the type and temperature of food I'm giving him (OMG...what if he's allergic to peas!) and was convinced that I was going to bruise him by burping him too hard. I also thought that I may have broken his femur while putting him into a onesie. In case you're wondering, I didn't.
Babies are funny...and you shouldn't lose your sense of humor around them. If there's one thing I've noticed...it's that Stewie cracks me up in the weirdest ways and I love him for it. Case in point: in one short day he spit an entire mouthful of (bleh!) squash baby food on me, he vomited without warning down my leg, and filled his diaper with the most horrendous toxic waste I have ever seen (I swear to God). But all I could do was laugh...and I don't know why.
I also had to keep my sense of humor today at the doctor's office with him. When we arrived the nurses asked me to take his clothes off so they could properly weight and measure and poke thermometers into him (more sympathy from me). So I did as I was told then waited maybe 2 minutes in the examining room with him. When I doctor came in he goes "Oh...you're the babysitter. Well my first bit of advice is that babies get cold very quickly and you need to have clothes on him." I dressed Stewie...again worrying that I was harming him. Then I soon realized this doctor was a certifiable nutjob asswipe because even after Stewie was in 3 layers the doctor continued to berate me for letting him get cold. When Stewie started to cry he said "See...he's cold." No dick...he's crying because you just jammed a tongue depressor down his throat that's why. And look...now he's sweating. Poor Stewie. I couldn't wait to get him out of there.
So, at any rate, lil' Stew and I are becoming fast friends and he always listens to my troubles with rapt attention. Someday (hopefully soon) when I procure full-time employment I'll look back with appreciation to that little guy and thank him for teaching me all he did...namely how to hold my breath for 3 straight minutes while changing a diaper.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
GOP Granny
Today, because it is my grandma's 86th birthday, I dedicate this post to her. And since this post is about and in honor of my granny, I will whole-heartedly attempt to refrain from using the "colorful" language that so effortlessly imbues my writing. If she ever actually stumbled her way onto the internet and miraculously found this blog, I would hope she'd be proud of my restraint.
Before I actually start poking fun at the lady, I just want to say that I love her dearly. She's a spunky and spirited woman who has raised 5 children, one of those being my dad who (according to lore) was born backwards and upside down. Not cool Dad, not cool. She bakes a really swell (you'll notice I did not use the preferred adjective bad*ss) batch of sugar cookies and is fond of crafty projects. (She made me a needle point table runner last year for Christmas with prancing cats on it. I'll probably never in my life be caught using that thing, but I truly believe it is the thought that counts.) But most of all she's great because she really loves our family, and well, she's the last grandparent I have left.
With that caveat out of the way, I'll continue by saying that the lady is (God love her) a through and through Republican, and she'd love to familiarize you with the details if you ask. When I was younger I remember going to her house in the afternoon when she was listening to the Rush Limbaugh program on the radio while checking out CSPAN coverage. Then when cable news networks spread like the plague, Grandma began to experience a higher standard of political living in the form of the Fox News channel. She introduced me to Neil Cavuto, Sean Hannity, Brit Hume, Mort Kondrake and Fred Barnes (aka "The Beltway Boys") and that bastion of conservatism: Bill O'Reilly. She even videotaped Bill Clinton's impeachment trial and bought the Starr Report for a little light reading. She's waving her GOP freak flag for all to see and she's not a bit ashamed.
This all made it even more difficult when, at the age of 18, I decided to become a Democrat. Most of my family is (surprise, surprise) Republican, and views my political affiliation with a) bemused interest or b) all-knowing confidence that I will revert back to the righteous political path after I get all those liberal college ideas out of my head. I never actually spoke to my grandma about my political views until this election when I was politically "outed" by my dad. Not cool Dad, not cool. I volunteered for the Obama/Biden campaign (another time-filler in my days of unemployment) which my dad felt the need to bring up when we took Grandma out to dinner one night. I wanted to stab him with my "Yes We Can" pin. Grandma took it decently well and just said coldly, "That's nice." She was probably plotting how to lock me in her house with nothing but a book on Reaganomics and Sarah Palin's recorded thoughts on international relations, or worse, anything remotely related to Ann Coulter.
We didn't talk politics again until she brought up the inauguration at Christmas Dinner. She asked my sister and I if we planned on going to which I said "No Grandma, I'd like to, but I don't think I can afford to go." She laughed and said "Why don't you ask Oprah Winfrey to pick you up on the way from Chicago?" The whole family had a nice chuckle. "You know I really hope Obama (which she pronounces as oBAMa) and his family will be safe and happy in DC." I was slightly taken aback and my icy liberal heart warmed at her words. "And I hope he does everything he promised he would." Ok, Grandma. Stop while you're ahead. Please. "And that he doesn't drive us to socialism with all these government handouts. And let me tell you what I think about this situation in Iraq..." I just sighed. Oh well. I'll just tell people she's senile.
Before I actually start poking fun at the lady, I just want to say that I love her dearly. She's a spunky and spirited woman who has raised 5 children, one of those being my dad who (according to lore) was born backwards and upside down. Not cool Dad, not cool. She bakes a really swell (you'll notice I did not use the preferred adjective bad*ss) batch of sugar cookies and is fond of crafty projects. (She made me a needle point table runner last year for Christmas with prancing cats on it. I'll probably never in my life be caught using that thing, but I truly believe it is the thought that counts.) But most of all she's great because she really loves our family, and well, she's the last grandparent I have left.
With that caveat out of the way, I'll continue by saying that the lady is (God love her) a through and through Republican, and she'd love to familiarize you with the details if you ask. When I was younger I remember going to her house in the afternoon when she was listening to the Rush Limbaugh program on the radio while checking out CSPAN coverage. Then when cable news networks spread like the plague, Grandma began to experience a higher standard of political living in the form of the Fox News channel. She introduced me to Neil Cavuto, Sean Hannity, Brit Hume, Mort Kondrake and Fred Barnes (aka "The Beltway Boys") and that bastion of conservatism: Bill O'Reilly. She even videotaped Bill Clinton's impeachment trial and bought the Starr Report for a little light reading. She's waving her GOP freak flag for all to see and she's not a bit ashamed.
This all made it even more difficult when, at the age of 18, I decided to become a Democrat. Most of my family is (surprise, surprise) Republican, and views my political affiliation with a) bemused interest or b) all-knowing confidence that I will revert back to the righteous political path after I get all those liberal college ideas out of my head. I never actually spoke to my grandma about my political views until this election when I was politically "outed" by my dad. Not cool Dad, not cool. I volunteered for the Obama/Biden campaign (another time-filler in my days of unemployment) which my dad felt the need to bring up when we took Grandma out to dinner one night. I wanted to stab him with my "Yes We Can" pin. Grandma took it decently well and just said coldly, "That's nice." She was probably plotting how to lock me in her house with nothing but a book on Reaganomics and Sarah Palin's recorded thoughts on international relations, or worse, anything remotely related to Ann Coulter.
We didn't talk politics again until she brought up the inauguration at Christmas Dinner. She asked my sister and I if we planned on going to which I said "No Grandma, I'd like to, but I don't think I can afford to go." She laughed and said "Why don't you ask Oprah Winfrey to pick you up on the way from Chicago?" The whole family had a nice chuckle. "You know I really hope Obama (which she pronounces as oBAMa) and his family will be safe and happy in DC." I was slightly taken aback and my icy liberal heart warmed at her words. "And I hope he does everything he promised he would." Ok, Grandma. Stop while you're ahead. Please. "And that he doesn't drive us to socialism with all these government handouts. And let me tell you what I think about this situation in Iraq..." I just sighed. Oh well. I'll just tell people she's senile.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
My Body Hates Me Part Deux: Ski Suicide
This is me...tearin' up the slopes! It seems pretty obvious that my "My Body Hates Me" posts are going to have more sequels than the Saw series of movies (and no less bloody). But I might as well share these experiences, whether they be cautionary tales to my equally graceless bretheren or just fodder for jokes at my expense. Either way...I give you my latest bodily disaster.
This Martin Luther King Jr. Day weekend I went on a ski trip with some of my pals. The road trip to our slopes started off splendidly, including a stop at the most spectacular rest stop I've ever been to: The GoAsis. If you've never been...you better get your ass up to NE Ohio, Interstate 71, Ashland exit. And make sure you drink a huge coffee on the way so that you have to go to the bathroom when you get there. You won't be disappointed.
Our first order of business after crossing the PA line was to procure, as quickly as possible, a case of Yuengling, another beer that is so insignificant I forget its name, and a deck of Uno cards. After arriving at our kind and generous hosts’ home, the night went as most nights involving cards and alcohol do. I was also introduced to a game called Blockus. At first glance the box resembled one of those “educational games” that geometry teachers swear is “fun” yet will teach me so much about congruent angles. I was hesitant, but my friend’s brother was so unabashedly enthusiastic about it that I couldn’t help but give it a whirl. The game ended up being less educational and more vicious. I suppose the most I learned was how to insult my opponents using the word “Blockus.” (Example: “I’m going to Blockus your ass” or “Go Blockus yourself shithead”).
The next morning I awoke to find that even more snow had fallen in Erie and that the house was abuzz with excitement, mostly in the form of ski goggle and thermal underwear comparisons. I felt absolutely spectacular considering the amount of adult beverage I had consumed the night before…however I knew it would be short lived (more on that soon). After packing up and setting off we arrived at our ski destination of choice in New York. First of all, I imagined saying in my best Martha Stewart voice “Oh yes, my weekend was exquisite. I spent it on the slopes at this darling resort in New York. I made my entire group of friends these gorgeous scarves out Himalayan yak wool yarn.” After suiting up in our gear, which can be quite a feat in and of itself, we warmed up on the bunny hill. All went fabulously well. I exited the ski lift with great skill and made my way down the hill, stopping expertly. I was beginning to think that maybe I was too hard on myself in the coordination department. I WAS good at skiing and it was going to be a sweet trip. And I let myself believe this for another 3 hours or so. I rode up to higher and higher hills and flew down them without much trouble.
The first omen of doom came as I was trying to vacate the ski lift chair. I had been conversing with my seat mate when my ski caught on a bank of snow. I attempted to get up from my seat but I could feel myself making the turn to go back down on the lift. All I could think of was “Hell no…I am not going to suffer the humiliation of riding back down on this thing.” So I did what any sane person would… a Spiderman-like belly dive off the chair. I went face first into a pile of snow and, because I thought the lift was still going around, put my hands over my head in case one of the chairs slammed into the back of my skull. I was laughing so hard that my seat mate thought I was bawling and she crouched down thinking maybe I had broken my face or worse, my new ski goggles. Unbeknownst to me the operator had stopped the lift and some of my friends were still sitting on it, wondering what the hold-up was (they should have known it was me). “You have to stand up when you get to the top,” Mr. Lift Operator said. My first inclination was to give him the finger and shout “No shit Sherlock! Do you think I wanted to dive face-first into a pile of cold-ass snow?” But I just smiled timidly and said something to the effect of “Silly me!”
OMG...I need a break...
My Body Hates Me: Part Deux...uh Deux
Ok...this is more indicative of my experience...happy??
I’m not sure if my confidence was crushed under my body weight in that spectacular fall or what, but after that my whole day was on a one way trip to Shitsville. I began wiping out at the end of every run and would wig out at the top of hills. My poor friends, God bless them, they tried to help but something was just not right with me (I should probably mention here that though it seems like this was my first go at skiing…I had skied prior to this trip…six times.) At first I was slowly getting the hang of skiing side to side to slow myself down. Now I just hurtled toward the finish line with disastrous results. One particularly messy finale involved one of my skis giving up and exploding off my boot, as I slid on my back at a break neck speed. I remember blinding cold, snow up my shirt, and seeing one of the resort signs and a fence coming at my face. At that moment I thought I would quite possibly crush my head into them, but all I remember thinking was that I really didn’t want to ruin the day for my friends by dying on them. But luckily I just ended up down in a ravine-type thing looking upwards as my friends peered down at me, alarmed. They had graciously picked up my wayward ski…but at that point I had no interest in any more snow fun. Adding insult to injury, I was struggling to crawl out of my makeshift grave. My feelings of disappointment and frustration culminated in rage as I eloquently said (pardon the language) “FUCK THIS SHIT,” and threw my ski and poles. I certainly didn’t want to give up because I like to beat the hell out of myself until I get something right…but I was so blinded by anger that I didn’t care anymore (especially because my friends seemed to be excelling at every turn and were destined for the 2010 Winter Olympics). All that would have made me feel better was a beer…but just at this moment my hang over set in. Yes, you heard me…my Yeungling/Blockus/Uno hangover. As if I needed any more evidence that my body hates me, I tend to get hangovers right after lunch, so there’s really no “sleeping it off” for me. So needless to say I couldn’t stomach any brews.
As the day wore on I asked my friends to please keep having fun without me because I just needed to warm up and dry my shirt which had literally frozen to my back (I’m not kidding, it was like zero degrees without the windchill). I think the most internally humiliating part of the day (besides trying to walk down stairs in ski boots) was sitting in the lodge watching six year olds ski down the black diamond hills. When it was finally time to go I felt and looked like one of those people search and rescue teams discover half frozen in an avalanche. And alarmingly the right side of my face was not responding very quickly to my brain’s commands. My friends laughed when I said I thought maybe I’d had a stroke, but I was really concerned that it was true after I said it.
So there, dear readers, is my latest story of bodily harm. If you think I couldn't possibly do anything more shameful in one short weekend you'd be so incredibly wrong. That night over a lovely dinner my hosts and friends informed me that I had gone sleepwalking the night before, apparently on an epic quest to discover the bathroom. Supposedly I checked to see if there was a toilet in a closet and each bedroom upstairs before discovering the actual bathroom. I was christened with the name "Night Creeper." Awesome huh? Raise your hand if you want to be me!
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Grocery Stories
The grocery store isn't usually a place which makes for blog topics. But I've had a few experiences which have made pushing a cart with a janky wheel tolerable. Well more tolerable I guess. Two are recent and one I've brought up from the recesses of my brain.
Am I seeing myself 30 years in the future?
This particular shopping trip I was checking out at the counter when the bagger's name badge caught my eye. Aw, how cute. It identified him as Alex who had been working there for 1 year. It also had space for Alex to write his favorite food which was cheesecake. To which I almost wanted to say "You're precious Alex...thanks for sharing." As I turned my attention to the cashier I saw that her name was Rhonda (nice to meet you Rhonda) who had been a proud employee for 12 years (You go girl!). Then I looked to see what HER favorite food was.
Did she enjoy indulging in a nice porterhouse steak, maybe some fancy pasta dish, or take Alex's lead and point out her penchant for lemon meringue pie. No,no, and no. Rhonda chose...Vodka.
Am I seeing myself in 40 years?
On this particular excursion I was at the beer case making the all important decision: be frugal and buy a case of Keystone Light or put on my fancy pants and go with the Champaign of Beers: Miller High Life. Just as I was about to scream at the agony of my choices a lady struck up a conversation with me. "Tough to choose huh." Did she read my mind or something? Then she hulked a case of Budweiser into her cart. "This is my nerve medicine here." You said it sister. I chuckled appropriately. "But you know what?? These beers are 120 calories each!" I nodded and put on my best disgusted face. Those idiots at Anheuser Bush certainly aren't looking out for our health. Then my new friend slapped her ass and said "Haha...must be why I'm so fat!" and promptly pushed her cart off toward the cash registers.
I hope I wasn't like this 15 years ago
The day I moved into the dorm my freshman year of college my parents did the requisite grocery run to buy supplies. I'd have never made it through without all the peanut butter crackers they bought me (I lived on them my first two weeks because I was too homesick to eat normal food). As we were checking out a worn looking grandmother was tossing her shit onto the conveyor belt thingy while her equally bedraggled grandchildren sauntered up behind her. The boy (who looked somewhat like a deranged 5th grade ferret) was looking at the candy display. If you've ever been a child, you know that those displays are pretty dangerous because after being dragged through the store with your parents...you're expecting a damn packet of Chiclets at least. But this kid had his eye on a bag of Skittles, a Baby Ruth, some Tic-Tacs, and a Laffy Taffy. Greedy little bastard. His grandmother understandably said "NO" to which his head nearly exploded and/or spun around. He threw down his candy cache and screamed all turets-like: "Mother Fucker! I want some fucking candy!! Bitch!" Needless to say I assumed I was going to school in a town infested by the Children of the Corn and thus avoided the townie kids my entire 4 years.
Am I seeing myself 30 years in the future?
This particular shopping trip I was checking out at the counter when the bagger's name badge caught my eye. Aw, how cute. It identified him as Alex who had been working there for 1 year. It also had space for Alex to write his favorite food which was cheesecake. To which I almost wanted to say "You're precious Alex...thanks for sharing." As I turned my attention to the cashier I saw that her name was Rhonda (nice to meet you Rhonda) who had been a proud employee for 12 years (You go girl!). Then I looked to see what HER favorite food was.
Did she enjoy indulging in a nice porterhouse steak, maybe some fancy pasta dish, or take Alex's lead and point out her penchant for lemon meringue pie. No,no, and no. Rhonda chose...Vodka.
Am I seeing myself in 40 years?
On this particular excursion I was at the beer case making the all important decision: be frugal and buy a case of Keystone Light or put on my fancy pants and go with the Champaign of Beers: Miller High Life. Just as I was about to scream at the agony of my choices a lady struck up a conversation with me. "Tough to choose huh." Did she read my mind or something? Then she hulked a case of Budweiser into her cart. "This is my nerve medicine here." You said it sister. I chuckled appropriately. "But you know what?? These beers are 120 calories each!" I nodded and put on my best disgusted face. Those idiots at Anheuser Bush certainly aren't looking out for our health. Then my new friend slapped her ass and said "Haha...must be why I'm so fat!" and promptly pushed her cart off toward the cash registers.
I hope I wasn't like this 15 years ago
The day I moved into the dorm my freshman year of college my parents did the requisite grocery run to buy supplies. I'd have never made it through without all the peanut butter crackers they bought me (I lived on them my first two weeks because I was too homesick to eat normal food). As we were checking out a worn looking grandmother was tossing her shit onto the conveyor belt thingy while her equally bedraggled grandchildren sauntered up behind her. The boy (who looked somewhat like a deranged 5th grade ferret) was looking at the candy display. If you've ever been a child, you know that those displays are pretty dangerous because after being dragged through the store with your parents...you're expecting a damn packet of Chiclets at least. But this kid had his eye on a bag of Skittles, a Baby Ruth, some Tic-Tacs, and a Laffy Taffy. Greedy little bastard. His grandmother understandably said "NO" to which his head nearly exploded and/or spun around. He threw down his candy cache and screamed all turets-like: "Mother Fucker! I want some fucking candy!! Bitch!" Needless to say I assumed I was going to school in a town infested by the Children of the Corn and thus avoided the townie kids my entire 4 years.
Monday, January 26, 2009
In honor of the Super Bowl
Today, I am going to honor the upcoming clash of the titans (Super Bowl XLIII). As we all gear
up to eat lots of party food, drink adult beverages, and laugh at the commercials, I'd like to take this time to say that I know (sorta, kinda, not really) the QB of the Pittsburgh Steelers.
Yes. It's true (sorta, kinda, not really). You see, Big Ben and I went to the same undergraduate institution and I watched him carry our football team to many wins in his illustrious career.
But I actually did come into contact with Big Ben. Settle in...and hear the tale.
I was a rather cold day (my sophomore year, Ben's junior year) in January as a gaggle of students stepped off the bus in front of my dorm. I was trying to compose myself as a blast of
arctic air and diesel exhaust hit me when a shadow fell over me. What was this solar eclipse?
Oh no...it was just Big Ben. Let me tell you, when they say "Big Ben" they mean it. He's just so friggin' tall and imposing. He happened to be walking down the sidewalk as I got off the bus. It was one of those moments where you know you're in the presence of celebrity (and remember, at this time he was just collegiate royalty) and you kind of bumble around. So here I was, star struck when I heard a horrible alarm noise. Someone had left the front door of my dorm open and this atrocious sound was letting all of us know that while we were studying/sleeping/watching MTV in our rooms an intruder was likely entering the premises.
Big Ben, upon hearing this horrible ruckus, felt compelled to help out my dorm mates who were scurrying around the front door. He bellowed "SHUT THE DOOR!! JUST SHUT IT!! SHUT THE DOOR!!" Thanks Ben! We didn't know how we were ever going to get that noise to stop!
And as the alarm ceased, Big Ben wisked off into the cold day, likely on his way to our university's multi-million dollar weight room. And that was my siting of Big Ben Roethlisberger. You probably think that's the last experience I've had relating to him. But you'd be so wrong. I had the RoethlisBurger while in Pittsburgh (it was tasty), and my dad also bought Big Ben's BBQ sauce. So see..he and I are like best buds.
Also, check this out for more Big Ben fun...
http://nbcsports.msnbc.com/id/22825103/vp/28777138#28777138
up to eat lots of party food, drink adult beverages, and laugh at the commercials, I'd like to take this time to say that I know (sorta, kinda, not really) the QB of the Pittsburgh Steelers.
Yes. It's true (sorta, kinda, not really). You see, Big Ben and I went to the same undergraduate institution and I watched him carry our football team to many wins in his illustrious career.
But I actually did come into contact with Big Ben. Settle in...and hear the tale.
I was a rather cold day (my sophomore year, Ben's junior year) in January as a gaggle of students stepped off the bus in front of my dorm. I was trying to compose myself as a blast of
arctic air and diesel exhaust hit me when a shadow fell over me. What was this solar eclipse?
Oh no...it was just Big Ben. Let me tell you, when they say "Big Ben" they mean it. He's just so friggin' tall and imposing. He happened to be walking down the sidewalk as I got off the bus. It was one of those moments where you know you're in the presence of celebrity (and remember, at this time he was just collegiate royalty) and you kind of bumble around. So here I was, star struck when I heard a horrible alarm noise. Someone had left the front door of my dorm open and this atrocious sound was letting all of us know that while we were studying/sleeping/watching MTV in our rooms an intruder was likely entering the premises.
Big Ben, upon hearing this horrible ruckus, felt compelled to help out my dorm mates who were scurrying around the front door. He bellowed "SHUT THE DOOR!! JUST SHUT IT!! SHUT THE DOOR!!" Thanks Ben! We didn't know how we were ever going to get that noise to stop!
And as the alarm ceased, Big Ben wisked off into the cold day, likely on his way to our university's multi-million dollar weight room. And that was my siting of Big Ben Roethlisberger. You probably think that's the last experience I've had relating to him. But you'd be so wrong. I had the RoethlisBurger while in Pittsburgh (it was tasty), and my dad also bought Big Ben's BBQ sauce. So see..he and I are like best buds.
Also, check this out for more Big Ben fun...
http://nbcsports.msnbc.com/id/22825103/vp/28777138#28777138
Thursday, January 22, 2009
T-h-u-r-s-d-a-y NIGHT!
Tonight's Plans: Dinner at Applebee's with parents and aunt
High Point of the Evening: Listening to my family burst into hysterics as we "outwit" the GPS unit my aunt got for Christmas.
"Daniel," the British voice I chose to direct us home, seemed rather upset as my dad purposely drove the wrong way. Poor Daniel had to keep saying "Recalibrating Route!" I was waiting for him to say "Hey asshole...why'd you buy a GPS if you already know the damn way home?"
Low Point of the Evening: Realizing I'd left my driver's license in my other coat pocket
My parents were willing to buy my alcohol for the night. I had no license. I apparently don't look 21. A school ID isn't enough for Applebee's. What's a girl to do? SCORE! I have a copy of my birth certificate in my purse (for employment reasons)! Why such a low point? Imagine having to show the Applebee's manager your birth certificate to get a Miller Lite Brewtus. Yeah. That's a collossal low point.
High Point of the Evening: Listening to my family burst into hysterics as we "outwit" the GPS unit my aunt got for Christmas.
"Daniel," the British voice I chose to direct us home, seemed rather upset as my dad purposely drove the wrong way. Poor Daniel had to keep saying "Recalibrating Route!" I was waiting for him to say "Hey asshole...why'd you buy a GPS if you already know the damn way home?"
Low Point of the Evening: Realizing I'd left my driver's license in my other coat pocket
My parents were willing to buy my alcohol for the night. I had no license. I apparently don't look 21. A school ID isn't enough for Applebee's. What's a girl to do? SCORE! I have a copy of my birth certificate in my purse (for employment reasons)! Why such a low point? Imagine having to show the Applebee's manager your birth certificate to get a Miller Lite Brewtus. Yeah. That's a collossal low point.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
My G(o) O(n) A(nd) L(augh) S
Everyone needs to have goals...and I've decided that I'm no different, especially with the dawning of a brand new year. So...as little and as insignificant as these goals may seem, I'm going to meet them. Eventually. Hopefully.
Goal 1: Learn the entire choreography to Beyonce's Single Ladies (Put a Ring on It)
I understand that this isn't a totally original goal, especially since half of the United States
has uploaded a video of themselves doing/trying/failing miserably onto YouTube. And most would say that I'm really not that talented in the dance arts department. But that's not important to me. I'm going to channel my inner 'Yonce and learn the entire damn thing. That's right..all the prancing, ground-punching, and ring-finger shimmying.
Goal 2: Hold my purse and random accessory like a celebrity
I've noticed recently (while clicking through thousands of pictures of celebrities on Perez Hilton's site) that most female celebrities have a specific way of holding their purses and cell phones/lattes/cigarettes which somehow makes them look infinetly more fabulous than I. It starts with a massive bag worth more than my first year of grad school, crammed with God-knows-what
. Then, said celebrity carries the bag in the crook of her arm while holding the phone/latte/cigarettes nonchalantly in the same hand. It makes ones arm look like it could be dead from the weight of the purse, but oh no, its clinging to an mobile for dear life. It makes these ladies look as though they're so busy and important that they have to be juggling all their possessions in their hands instead of just walking down the street like a normal person. I am a relatively normal person (and incredibly not busy) so I think I'll take up this pose to spice up my image a little. At least people might think I could get a call from a potential employer at any moment. Goal 3: Work up the nerve to order these kicks
I'll just put this out there...I like flashy tennis shoes. My everyday personal style is somewhat eclectic, but doesn't often afford me the opportunity to wear crazy shoes. Neither does the fact that I'm supposed to be buying "grown-up" clothes. Well, F-that. I'm over it. My new goal...buy these bitches: http://www.eukicks.com/wp-content/uploads/2007/07/n_wmns_dunk_low_01.jpg
I know this isn't exactly the shoe choice of most caucasian young adult women...but like I said before, F-that.
Goal 4: Be a DJ
If you laughed when you read this one all I have to say is "Don't be hatin'." Who hasn't wanted to play their IPod and have hundreds (ok maybe just dozens) of people grooving to what you consider "your jams?" Yeah. I didn't think you'd want to pass that up. I've also decided to make up my DJ name a la the way you make up your stripper name. Except I'm going to use this formula: the name of the shampoo in my shower + my favorite McDonald's sandwich.
Say hello to DJ Herbal Essence Quarter Pounder.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Mom is Wow Upside Down
Things my mom has hilariously mispronounced in the last few days...
1) Regarding the concert for new President (!) Obama: "I saw they had Beyonce, John Legend, and Bono (pronounced Bone-O) singing for Obama"
2) We recently got the National Geographic Channel as one of our free preview channels on Dish Network. In a continuing quest to some how communicate with our dog my mom has taken to watching the "Dog Whisperer" religiously. When I flipped through for her to see the shows that were scheduled for the day she saw a program called "Bloods Versus Crypts."
Her reaction: "Bloods versus Cripes? What is that??"
1) Regarding the concert for new President (!) Obama: "I saw they had Beyonce, John Legend, and Bono (pronounced Bone-O) singing for Obama"
2) We recently got the National Geographic Channel as one of our free preview channels on Dish Network. In a continuing quest to some how communicate with our dog my mom has taken to watching the "Dog Whisperer" religiously. When I flipped through for her to see the shows that were scheduled for the day she saw a program called "Bloods Versus Crypts."
Her reaction: "Bloods versus Cripes? What is that??"
Monday, January 19, 2009
New Year...New Me!
Just because you have a master's degree in a field doesn't mean that's what you're going to do...
Naively I thought I would be gunning for jobs in my field after I graduated. Ha. A list of jobs I've mulled over in mind/pondered with a friend in the last 3 months:
a) Bus driver
b) Census worker (that may be a real possibility for me...details to come)
c) Permanent substitute teacher (Wouldn't that be a licensed teacher with a 4 year degree? I'll pretend you didn't ask that.)
d) Prostitution (Haha. Only slightly kidding.)
e) Clerk at State Liquor store
f) Sushi-maker at Giant Eagle
g) Ski Resort or Coffee Shop owner (depending on my mood/the season)
h) House-flipper
i) Foster parent
j) Unlicensed massage therapist
k) Animal daycare-er (I'll play with/feed/clean up after cats and dogs)
l) Unregistered dietician
Naively I thought I would be gunning for jobs in my field after I graduated. Ha. A list of jobs I've mulled over in mind/pondered with a friend in the last 3 months:
a) Bus driver
b) Census worker (that may be a real possibility for me...details to come)
c) Permanent substitute teacher (Wouldn't that be a licensed teacher with a 4 year degree? I'll pretend you didn't ask that.)
d) Prostitution (Haha. Only slightly kidding.)
e) Clerk at State Liquor store
f) Sushi-maker at Giant Eagle
g) Ski Resort or Coffee Shop owner (depending on my mood/the season)
h) House-flipper
i) Foster parent
j) Unlicensed massage therapist
k) Animal daycare-er (I'll play with/feed/clean up after cats and dogs)
l) Unregistered dietician
Friday, January 9, 2009
Christmas Season has Ended
So I've taken longer to finalize my Christmas "essay" than I expected. I'll blame it on the insanity of the holiday season. To finish simply and quickly, though I have lots of snarky
comments pointed at Christmas, I am mostly thankful for one thing. My friends and family, those that I've had the pleasure spending so much time with over the last month and also those scattered everywhere who I haven't been able to see. This is what is most important to me and what I appreciate most immensely about this holiday. Another bonus is that my loved ones have, in one month, given me enough things to blog about for the rest of 2009.
comments pointed at Christmas, I am mostly thankful for one thing. My friends and family, those that I've had the pleasure spending so much time with over the last month and also those scattered everywhere who I haven't been able to see. This is what is most important to me and what I appreciate most immensely about this holiday. Another bonus is that my loved ones have, in one month, given me enough things to blog about for the rest of 2009.
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