Fondue. Gold. Beach. Pineapple. The Olympics. Peppermint. Cats.
Name 3 things you like (to yourself, unless you are alone. We don't want people to think you talk to yourself, unless of course that is something you like. Different strokes and all that).
Name 1 thing you love (if your initial response is that you don't know what "love" really means, stop reading this right now and call Vicky the therapist, I won't be addressing that issue here).
Name something you know how to do better than your brother/sister/parents/boss (if you just reread the words above thinking that those words were my answers to these questions, you should rest assured that I don't do "The Olympics" better than anyone, though I *do* love pineapple).
"I need to find out who I am", "I don't know what it means to be me", "I'm trying to find myself". I don't want to hear these phrases from a grown adult, unless it is from an adult who recently suffered a major head injury. While you may not know what you want your life to be, you should know who you are at the most basic level. There seems to be some confusion when it comes to the question of "Who Are You?".
Not knowing what you want to do for a living, but knowing it isn't what you are doing- this isn't YOU.
Knowing that you enjoy the city, but not knowing if you want to live in the city- this isn't YOU.
Dating someone who you think is great, but not knowing if you want to move in with him/her- this isn't YOU.
Your essential "YOUness" is composed of what you love, like and believe, completely absent of anyone else. Your "YOUness" travels with you, works with you, dates with you, and dies with you. My "YOUness" is made up of a fondness for peppermint ice cream, a love of travel, a dislike of cream soda and spiders, the need for sun and surf and to never have to work in Excel or Access again. In my opinion, your "YOUness" is who you are at your most basic- the simple parts.
Because I think that "YOUness" is so simple, I find myself concerned by those adults who say that they don't know who they are, that they need to find out- find out who they would be without this job/partner/responsibility, without this "life". I would argue that without my current job, I would still like peppermint ice cream. Regardless of who I am dating, I still don't like cream soda. If I didn't have bills to pay, I would still choose the beach over the snow- I would just choose it more often. I may not have a 5 year plan, but I know that it won't involve spider-wrangling. Whether I am in Denver, Denmark, or Down Under, I know that when push comes to shove- I'm more interested in breaking up the fight than jumping into it.
So here it is, the 6 word challenge. In 6 words, write who you are, define your "YOUness". Own It.
Globetrotting Arachnophobic Activist Cheesehead Encouraging Tomfoolery
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Monday, October 10, 2011
The Fear of Giving
Some of us, when we see someone careening towards the edge of a cliff, can't stop ourselves from getting involved. We drop the 20 packages we are carrying, race towards the car, and say, "STOP STOP! You'll go right over the side if you keep going that direction! You need to take a left." Next thing we know, the occupant has hopped into our passenger seat and we are driving him to California, paying for gas, lodging, and food along the way. Did I mention that we were headed to Boston?
Giving of yourself is a wonderful thing. Ideally, you make a difference for someone else and you feel good about yourself. Giving too much of yourself is a terrible thing. You begin to resent what you are doing, who you are doing it for, and find yourself ready to forget the whole damn thing. Revisiting those 20 packages, you envision yourself dropping your arms to your side, letting them fall to the ground, hearing the "Fragile" items break, seeing the "This End Up" packages turn on their sides, and with complete satisfaction, screaming "%*@# THIS" as you stomp on the packages and storm off. A satisfying image, isn't it? Well, until you realize that the packages are your career, your marriage, your dog/cat/guinea pig, your student loan, your Fantasy team, your best friend, your kids, your annoying coworker, and that ridiculously overpriced platter from the P Barn that you just bought off your distant cousin's wedding registry. Trust me, no one likes someone who swears at a cute, fuzzy G-pig.
Ok, so we shouldn't overextend ourselves. Got it. So, where should we give our time? Our talents? Our money? This is where the fear enters into the joy of giving. Everyone you know has a cause. Everyone you know has kids/grandkids/neighbors/relatives who are selling something to raise money for something so they can go somewhere, do something, get something, or make a change. The causes usually all have merit and will bring great benefit to the recipient. If someone asked you to buy butterbraids to help purchase poison to "handle" the local prairie dog population or help canvas neighborhoods to raise awareness about the lack of real diamonds in the bedazzled cheerleading outfits in the area high school, it wouldn't be hard to say no. But- no one is asking you for those things, right? (Right?!)
Any good fundraiser will tell you that people donate money as much for the cause as for the story; the relationship they have with the person doing the ask, the person for whom the cause is personal. We all have limited resources, especially time and money. What do you do when you can only support a few causes, but you have so many friends, coworkers and neighbors? What happens when multiple people are vying for your support, for cookies/popcorn/wreaths/wrapping paper? Some people employ the "I will buy a little from everyone" strategy, some people employ the "I won't buy any from anyone" strategy, and some people employ the "I will avoid everyone I know with children" strategy. Avoiding fundraisers which center around food can be easy with a simple, "No cookies for me! Watching my sugar.". Try using that line when it comes to wrapping paper..."Uh, we don't wrap gifts at my house. We just put them right out in the open."
Guilt. In some cases it comes from the fundraiser or charity, and in some cases it comes from ourselves. Many of us don't want to have to rank charities, or prioritize our causes. To say to ourselves or someone else, "I really care about animal abuse and pancreatic cancer so I want to help agencies who work with those populations, but I don't know anyone with a developmental disability or who has been a victim of violent crime so I don't want to donate my dollars to those causes" is difficult, but it is true. We all have the freedom to help where we can and are able, and helping one cause, or 100, does not mean that you don't care about the other thousands of causes out there. This is where it can get difficult with friends and family. Donating to one person's cause may make you feel that you have to donate to everybody's cause. This gets stressful, prohibitive, and can make you want to avoid charitable giving all together. If I can't donate to everyone, I'm not donating to anyone.
So, what prompted today's post? I am constantly asking people for donations- money, shoes, school supplies, volunteer hours, pop tops, clothing, medical supplies. I will take on just about any cause if I believe in it, if I think I can help, and if I think that I can raise awareness. It can be exhausting, not just for me, but for my friends, family, coworkers, local businesses, and others who are frequently asked for donations. Saying no is hard, and saying no to a good cause is even harder, but we each have a limited amount of "YES" to give. Give it when it matters most to you. And for the other "frequent fundraisers" out there, let's accept the "No" and the no answers with as much grace and gratitude as we accept the "Yes". This month's no may be next month's yes.
Giving of yourself is a wonderful thing. Ideally, you make a difference for someone else and you feel good about yourself. Giving too much of yourself is a terrible thing. You begin to resent what you are doing, who you are doing it for, and find yourself ready to forget the whole damn thing. Revisiting those 20 packages, you envision yourself dropping your arms to your side, letting them fall to the ground, hearing the "Fragile" items break, seeing the "This End Up" packages turn on their sides, and with complete satisfaction, screaming "%*@# THIS" as you stomp on the packages and storm off. A satisfying image, isn't it? Well, until you realize that the packages are your career, your marriage, your dog/cat/guinea pig, your student loan, your Fantasy team, your best friend, your kids, your annoying coworker, and that ridiculously overpriced platter from the P Barn that you just bought off your distant cousin's wedding registry. Trust me, no one likes someone who swears at a cute, fuzzy G-pig.
Ok, so we shouldn't overextend ourselves. Got it. So, where should we give our time? Our talents? Our money? This is where the fear enters into the joy of giving. Everyone you know has a cause. Everyone you know has kids/grandkids/neighbors/relatives who are selling something to raise money for something so they can go somewhere, do something, get something, or make a change. The causes usually all have merit and will bring great benefit to the recipient. If someone asked you to buy butterbraids to help purchase poison to "handle" the local prairie dog population or help canvas neighborhoods to raise awareness about the lack of real diamonds in the bedazzled cheerleading outfits in the area high school, it wouldn't be hard to say no. But- no one is asking you for those things, right? (Right?!)
Any good fundraiser will tell you that people donate money as much for the cause as for the story; the relationship they have with the person doing the ask, the person for whom the cause is personal. We all have limited resources, especially time and money. What do you do when you can only support a few causes, but you have so many friends, coworkers and neighbors? What happens when multiple people are vying for your support, for cookies/popcorn/wreaths/wrapping paper? Some people employ the "I will buy a little from everyone" strategy, some people employ the "I won't buy any from anyone" strategy, and some people employ the "I will avoid everyone I know with children" strategy. Avoiding fundraisers which center around food can be easy with a simple, "No cookies for me! Watching my sugar.". Try using that line when it comes to wrapping paper..."Uh, we don't wrap gifts at my house. We just put them right out in the open."
Guilt. In some cases it comes from the fundraiser or charity, and in some cases it comes from ourselves. Many of us don't want to have to rank charities, or prioritize our causes. To say to ourselves or someone else, "I really care about animal abuse and pancreatic cancer so I want to help agencies who work with those populations, but I don't know anyone with a developmental disability or who has been a victim of violent crime so I don't want to donate my dollars to those causes" is difficult, but it is true. We all have the freedom to help where we can and are able, and helping one cause, or 100, does not mean that you don't care about the other thousands of causes out there. This is where it can get difficult with friends and family. Donating to one person's cause may make you feel that you have to donate to everybody's cause. This gets stressful, prohibitive, and can make you want to avoid charitable giving all together. If I can't donate to everyone, I'm not donating to anyone.
So, what prompted today's post? I am constantly asking people for donations- money, shoes, school supplies, volunteer hours, pop tops, clothing, medical supplies. I will take on just about any cause if I believe in it, if I think I can help, and if I think that I can raise awareness. It can be exhausting, not just for me, but for my friends, family, coworkers, local businesses, and others who are frequently asked for donations. Saying no is hard, and saying no to a good cause is even harder, but we each have a limited amount of "YES" to give. Give it when it matters most to you. And for the other "frequent fundraisers" out there, let's accept the "No" and the no answers with as much grace and gratitude as we accept the "Yes". This month's no may be next month's yes.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Awkward Medicine
Full Disclosure: I am not a doctor. I have never played a doctor on TV. I have worn a white lab coat. I am not basing this posting on any sort of research other than my completely arbitrary observations. Ice cream makes all medical experiences better.
I have found a direct relationship between specialized medicine and awkwardness. Regular doctors and dentists are approachable. You could have a drink with them and next thing you know, boom, you are exchanging "Driving While Puking" stories and becoming Facebook friends. You trust their brilliance, but you are still comfortable talking about your summer vacation while their hands are down your shirt listening to your heartbeat.
Specialists are generally attractive, and they know it. Any hesitation you have to tell them about burning, itching, or midnight binging is due to the fact that you are imaging them naked at the exact moment they are holding up the film footage of your golf ball sized kidney stone. Specialists will inevitably be nearby once you're under the influence of sedatives or anesthesia, and you will ask them out...repeatedly....mostly because you have the short-term memory of a fruit fly.
Super Smart Extra-Specialists are awkward. It's almost as if they have been kept on a protective island and the only part of you that isn't scary is your disease/condition/films/medical history. You quickly realize that you are trying to put THEM at ease. You barely restrain yourself from speaking in soothing tones while gently stroking their frightened hands. You tell great jokes, and they don't laugh. You say something like, "I'm monitoring my sodium intake" and they laugh hysterically.
Just like the ending of this post...it's awkward.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
The Sleepy Phenomena
You wake up and it is still dark. You stumble to the bathroom, catching your toe on the damn doorstop- again. (Why don't you just move it?) When you come back towards the bed, you debate glancing at the clock, well those of you who can actually SEE the clock might do that, or picking up your phone. Part of you is afraid that it will be closer to your alarm time than you think, and part of you hopes that it is only a little after 2 a.m.
Before you know it, the alarm sounds and you are hitting snooze. Even if you know the absolute latest time you can get up, you will still set your alarm in 10-15 minute increments before that, JUST so you can go back to sleep. You shower in the dark, brush your teeth with your eyes closed, and struggle to get dressed as though your limbs are made of lead. You're sleepy.
You yawn while you make/buy/grab your coffee/Mt. Dew/Gin & Tonic. You feel the scratchy eyes and sluggishness during your phone calls and emails. You perk up briefly when you know lunch is coming, and afterwards, you start moving in slow motion. You're sleepy.
Work is over! Hooray! You might have an hour or two of energy. You may even make dinner, call your Mom, or assemble some impulse purchase from IKEA. You will watch your favorite shows, and maybe even make it through the first 5 minutes of the news, just to find out what is in your morning coffee that *may* kill you. But then, it happens...you get sleepy.
You clean up the kitchen, pay that bill you forgot about, find that Snuggie you need for tomorrow's event, and you head to the bedroom. You take off your socks, stretch your legs, try to figure out why the dog/cat/boa constrictor doesn't realize it's bed time and instead insists on barking/rustling/constricting. You go into the bathroom and wash, brush, and stare at that tired person in the mirror. You're sleepy.
You turn on the fan. You turn off the light. You get into bed. You pull up the sheet, close your eyes and settle in. You think calm, serene thoughts. You think to yourself, I'm in bed on time! I will sleep for 8 hours! I will wake up refreshed and renewed!
2 hours later you have sent 5 texts, checked Facebook, read 2 chapters, written your grocery list, hung some art, dusted your furniture, and delinted the couch. And then you wrote a blog post.
You wake up and it is still dark..
Before you know it, the alarm sounds and you are hitting snooze. Even if you know the absolute latest time you can get up, you will still set your alarm in 10-15 minute increments before that, JUST so you can go back to sleep. You shower in the dark, brush your teeth with your eyes closed, and struggle to get dressed as though your limbs are made of lead. You're sleepy.
You yawn while you make/buy/grab your coffee/Mt. Dew/Gin & Tonic. You feel the scratchy eyes and sluggishness during your phone calls and emails. You perk up briefly when you know lunch is coming, and afterwards, you start moving in slow motion. You're sleepy.
Work is over! Hooray! You might have an hour or two of energy. You may even make dinner, call your Mom, or assemble some impulse purchase from IKEA. You will watch your favorite shows, and maybe even make it through the first 5 minutes of the news, just to find out what is in your morning coffee that *may* kill you. But then, it happens...you get sleepy.
You clean up the kitchen, pay that bill you forgot about, find that Snuggie you need for tomorrow's event, and you head to the bedroom. You take off your socks, stretch your legs, try to figure out why the dog/cat/boa constrictor doesn't realize it's bed time and instead insists on barking/rustling/constricting. You go into the bathroom and wash, brush, and stare at that tired person in the mirror. You're sleepy.
You turn on the fan. You turn off the light. You get into bed. You pull up the sheet, close your eyes and settle in. You think calm, serene thoughts. You think to yourself, I'm in bed on time! I will sleep for 8 hours! I will wake up refreshed and renewed!
2 hours later you have sent 5 texts, checked Facebook, read 2 chapters, written your grocery list, hung some art, dusted your furniture, and delinted the couch. And then you wrote a blog post.
You wake up and it is still dark..
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Things I Learned At A Country Music Concert
-100's of women who would deny it on any other day, will not only admit to being a redneck woman, but shout hey y'all and yee haw. -God, America, and the military will receive multiple shout outs. -It's possible to fit trigonometry into a rap song. -There are country rap songs. -Sometimes the biggest belt buckle is on a woman. -There will be at least one lady with a baby on her hip. -The hook 'em horns hand gesture is not limited to Texas or rock concerts. -Even the sternest cowboy needs a little rhinestone in his life. -Country women will kick your ass if you try to take their man, but they'll warn you first. -Sometimes you're too skinny to make skinny jeans look good. -Everyone wants to save a horse, ride a cowboy (and every man thinks he is a cowboy)
Thursday, June 16, 2011
You Don't Have To Call Me Darlin'- In fact, I wish you wouldn't
Pet names- I don't like them, and I don't understand why people insist on using them. I don't mind terms of affection (honey, baby, sweetheart) or nicknames (junior, pookie, ass clown), what I don't like are pet names like "Snugglebunny", "Booboo", or "Tweetyummers HottieBuns". In most cases, I think pet names are developed by stringing together random items in your line of sight and adding the necessary "little", "pants", or "ums" at the beginning or the end until you end up calling your boyfriend "My Little Groovy-num-num Bonbon". Thank God you don't work at a raw sewage pumping plant!
Men are not immune to the pet name phenom either. Men seem more likely to give a food-related pet name...who knows, maybe they're just hungry. "Pumpkin", "Muffin", "Cupcake", "Honey bear", "Chunky Monkey", there's a reason why mon petite chou means "My Little Cabbage". Everyone knows that French men like to eat! Let's think about pumpkin...a pumpkin is a type of squash, that grows on the ground, it's big, orange, and full of gooey, smelly, stringy "guts". Romantic, right? One unknowing gentleman called me his "Macaroni Salad". "Sweet Cheeks" had no idea what he had done. Needless to say, all future macaroni salad moments have occurred at picnics where this author hasn't been present.
So what are you supposed to do if you can't call her "Tiger Twinky"? How will he know you love him if you don't call him "Puppie Pot Sexypooh Peepers". Here's a hint- CALL HIM BY HIS NAME! You *do* know her name, right? Right?
Thus concludes this discussion of how the pet name originated.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Must Bathe the Rats
Job descriptions start off with the best parts of the job. You feel challenged, engaged, and excited about the job requirements. Then, if you are anything like me, you skip to the end and make sure you meet the qualifications. Somewhere in the lower half of the middle of the description is what I like to call the "Bathe the Rats" section. Wily employers know to bury the undesirable responsibilities of the job in the section of the description most people will skim over. Or, if the responsibilities are REALLY heinous, they will be cleverly lumped into the ever-present "Other Duties as Assigned" category.
In my quest for employment, I have stumbled across some of the most unappealing job duties you can imagine, and remember I wasn' t looking for careers in Waste Reclamation. Some of my favorites include:
-Comfortable interacting with insects and tarantulas
-Upkeep vacuums
-Heavy manual labor
-Skilled in puppetry
-Matrices (of any kind)
-Substantial business acumen
-Comfort in all environments, including extreme weather, abandoned buildings, and underneath bridges
-Must be willing to live on cemetery property
-Conducting regular urinalysis and breathalyzer tests
Needless to say, my current position does not require any of the job duties listed above. I draw the line at toilets, farm implements, and rats. And, if you're looking for spreadsheets, I'm not your girl!
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Adulthood-Not a Sprinkle in Sight
Growing up may be the worst decision I've made. Oh sure, I can eat a Twinkie for breakfast if I want now, but I also have to think about preventative dental care. When I was in the single digits I thought being grounded or missing a sleepover was torture. Turns out, a root canal and the subsequent crown and bill are much more painful and enduring methods of punishment. When I was in elementary school, I boldly announced my intention to pursue doughnut-making as my profession. Note: I did not say doughnut-making as my job, or a baker as my career. I was going to be a professional doughnut-maker. As you may have deduced, my adult life has gone horribly astray from my childhood dreams. There's not a doughnut internship to be found on my resume. It's a pity, I think my dentist and I could have made beautiful cavities together.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
A Shot That Only A Farm Animal Could Love
It's the end of May, the weather is warming up, people are wearing jeggings in public, OBVIOUSLY it is time for me to get a head cold. When you are sick, people love to offer you advice. Sometimes, it is a helpful tip like, "get the Kleenex with aloe", sometimes it is a more subtle tip like handing you a cough drop. Then there are the bold and unashamed who just spray you from head to toe with Lysol and run screaming from the room. (You can't help but laugh at this last group, once you are able to suck in oxygen again). Today's helpful tip was...a shot of wheatgrass. He had me at shot. It is rare that I meet a shot that I don't like. I shouldn't have stopped listening after shot, or I would have heard "WHEATGRASS".
I walked into my local Jamba Juice with my game face on. I would suck down this nutrient rich shot of nature and then get on with the business of a Razzmatazz Caribbean Dream Peachtastic Summer Harvest Smoothie of Goodness. I ordered the shot. (Fun Bonus Fact about Wheatgrass: a single shot has 5 calories, and a double shot has 15 calories. Maybe this is some sort of health fanatic math) I should have known something was up when the lovely lady behind the counter asked if I would like an orange slice as a compliment to the shot. What she was really saying was, YOU NEED A CHASER, because you do not want to walk around with this flavor of funk in your mouth.
I enthusiastically agreed to the chaser, and at this point I started paying attention to the shot-making process. Have you ever seen those specialty "potty patches" that are advertised in magazines like Sky Mall? These fabulous grass squares give your dog the sensation of being outdoors, but let them relieve themselves, INSIDE YOUR HOME. Apparently it is ok, because they feel like they are outside and won't be confused into believing that they are going to the bathroom inside. Maybe this works for the dog, but I can guarantee that the smell won't give me the sensation that they are outside. Anyways, there is a square patch of grass growing in the store. Grass is plucked from the patch, put through some sort of scary meat grinder and then put into a tiny teapot with questionable liquid. The shot is artfully arranged on a small plastic plate with a bamboo design. This is the last positive thought you are going to have about the shot.
In the summer, grass grows quickly. Thus, people are constantly mowing their yards and the scent of fresh cut grass permeates the air. Have you ever thought that the smell was so strong you could almost taste it? Well now you can! A shot of wheatgrass tastes exactly how grass smells, with a finish that can only be described as milky-textured-sort-of-sweet ickiness. I'm pretty sure I had that orange wedge in my mouth before my brain even released the "Code 5-Tastebud Threat Level Red-Oh-Dear-Lord-Warning".
I feel healthier already.
I walked into my local Jamba Juice with my game face on. I would suck down this nutrient rich shot of nature and then get on with the business of a Razzmatazz Caribbean Dream Peachtastic Summer Harvest Smoothie of Goodness. I ordered the shot. (Fun Bonus Fact about Wheatgrass: a single shot has 5 calories, and a double shot has 15 calories. Maybe this is some sort of health fanatic math) I should have known something was up when the lovely lady behind the counter asked if I would like an orange slice as a compliment to the shot. What she was really saying was, YOU NEED A CHASER, because you do not want to walk around with this flavor of funk in your mouth.
I enthusiastically agreed to the chaser, and at this point I started paying attention to the shot-making process. Have you ever seen those specialty "potty patches" that are advertised in magazines like Sky Mall? These fabulous grass squares give your dog the sensation of being outdoors, but let them relieve themselves, INSIDE YOUR HOME. Apparently it is ok, because they feel like they are outside and won't be confused into believing that they are going to the bathroom inside. Maybe this works for the dog, but I can guarantee that the smell won't give me the sensation that they are outside. Anyways, there is a square patch of grass growing in the store. Grass is plucked from the patch, put through some sort of scary meat grinder and then put into a tiny teapot with questionable liquid. The shot is artfully arranged on a small plastic plate with a bamboo design. This is the last positive thought you are going to have about the shot.
In the summer, grass grows quickly. Thus, people are constantly mowing their yards and the scent of fresh cut grass permeates the air. Have you ever thought that the smell was so strong you could almost taste it? Well now you can! A shot of wheatgrass tastes exactly how grass smells, with a finish that can only be described as milky-textured-sort-of-sweet ickiness. I'm pretty sure I had that orange wedge in my mouth before my brain even released the "Code 5-Tastebud Threat Level Red-Oh-Dear-Lord-Warning".
Friday, May 20, 2011
Rapture
Let's face it, rapture is funny. Oh sure, it might happen, but I think that is an even better reason to joke about it now. I'm not 100% sure where I'm going yet. Much like the DMV, you can't know for certain which line will call your number, you can only guess and pray it won't be the one with the angry man with a unibrow. I think I find the rapture scheduled for tomorrow to be funnier than your average rapture for one reason, billboards. Strategic billboard placement has allowed me to rationalize all my decisions. Coconut Mocha Frapp at Starbucks, don't mind if I do! There's no fitness exam in heaven, and even if there were, I'm not interested in being part of the Elite Angel Forces. 12 packs of toilet paper on sale at King Soopers, why bother? When the end is so near, who needs more than a roll? A vacation to Central Illinois, now is the time! I'm guessing there aren't any Midwest region ice cream parlors down "South". So I say, embrace the end! Celebrate! If the predictions are wrong, all you did was enjoy yourself. And if they're wrong, there's always next year. Literally.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Saucy Siren or Tepid Tease?
Sassy, Seventeen, Teen magazine- they held the answers to all of your burning questions in the 80's, or at least the answers to the following questions:
Are you popular?
Does your crush notice you?
What do your friends REALLY think of you?
Are you a good kisser?
Would you dare?
My sister and I would read these quizzes, take them with each other, take them again with our friends, and then tear them out of the magazines. We kept the pages, complete with our initials and scores, and revisited the questions at each sleepover. We couldn't possibly get bored with the questions, because the answers were constantly changing. While I may have been a "Calm Chick" on Friday, by the next Saturday I was a "Wild Child". Depending on the week's drama and who said what about who at lunch, or what happened during Truth or Dare at Mandy's sleepover, you could easily go from a "Popular Princess" to a "Dorky Do-gooder/Doofus/Doormat".
Everyone had that friend, maybe it was you, who would always be in the middle category. They would be the "Girl Next Door/Far From French/50-50/Nice but not Nasty/Blossom (complete with hat)". You never really knew if they were always picking "B" because they really meant it, or because they wanted to fall in the middle category. EVERYONE knew that the middle category meant you were normal, well-adjusted, and unlikely to be pregnant by 8th grade. The middle was safe, and boring.
So, were the quizzes right? Are they still right? Have you grown out of your "Waiting Wallflower" stage and embraced your inner "Dancefloor Diva"? Have you given up on being "Totally Tongue" and mellowed into the "Polite Peck"? I think we should all aspire to be in the "Braggy Babe/All About You/Thrill Junkie" category now and again (and be there HONESTLY, not by looking at the point values- you know who you are, quiz cheaters...). With that said:
You see a boy you are totally crushing on at the mall. He has spilled Icee down the front of his shirt. Do you...
A) Politely whisper that he spilled his drink and should buy a new shirt (that shows off his abs, from Hollister)
B) Laugh at him and say, "Smooth move, Ex-Lax!"
C) Offer him your Tide-to-Go pen and tell him that no one will notice the wet spot
-or- (take that "C" people!)
D) Dare him to go shirtless until the mall cops catch him
Are you popular?
Does your crush notice you?
What do your friends REALLY think of you?
Are you a good kisser?
Would you dare?
My sister and I would read these quizzes, take them with each other, take them again with our friends, and then tear them out of the magazines. We kept the pages, complete with our initials and scores, and revisited the questions at each sleepover. We couldn't possibly get bored with the questions, because the answers were constantly changing. While I may have been a "Calm Chick" on Friday, by the next Saturday I was a "Wild Child". Depending on the week's drama and who said what about who at lunch, or what happened during Truth or Dare at Mandy's sleepover, you could easily go from a "Popular Princess" to a "Dorky Do-gooder/Doofus/Doormat".
Everyone had that friend, maybe it was you, who would always be in the middle category. They would be the "Girl Next Door/Far From French/50-50/Nice but not Nasty/Blossom (complete with hat)". You never really knew if they were always picking "B" because they really meant it, or because they wanted to fall in the middle category. EVERYONE knew that the middle category meant you were normal, well-adjusted, and unlikely to be pregnant by 8th grade. The middle was safe, and boring.
So, were the quizzes right? Are they still right? Have you grown out of your "Waiting Wallflower" stage and embraced your inner "Dancefloor Diva"? Have you given up on being "Totally Tongue" and mellowed into the "Polite Peck"? I think we should all aspire to be in the "Braggy Babe/All About You/Thrill Junkie" category now and again (and be there HONESTLY, not by looking at the point values- you know who you are, quiz cheaters...). With that said:
You see a boy you are totally crushing on at the mall. He has spilled Icee down the front of his shirt. Do you...
A) Politely whisper that he spilled his drink and should buy a new shirt (that shows off his abs, from Hollister)
B) Laugh at him and say, "Smooth move, Ex-Lax!"
C) Offer him your Tide-to-Go pen and tell him that no one will notice the wet spot
-or- (take that "C" people!)
D) Dare him to go shirtless until the mall cops catch him
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Peppers and Policies
My mom, sister, and I are all well-traveled, very well-traveled. My mom, so much so, that when she waltzes through security in the Quad City International Airport, mere moments before boarding, the TSA agents say, "Hey Linda! Running ahead of schedule?" Given our airport know-how, all three of us are the perfect TSA-compliant passengers. We have our ID and our boarding pass together, we had our shoes off before we ever got to the airport, belts/bling/and bulky hoodies have been removed, and we are holding our liquids in perfect 3-1-1 style. It is also important to note that all three of us are budget conscience and there is no way we are paying to check our bags. When it comes to our carry-on luggage, in true RuPaul fashion, "You better work it, girl!"
With all this in mind, you know that we all take great caution in shopping while traveling. If it doesn't fit in the 1 quart bag, and it can't consumed before security, it isn't coming home with us- that's our motto. Mom was in town for Mother's Day, and at the farmer's market she fell in love with some jalapeno relish. There was no stopping her, throwing caution and the TSA guidelines to the wind, she bought it. We all looked at the jar and said, "We'll get it down to three ounces, no problem!" As of 4:30 p.m. today, there were several ounces left in the jar and we were creatively brainstorming the 3 oz. packaging which would fit in the handy Ziploc.
I had some brand new toiletry bottles, so we decided to stuff the peppers and juice into the "shampoo" bottle. Six peppers into the project, my sister Jen says, "Peppers aren't liquid! Just take the peppers, and leave the juice." This was a brilliant epiphany- now known as Jenni's Pepper Epiphany of 2011. Great plan, except now, we had to pull said jalapenos from the narrow-mouthed bottle. Thank heaven for fondue forks. With the peppers safely and roomily ensconced in a Tupperware, and a confident, "Good thing I don't have to declare my peppers", we were ready for the airport.
En route, there were many pepper jokes and discussion of Backup Plan A and B if the peppers were questioned (not the actual peppers, they're to shy to talk to a TSA official). We debated whether Mom would eat all the peppers rather than have them confiscated (Mom takes her pickled veggies seriously). Before leaving Mom at the gate, she left us with this seed of wisdom- "This is the Denver airport. You can't tell me that there's an airport employee who didn't eat peppers at some point today, with at least one meal. They'll understand."
Mom made it safely onto the plane, WITH her peppers.
With all this in mind, you know that we all take great caution in shopping while traveling. If it doesn't fit in the 1 quart bag, and it can't consumed before security, it isn't coming home with us- that's our motto. Mom was in town for Mother's Day, and at the farmer's market she fell in love with some jalapeno relish. There was no stopping her, throwing caution and the TSA guidelines to the wind, she bought it. We all looked at the jar and said, "We'll get it down to three ounces, no problem!" As of 4:30 p.m. today, there were several ounces left in the jar and we were creatively brainstorming the 3 oz. packaging which would fit in the handy Ziploc.
I had some brand new toiletry bottles, so we decided to stuff the peppers and juice into the "shampoo" bottle. Six peppers into the project, my sister Jen says, "Peppers aren't liquid! Just take the peppers, and leave the juice." This was a brilliant epiphany- now known as Jenni's Pepper Epiphany of 2011. Great plan, except now, we had to pull said jalapenos from the narrow-mouthed bottle. Thank heaven for fondue forks. With the peppers safely and roomily ensconced in a Tupperware, and a confident, "Good thing I don't have to declare my peppers", we were ready for the airport.
En route, there were many pepper jokes and discussion of Backup Plan A and B if the peppers were questioned (not the actual peppers, they're to shy to talk to a TSA official). We debated whether Mom would eat all the peppers rather than have them confiscated (Mom takes her pickled veggies seriously). Before leaving Mom at the gate, she left us with this seed of wisdom- "This is the Denver airport. You can't tell me that there's an airport employee who didn't eat peppers at some point today, with at least one meal. They'll understand."
Mom made it safely onto the plane, WITH her peppers.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Name Tags
If I could have a wish, a personal, completely self-serving wish, I would wish that everyone had to wear a name tag. Now, don't misunderstand, I am making this wish because I have been offered one for my own benefit only. If I were making a wish without this restriction it would be for world peace, or the cure for deadly diseases, or the absence of poverty, suffering, or Donald Trump. But this wish, the name tag wish, is just something that would make my life easier. Everyone wears a name tag (but not with stickers like the people at Panera Bread). Everyone, except me. I don't wear name tags. I don't like it when strangers say my name as though we know each other, mostly because it is entirely possible that we have met before and I just don't remember. Also, because if you use my name, I feel obligated to use your name and then it becomes one of those awkward conversations where we both keep using the other's name when CLEARLY we know who we are talking to at that moment.
I don't remember names, it's a fact. You could be meeting me RIGHT NOW, we could be in a room completely devoid of distraction and you could have a voice as mesmerizing as Sean Connery, and I would already be forgetting what you said. Instead, I'm busy thinking, "Are we going to shake hands, give a pathetic "hey" wave (which, if you think about it, is completely ridiculous when we are two feet from each other, it's not like we are trying to make sure that the other person sees us), or (shudder) is this person a stranger hugger?"
I'm sure that wise researchers would tell me that I don't remember names because I am not invested in the conversation, that I am mentally dismissing the person I am meeting, or that I have an inability to focus. Not true. Actually, after we meet I will be able to tell you all sorts of things about yourself, just not your name (and really, you need to know that more than I do). For some reason, rather than knowing what you are called in polite society, I'd rather assign an identity to you based on your appearance, voice, demeanor, the company you keep, or who/what you remind me of....heaven help you if we meet on Halloween.
Case and point- if you look in my cell phone, you will likely see contact ids of "Not scary Dave", "Cindy? PR", "Jon don't answer at night", "Vacation Jess drunk", "Spain guy mayb dr?", and (my favorite), "Mike alhsbhism" (Mike acts he's single but he is married). Every now and again I get a wild hair and decided to delete people who I don't know/remember/don't want to know or remember, but then I think...do I really want to be blindsided by Mike alhsbhism? Name or no name, the answer is no.
I don't remember names, it's a fact. You could be meeting me RIGHT NOW, we could be in a room completely devoid of distraction and you could have a voice as mesmerizing as Sean Connery, and I would already be forgetting what you said. Instead, I'm busy thinking, "Are we going to shake hands, give a pathetic "hey" wave (which, if you think about it, is completely ridiculous when we are two feet from each other, it's not like we are trying to make sure that the other person sees us), or (shudder) is this person a stranger hugger?"
I'm sure that wise researchers would tell me that I don't remember names because I am not invested in the conversation, that I am mentally dismissing the person I am meeting, or that I have an inability to focus. Not true. Actually, after we meet I will be able to tell you all sorts of things about yourself, just not your name (and really, you need to know that more than I do). For some reason, rather than knowing what you are called in polite society, I'd rather assign an identity to you based on your appearance, voice, demeanor, the company you keep, or who/what you remind me of....heaven help you if we meet on Halloween.
Case and point- if you look in my cell phone, you will likely see contact ids of "Not scary Dave", "Cindy? PR", "Jon don't answer at night", "Vacation Jess drunk", "Spain guy mayb dr?", and (my favorite), "Mike alhsbhism" (Mike acts he's single but he is married). Every now and again I get a wild hair and decided to delete people who I don't know/remember/don't want to know or remember, but then I think...do I really want to be blindsided by Mike alhsbhism? Name or no name, the answer is no.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Urban Sprawl
Urban Sprawl- it would be a much more appealing concept if it referred to modern, extra-cushy furniture that yuppies lounged in while watching The Voice, but alas, it makes me think about a city with a bad case of muffin top. The more the city sprawls, the further out the wildlife has to travel. Not travel in the sense of finding a wooded, Bambi-esque home away from me and the big, bad city...oh no. We're talking about travel in the sense of appearing on my morning commute, en mass.
Each morning I cruise along the Dam Road on my way to work. For those of you not living in the Denver metro area, the Dam Road is nothing like it sounds. It's a road, that goes over a Dam. It is NOT an overcrowded, bumper to bumper wasteland where punctuality goes to die. The Dam Road is fantastic because it lets me skip the freeway drama and coast to work, with occasional thoughts of how much it would suck if an irresponsible driver hit me on the this single lane road which is hundreds of feet above the very cold-looking dam waters. These thoughts are only occasional because, let's face it, the irresponsible and distracted drivers get up way earlier than I do.
So, there I am this morning, cruising along thinking about men who cheat on their wives with escorts, but who talk about their family to said escort, when I see a coyote. Wiley is just standing there on the road, checking out the traffic. I stop. He looks at me, I look at him, we give each other the "head nod of mutual acknowledgement" and he lopes off. I think, odd...I thought coyotes were night creatures, but maybe he is getting a late start on his lope of shame home from Coyote Ugly.
I exit the Dam Road and begin to drive past Cherry Creek State Park, where I am forced to stop (again), this time for the Party of 5 deer reunion happening on Dayton. I sit there, staring at them, and they refuse to make eye contact. I briefly consider honking the horn, but on my right is a middle school and I really don't want to draw their attention. Middle schooler's like to get involved and the next thing you know, boom, you are a science fair judge. Also, I am flashing back to the Yellowstone Buffalo Incident of 2000, where I was driving an Olds Cutless which was quickly surrounded by buffalo. I was just dumb enough to honk at them, and these animals were NOT too shy to stare. I had to casually put up my window as they surrounded my car. Luckily, the long version of "American Pie" was playing, so the beasts and I had plenty of time to bond over our shared love of Chevys. levees, whisky and rye. I didn't want to recreate this animal ambush, so I waited patiently.
On my lunch break, I ran an errand and a few minutes from my office I was roadblocked...again. This time, prairie dogs- three of them. At this point, I was starting to entertain the notion that I was either a soon-to-be princess who was going to get a makeover from my furry friends and they were going to handle my emails and appointments, OR that I was missing some obvious warning and, had I read my dream book more carefully in the mid-90's, I would know that I was supposed to be preparing for The Great Event, and preparations do not include returning my library books.
On the upside, if The Great Event is coming and I don't survive due to my failure to heed the warnings of nature, I know that I can spend eternity next to my local librarian with a clear conscience, knowing that Wild Man Creek was returned on time.
Each morning I cruise along the Dam Road on my way to work. For those of you not living in the Denver metro area, the Dam Road is nothing like it sounds. It's a road, that goes over a Dam. It is NOT an overcrowded, bumper to bumper wasteland where punctuality goes to die. The Dam Road is fantastic because it lets me skip the freeway drama and coast to work, with occasional thoughts of how much it would suck if an irresponsible driver hit me on the this single lane road which is hundreds of feet above the very cold-looking dam waters. These thoughts are only occasional because, let's face it, the irresponsible and distracted drivers get up way earlier than I do.
So, there I am this morning, cruising along thinking about men who cheat on their wives with escorts, but who talk about their family to said escort, when I see a coyote. Wiley is just standing there on the road, checking out the traffic. I stop. He looks at me, I look at him, we give each other the "head nod of mutual acknowledgement" and he lopes off. I think, odd...I thought coyotes were night creatures, but maybe he is getting a late start on his lope of shame home from Coyote Ugly.
I exit the Dam Road and begin to drive past Cherry Creek State Park, where I am forced to stop (again), this time for the Party of 5 deer reunion happening on Dayton. I sit there, staring at them, and they refuse to make eye contact. I briefly consider honking the horn, but on my right is a middle school and I really don't want to draw their attention. Middle schooler's like to get involved and the next thing you know, boom, you are a science fair judge. Also, I am flashing back to the Yellowstone Buffalo Incident of 2000, where I was driving an Olds Cutless which was quickly surrounded by buffalo. I was just dumb enough to honk at them, and these animals were NOT too shy to stare. I had to casually put up my window as they surrounded my car. Luckily, the long version of "American Pie" was playing, so the beasts and I had plenty of time to bond over our shared love of Chevys. levees, whisky and rye. I didn't want to recreate this animal ambush, so I waited patiently.
On my lunch break, I ran an errand and a few minutes from my office I was roadblocked...again. This time, prairie dogs- three of them. At this point, I was starting to entertain the notion that I was either a soon-to-be princess who was going to get a makeover from my furry friends and they were going to handle my emails and appointments, OR that I was missing some obvious warning and, had I read my dream book more carefully in the mid-90's, I would know that I was supposed to be preparing for The Great Event, and preparations do not include returning my library books.
On the upside, if The Great Event is coming and I don't survive due to my failure to heed the warnings of nature, I know that I can spend eternity next to my local librarian with a clear conscience, knowing that Wild Man Creek was returned on time.
That's What It's All About
Life is about more than just the Hokey Pokey, but what the HP teaches us is
a) If you put it in, you have to put it out
b) You're gonna wanna shake it all about
c) You shouldn't keep entertaining things all to yourself, they're much better shared with others (preferably in a circle)
Grab your spot on the magic carpet, keep your milk carton out of your mouth while reading (I don't want any unfortunate milk-out-the-nose incidents on my conscience), and enjoy this mental "smoke break". Those of you who know me, know that I can talk and tell stories all day, night, and well into the Early Show the next day. This blog is the "constructive, focused activity" that my 5th grade teacher always encouraged me to find. Who knew it would take me 20 more years to actually get around to it? I guess this is why I never achieved a check + in time management.
a) If you put it in, you have to put it out
b) You're gonna wanna shake it all about
c) You shouldn't keep entertaining things all to yourself, they're much better shared with others (preferably in a circle)
Grab your spot on the magic carpet, keep your milk carton out of your mouth while reading (I don't want any unfortunate milk-out-the-nose incidents on my conscience), and enjoy this mental "smoke break". Those of you who know me, know that I can talk and tell stories all day, night, and well into the Early Show the next day. This blog is the "constructive, focused activity" that my 5th grade teacher always encouraged me to find. Who knew it would take me 20 more years to actually get around to it? I guess this is why I never achieved a check + in time management.
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