Business, business. Big ups to my friends Miss Valerie and Miss Kim for being born this weekend 20-30something years ago. This weekend, I'll be celebrating Kim's birthday by drinking German beer from glass boots and possibly polka dancing at a German bar. But last night, I celebrated Valerie's birthday with Lana by eating zummy food, exchanging Silly Bandz (awww yeah! I gave them each a set, and I'm sure their lives will never be the same), and drinking wine while discussing everything from boutiques to whacked out female hormones. Juicy stuff, people. JUICY.
Oh GIRL TALK. You're so fun. The night started with Lana's hubby Phil making some extremely good Indian food in the kitchen while Lana and I discussed various locations at which we could find adorable jewelry. Lana made these killer Salty Sweet Brownies that I wanted to take home with me and cuddle with. When Valerie got there, Phil brought us the food (I've never scarfed down tofu quite so quickly before) and we just chatted like normal human beings. It was lovely.
Lana is the only one of us three who is married (yeah, Valerie and I are, in fact, the sane ones). And she did it in like the lowest-maintenance way possible. She and her then-fiancee were already planning a vacation to Scotland, and just straight up decided to say their I Do's amongst a couple of kilt-wearing, scotch-drinking, bagpipe-playin' Scots. Easy peezy. They've always kind of been like that, and as I told Lana last night, it's just one of the zillion reasons I love them.
Married couples. I tell ya, you can't live with 'em, you can't live without 'em. Well, I guess mostly you can't live with them because they probably only want to live in their house with each other. Anyway, I'm starting to see this weird-o line in the sand that married couples inadvertently draw. I realize that many of my readers are married. YOU must realize, therefore, that the chances are very high that you've started to, uh, suck a little bit. You may think you're all "La la la, let's merge our finances and never change." But reality check: You've changed.
I am the sole remaining survivor of Wedded Bliss Syndrome in my family. Yup, I'm the only unmarried one in the clan, and I'm pretty sure I'm the most hesitant about the whole concept. Arguably, I'm also still the most fun (according to me). Most of my friends remain untainted by a wedding band, but one by one, I see them - willingly! - flinging themselves from the safety and security of Singledom into the deep, weird abyss that is Marriage. I'm not one of those people who gives marriage a bad rap because my parents had a bad marriage or something. Nope, my parents have, from my point of view, the world's BEST marriage. I idolize the relationship that they have. So much so that is seems like an impossible act to follow.
So, now that you realize I'm not just bitter about marriage, I hope you'll trust me when I explain my side. I have two friends, Lana and Kelly, who have the kind of marriage I would hope to have. They are still very much the same people, and they kept all their friends. They hang out with us poor, sad, single folk all the time (when possible), separately or together, They don't sit and refer to themselves as "we" all the time. You know, "WE just don't like that restaurant anymore." Or "WE have to think about finances." Or "WE think Pharon needs to stop calling so much."
At Book Club, I mentioned once, in the aftermath of a disappointing phone call with a Married, that "Married people are SOOOOOO lame!" In the midst of my self-righteous rant, I failed to recognize that at least 4 of the girls in my club are married. So I got the third degree from them. I know now that it could actually be my bad. When people I know get married, I still want to keep them to myself. I want them to still do the same crap we did before, without having to "answer" to anyone else. But now Marrieds either bring along their Life Partner which jeopardizes the flow of conversation, or they look at me with sad pity when I threaten to break up with Geo if he leaves his macaroni pan out ONE MORE TIME. Marrieds? DON'T LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT. I'm aware that your version of "breaking up" is "Divorce", so my version of "problems" don't amount to donkey poop compared to mortgages and baby fever and that awkward ring finger tan you'll get.
Having said all that, Marrieds need a bit of a reality check. They're all living with their husband/wife/"best friend" (puke), way separated from the Singles and assume we are immature and you falsely think you've grown out of the fun we used to have. But guess what, Marrieds? You LOVE the Single's lives. You do. You're scared to admit it, I know, but you love it. Your lives are HARD and, well, kind of like written in stone. Mine? Not so much. My relationship could fail at like, ANY second. BUT I don't have to ask anyone about anything when I buy an Xbox Kinect. It's all a crazy, crazy world where anything could happen.
In closing, I urge you this weekend, if you're a Single, to explain to your Married friends to lighten up. And if you're a cool Married, I urge you to take minute and thank the Singles in your life for keepin' it real.
Have a fantastic weekend, everyone!
Showing posts with label Funny Story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Funny Story. Show all posts
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Monday, November 29, 2010
Under my Umbrella. Ella. Ella.
Yesterday, my mom inquired as to what was on our Christmas wish lists. I’m kind of the Queen of Christmas Wish Lists. I’ll send my mom a huge long list of everything from a Dyson vacuum to refrigerator magnets. And I include links to the exact items. I cover every size, price range, and availability. I think my success of Christmas lists is due to a combination of my love for making lists and my need for everything under the sun. Anyway, my mom asks what we want. I say “I really want a nice, sturdy, adorable umbrella.” She scoffed at the suggestion, and said “An umbrella? In winter? That seems highly unnecessary.” I countered by explaining that standing at the bus stop in winter is a wet job, and sometimes it’s easier to hold an umbrella over my head than worry about ruining the 5-minute hairstyling job I’ve done by putting on a hat. Again, she dismissed the suggestion.
Then, today it rained. Behold! I needed an umbrella. I had to resort to using my super adorable green umbrella. Unfortunately, one of the little sprongy things that holds the umbrella up broke, and now one side limps down over me like sad, soggy bread. And suprisingly, the Scotch tape method I used to repair it has proven to be highly ineffective. I returned from my lunchtime trip to the library with a soaking wet right shoulder. Good thing I didn’t do my hair this morning…
Umbrellas are wonderful and horrible contraptions. They are a great accessory. And I like spinning them around in my hands, spraying water all over unsuspecting passersby. Huh. I typed that and just now realized how rude that must be. But just try carrying books, a purse, a shoulder bag, a cup of coffee and an umbrella through gale force winds and torrential downpours. It doesn’t work. I have considered, a number of times, buying a hands-free umbrella. You know…the kind that you wear on your head? They are a little small, though. Someone should work on improving on that concept. Plus, I don’t know if you know this or not, but umbrellas get wet. Trying to fold it back up without dripping all over yourself is a science I have not yet mastered.
Back when I was living with the boys, Perek, Geo and I were standing at the front door, getting ready to go somewhere. Perek decided to play with one of those spring-loaded umbrellas and he held the bottom of it at his shoulder like a shotgun. He positioned the top of the fully-extended umbrella millimeters away from Geo’s nose. Then, he pushed the top backwards to reclick it closed. He pressed the button to shoot the umbrella forward. Success! It stopped at the same dangerously close distance to Geo’s nose.
Then Geo grabbed the umbrella from Perek, and wanted to do the same thing. He held it up to his shoulder in the same shotgun-style way Perek had, and positioned the tip of it right at Perek’s nose. But when Geo started to push the umbrella closed to "cock it", he secretly inched it forward so he could really "scare Perek". He ended up shooting the umbrella full-force into Perek’s face. Perek screamed “YOU DIDN'T CALIBRATE! YOU DIDN’T CALIBRATE!” One: What a stupid game for guys to play. Two: Who uses the phrase “calibrate” in this kind of situation? Three: I almost wet my pants from laughing so hard.
Oh, BOYS. What would we do without them? I would have never gotten over the laughing fit if Geo had actually broken Perek's nose. But the resulting trip to the hospital would definitely have made us late for whatever we were on our way to do, and I have every reason to suspect we were on our way to the bar or something similarly pressing.
Anyhoozle, the moral of this story is that I need a new umbrella. That, or I need to wear a plastic bag over my right shoulder. Mom – I’ll revise my wishlist. I’d like EITHER an umbrella OR a plastic bag.
Then, today it rained. Behold! I needed an umbrella. I had to resort to using my super adorable green umbrella. Unfortunately, one of the little sprongy things that holds the umbrella up broke, and now one side limps down over me like sad, soggy bread. And suprisingly, the Scotch tape method I used to repair it has proven to be highly ineffective. I returned from my lunchtime trip to the library with a soaking wet right shoulder. Good thing I didn’t do my hair this morning…
Umbrellas are wonderful and horrible contraptions. They are a great accessory. And I like spinning them around in my hands, spraying water all over unsuspecting passersby. Huh. I typed that and just now realized how rude that must be. But just try carrying books, a purse, a shoulder bag, a cup of coffee and an umbrella through gale force winds and torrential downpours. It doesn’t work. I have considered, a number of times, buying a hands-free umbrella. You know…the kind that you wear on your head? They are a little small, though. Someone should work on improving on that concept. Plus, I don’t know if you know this or not, but umbrellas get wet. Trying to fold it back up without dripping all over yourself is a science I have not yet mastered.
Back when I was living with the boys, Perek, Geo and I were standing at the front door, getting ready to go somewhere. Perek decided to play with one of those spring-loaded umbrellas and he held the bottom of it at his shoulder like a shotgun. He positioned the top of the fully-extended umbrella millimeters away from Geo’s nose. Then, he pushed the top backwards to reclick it closed. He pressed the button to shoot the umbrella forward. Success! It stopped at the same dangerously close distance to Geo’s nose.
Then Geo grabbed the umbrella from Perek, and wanted to do the same thing. He held it up to his shoulder in the same shotgun-style way Perek had, and positioned the tip of it right at Perek’s nose. But when Geo started to push the umbrella closed to "cock it", he secretly inched it forward so he could really "scare Perek". He ended up shooting the umbrella full-force into Perek’s face. Perek screamed “YOU DIDN'T CALIBRATE! YOU DIDN’T CALIBRATE!” One: What a stupid game for guys to play. Two: Who uses the phrase “calibrate” in this kind of situation? Three: I almost wet my pants from laughing so hard.
Oh, BOYS. What would we do without them? I would have never gotten over the laughing fit if Geo had actually broken Perek's nose. But the resulting trip to the hospital would definitely have made us late for whatever we were on our way to do, and I have every reason to suspect we were on our way to the bar or something similarly pressing.
Anyhoozle, the moral of this story is that I need a new umbrella. That, or I need to wear a plastic bag over my right shoulder. Mom – I’ll revise my wishlist. I’d like EITHER an umbrella OR a plastic bag.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Potty Humor
I spent an hour cleaning our bathroom tonight. Like CLEANING clean. Scrubbing, disinfecting, sweeping, drinking wine, wiping, vacuuming, drinking wine…but now our bathroom smells like bleach and an apple-scented candle. Kind of gross, but clean. Wonderfully clean. I talked to my mom after achieving this feat, and I told her about going through an entire roll of paper towels and not knowing how to change the vacuum bag. She said “Pharon, all I did when you guys were kids was clean. All day everyday”. Touche, Mother. I totally inherited my mom's talent in the quick pick-up, but failed to really digest the CLEANING part.
When I was young, the seven worst words a kid in my family could hear were “KIDS!! Meet me in the front hallway!” To this day it send shivers down my spine. That phrase, yelled by my mom, was the death of a good time. The killer of buzzes, the hater of fun. When my mom yelled that, the five of us kids knew: It was time to clean. Corralling the five kids in the front hallway meant a little tour of our house, cleaning room by room. We’d go from hallway, to the off-limits fancy living room where Perek spilled pen ink all over one of the couches, to the dining room, to the family room where our dog Pele had chewed through an entire chair, and ending in the horrifying nightmare that was the kitchen. If my mom was feeling particularly masochistic, we’d top off the tour with the front hall closet. That’s where we’d throw everything we had just cleaned up in the Family Room.
Five kids are messy. We’d leave our crap everywhere. You could follow the progress of someone’s day by following the trail of toys and socks all around the house. My poor mom, though. Our dining room table, with a gorgeous dark-wood dining room table, was constantly covered with stacks and stacks of kids clothes, sorted by kid. Every other day. One by one, we’d gather our stacks of clothes and go throw them on the floors of our rooms as my mom yelled “And don’t throw those clean clothes on your floor!” Miserable, rotten kids…
When we’d get to the kitchen, Perek would always get what we called “work bladder”. We’d be standing before the stacks of dishes and failed science projects, about to tackle the towers of dishes abandoned by us mid-meal, and Perek would declare, “I have to go to the bathroom”. Forty-five minutes later, as the Soft Scrub was finally being washed from the sinks, Perek would emerge from his room and say, “Oh, it’s already done?” Lazy, good-for-nothing kids…
But by FAR the worst cleaning was before a big family gathering. My mom wouldn’t stand for the hidden socks in the silverware drawer, or the tricky way we’d hide garbage under the couch cushions anymore. No. We actually had to CLEAN. I have this distinct memory of dusting the TV with a t-shirt I found under the kitchen table. That counts, right?
Which is why I found myself scrubbing the bejesus out of the bathroom tonight. It wasn’t even dirty. But that whole “Pre-Holiday” clean panic has set in. Geo’s family is coming to our house for Thanksgiving, and while I highly doubt they will be eating anywhere around my make-up case, I still find it totally necessary to wipe every bottle and organize every hair binder.
Now I’m intoxicated by the nostalgic scent of Soft Scrub, and a little buzzed from the wine I drank. And maybe it’s the combination of those two things, but I have the sudden urge to tuck some garbage under the couch cushion. Just don’t tell my mom…
When I was young, the seven worst words a kid in my family could hear were “KIDS!! Meet me in the front hallway!” To this day it send shivers down my spine. That phrase, yelled by my mom, was the death of a good time. The killer of buzzes, the hater of fun. When my mom yelled that, the five of us kids knew: It was time to clean. Corralling the five kids in the front hallway meant a little tour of our house, cleaning room by room. We’d go from hallway, to the off-limits fancy living room where Perek spilled pen ink all over one of the couches, to the dining room, to the family room where our dog Pele had chewed through an entire chair, and ending in the horrifying nightmare that was the kitchen. If my mom was feeling particularly masochistic, we’d top off the tour with the front hall closet. That’s where we’d throw everything we had just cleaned up in the Family Room.
Five kids are messy. We’d leave our crap everywhere. You could follow the progress of someone’s day by following the trail of toys and socks all around the house. My poor mom, though. Our dining room table, with a gorgeous dark-wood dining room table, was constantly covered with stacks and stacks of kids clothes, sorted by kid. Every other day. One by one, we’d gather our stacks of clothes and go throw them on the floors of our rooms as my mom yelled “And don’t throw those clean clothes on your floor!” Miserable, rotten kids…
When we’d get to the kitchen, Perek would always get what we called “work bladder”. We’d be standing before the stacks of dishes and failed science projects, about to tackle the towers of dishes abandoned by us mid-meal, and Perek would declare, “I have to go to the bathroom”. Forty-five minutes later, as the Soft Scrub was finally being washed from the sinks, Perek would emerge from his room and say, “Oh, it’s already done?” Lazy, good-for-nothing kids…
But by FAR the worst cleaning was before a big family gathering. My mom wouldn’t stand for the hidden socks in the silverware drawer, or the tricky way we’d hide garbage under the couch cushions anymore. No. We actually had to CLEAN. I have this distinct memory of dusting the TV with a t-shirt I found under the kitchen table. That counts, right?
Which is why I found myself scrubbing the bejesus out of the bathroom tonight. It wasn’t even dirty. But that whole “Pre-Holiday” clean panic has set in. Geo’s family is coming to our house for Thanksgiving, and while I highly doubt they will be eating anywhere around my make-up case, I still find it totally necessary to wipe every bottle and organize every hair binder.
Now I’m intoxicated by the nostalgic scent of Soft Scrub, and a little buzzed from the wine I drank. And maybe it’s the combination of those two things, but I have the sudden urge to tuck some garbage under the couch cushion. Just don’t tell my mom…
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Sioux Falls: The Hollywood of South Dakota
Finally! The first snowfall in Minnesota, and I MISSED IT! I missed the whole thing because I was lounging around in South Dakota at Geo’s family cabin. Perek, Geo, Mitch, Chad, Chad’s girlfriend Angie, and I trekked into the untamed wilderness for fun times and drinking. It was definitely a great break from the stress and monotony of the Cities. We played Trivial Pursuit and Sega and ate nothing but junk food. I got a healthy dose of ribbing from the guys, and Angie and I helped them execute a wine tasting challenge for their pod cast, Good Guys to Know. I haven’t laughed that hard in too long. My stomach still hurts.
So, Saturday morning, Geo gets a call from his dad. We were all sitting around this cheesy little malt shop diner place for breakfast, and Geo informed us that his dad has a guy who works for him that has a limo. And said man would be willing to drive us around that night if we felt like going into Sioux Falls for a night on the town. After some half-hearted debating, we decided that this was too good of a chance to pass up. At 8:30, our driver Darryl rolled up to the cabin in the “limo”. We walked out with a cooler of adult beverages and saw this black, like long station wagon. I was getting stoked to stick my head through a sunroof in the sub-zero chill, but there was no sun roof. It had six doors and three rows of seats. The back two rows all faced forward, so it wasn’t quite the Limo I am accustomed to (if you call riding in a limo for high school prom and for my sister’s wedding being “accustomed” to limos).
While we were making our way the 45 minutes to Sioux Falls in the limo, we decided to take advantage of the whole limo thing. I had sunglasses in my purse, and a hooded sweatshirt on. So, we decided that I was going to be famous, and the guys and Angie would be my entourage. The limo pulled up to a bar, and we all got out. I had my hood up and sunglasses on, Angie shielded me from the people standing outside the bar. I held my face down and let Angie pull me in to the bar.
People fell for it. It was perfect. When I was walking back from the bathroom, some guy shoved his camera phone in my face and snapped a picture. The girl behind him squealed “Ohmygod, she’s still trying to hide!” I don’t know who they THOUGHT I was, but it was awesome. We pulled the stunt a couple more times as we progressed to more bars. At one bar, I went to close out a tab, and the bartender asked me to sign my “receipt”. After I did it, he was like “Oh, wait. Here’s the actual receipt” and then pocketed the fake receipt. My autograph! Hahaha.
So throughout the night, I kind of got a little TOO into my concocted alter ego. I was suddenly very aware of my facial expressions, in case someone snapped a picture that would show up somewhere with the headline, “Stars: They’re Just Like Us! They pick their nose and have mascara smeared on their cheek!” I felt like everyone was looking at me, I didn’t want to go the bathrooms alone, and I just sort of felt weird. Poor Britney Spears. I now understand her pain and aversion to normal social venues. Finally, we gave up the gag, and I put my sunglasses back in my purse and shook my booty on the dance floor without a care in the world.
It was definitely fun being a “famous” person for a couple minutes. On the car ride home, I reflected on how gullible people are. Geo made a good point, though. He said “I think people just like the idea that someone famous would come into their world and share the same experiences for even one night.” It was a pretty smart statement. The limo, the entourage, the feeling of being thisclose to someone who may or may not enjoy the perks of Hollywood life seemed to intoxicate people. I just hope that a few people had at least one good story to go home and tell. I should have advertised my blog…you know, bump up the traffic.
Alas, all that fame and fast food has wore me down. I’m definitely going to sleep hard tonight. Tomorrow, it’s back to reality and a job that doesn’t include lunching at Ivy or photo shoots with Annie Leibovitz. Oh well, I think famous people crave the kind of anonymity with which I can lead my life. I better enjoy it while it lasts!
So, Saturday morning, Geo gets a call from his dad. We were all sitting around this cheesy little malt shop diner place for breakfast, and Geo informed us that his dad has a guy who works for him that has a limo. And said man would be willing to drive us around that night if we felt like going into Sioux Falls for a night on the town. After some half-hearted debating, we decided that this was too good of a chance to pass up. At 8:30, our driver Darryl rolled up to the cabin in the “limo”. We walked out with a cooler of adult beverages and saw this black, like long station wagon. I was getting stoked to stick my head through a sunroof in the sub-zero chill, but there was no sun roof. It had six doors and three rows of seats. The back two rows all faced forward, so it wasn’t quite the Limo I am accustomed to (if you call riding in a limo for high school prom and for my sister’s wedding being “accustomed” to limos).
While we were making our way the 45 minutes to Sioux Falls in the limo, we decided to take advantage of the whole limo thing. I had sunglasses in my purse, and a hooded sweatshirt on. So, we decided that I was going to be famous, and the guys and Angie would be my entourage. The limo pulled up to a bar, and we all got out. I had my hood up and sunglasses on, Angie shielded me from the people standing outside the bar. I held my face down and let Angie pull me in to the bar.
People fell for it. It was perfect. When I was walking back from the bathroom, some guy shoved his camera phone in my face and snapped a picture. The girl behind him squealed “Ohmygod, she’s still trying to hide!” I don’t know who they THOUGHT I was, but it was awesome. We pulled the stunt a couple more times as we progressed to more bars. At one bar, I went to close out a tab, and the bartender asked me to sign my “receipt”. After I did it, he was like “Oh, wait. Here’s the actual receipt” and then pocketed the fake receipt. My autograph! Hahaha.
So throughout the night, I kind of got a little TOO into my concocted alter ego. I was suddenly very aware of my facial expressions, in case someone snapped a picture that would show up somewhere with the headline, “Stars: They’re Just Like Us! They pick their nose and have mascara smeared on their cheek!” I felt like everyone was looking at me, I didn’t want to go the bathrooms alone, and I just sort of felt weird. Poor Britney Spears. I now understand her pain and aversion to normal social venues. Finally, we gave up the gag, and I put my sunglasses back in my purse and shook my booty on the dance floor without a care in the world.
It was definitely fun being a “famous” person for a couple minutes. On the car ride home, I reflected on how gullible people are. Geo made a good point, though. He said “I think people just like the idea that someone famous would come into their world and share the same experiences for even one night.” It was a pretty smart statement. The limo, the entourage, the feeling of being thisclose to someone who may or may not enjoy the perks of Hollywood life seemed to intoxicate people. I just hope that a few people had at least one good story to go home and tell. I should have advertised my blog…you know, bump up the traffic.
Alas, all that fame and fast food has wore me down. I’m definitely going to sleep hard tonight. Tomorrow, it’s back to reality and a job that doesn’t include lunching at Ivy or photo shoots with Annie Leibovitz. Oh well, I think famous people crave the kind of anonymity with which I can lead my life. I better enjoy it while it lasts!
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Kids Say the Darndest Things…While Holding a Knife
Don’t you guys miss the good ol’ days, when we were kids? Things were so much simpler then. “Problem solving” consisted of using your words, taking a time out, or wielding a butcher knife and chasing your brother around the house. Yeah. Good times, people. Wait, what’s that? You DIDN’T chase family members around the house with a knife? Huh. I can’t believe I’m the only one…in that case, I should probably elaborate.
I’ve been seeing a lot of my siblings lately (all four of them). And last night, I got into a disagreement with my brother. There was some name-calling via text messages, and just some general animosity that yanked me back to my bowl-cut-having, windsuit-wearing days when I was a witness to, and cause of, many many fights that left bruises on your arm, not ego. I’m going to say this, by the way: If you have siblings and NEVER fought with them, I don’t know how to talk to you. Or believe that you’re even a real person. And before I go dredging up old, YET HILARIOUS, childhood memories, I’d like it on record that I actually love my brothers and sisters. And not even because I have to. I genuinely love them. They are all bright, productive members of society now.
Okay, so I chased my brother Peter with a knife when I was like 9 years old. He was getting in my face while I was, I don’t know, cooking? Butchering some meat? Whatever. I was 9 and using a knife. He did something to set me off, I got enraged and chased him, holding the knife like I would hold my Barbie’s hair brush on a very bad hair day. He escaped. My mom found out what I’d done and, well, I did NOT escape. Whatever the problem was with Peter and me at the time, my mom solved it immediately.
Then there was the incident with the aluminum bat. I don’t remember this accurately, so I’ll just say: Someone hit someone else with a bat for some reason.
Remember when I told you how hot our house used to get? Well, needless to say, fans were a hot commodity (no pun intended). We each had one, but some of us (read: ME) wanted a lion’s share of wind blowing on our face. So, I stole Perek’s fan one day when I was about 15. He came in my room, unplugged it while I was laying on my bed basking in the windy goodness, and brought it back to his room. He jerry rigged a system of locking the fan to itself in his room, but I was determined to crack the code. I shoved Perek around, ransacked his room, hungry for high-speed air circulation. During that rampage, Peter came to Perek’s rescue. He stood across the room as I was JUST about to free the fan, and threw a combination lock at me. It hurt. Perhaps he had a few years of pent up anger regarding that whole knife-chase thingy. Whatever. Perek kept his fan.
There was also some psychological warfare going on. Because I was young, I don’t remember Padrin and Prinna fighting a lot. Sure they argued, but I don’t remember Padrin chasing Prinna around with any sort of weapon ever. I do remember, because the evidence existed for a long time after it happened, one day when Padrin put on her thinking cap. In their shared closet, Padrin had written, in permanent marker, “I HATE PADRIN” and then blamed it on Prinna. I wonder if it’s still written in that closet…
See? The commonality between all these situations is none of us like sat down and chatted about our feelings and had a great big family hug over a bowl of marshmallows or whatever, while a soft tune played in the background, teaching us all an important lesson. We were kids. Real, live kids. In the 80’s. That’s just how problems were solved. I’d never condone physical fighting these days. I just wouldn’t. But there’s something so wonderfully innocent about it when it comes to me and my own brothers and sisters. And I’m pretty nostalgic about it now, as it relates to the current situation in which I find myself and my brother. I’m sure he’d like to pin me to the ground and dangle spit in my face while doing a typewriter on my collar bone (for old time’s sake), but that just doesn’t work as adults. Or does it??
Have a great weekend everyone!!
I’ve been seeing a lot of my siblings lately (all four of them). And last night, I got into a disagreement with my brother. There was some name-calling via text messages, and just some general animosity that yanked me back to my bowl-cut-having, windsuit-wearing days when I was a witness to, and cause of, many many fights that left bruises on your arm, not ego. I’m going to say this, by the way: If you have siblings and NEVER fought with them, I don’t know how to talk to you. Or believe that you’re even a real person. And before I go dredging up old, YET HILARIOUS, childhood memories, I’d like it on record that I actually love my brothers and sisters. And not even because I have to. I genuinely love them. They are all bright, productive members of society now.
Okay, so I chased my brother Peter with a knife when I was like 9 years old. He was getting in my face while I was, I don’t know, cooking? Butchering some meat? Whatever. I was 9 and using a knife. He did something to set me off, I got enraged and chased him, holding the knife like I would hold my Barbie’s hair brush on a very bad hair day. He escaped. My mom found out what I’d done and, well, I did NOT escape. Whatever the problem was with Peter and me at the time, my mom solved it immediately.
Then there was the incident with the aluminum bat. I don’t remember this accurately, so I’ll just say: Someone hit someone else with a bat for some reason.
Remember when I told you how hot our house used to get? Well, needless to say, fans were a hot commodity (no pun intended). We each had one, but some of us (read: ME) wanted a lion’s share of wind blowing on our face. So, I stole Perek’s fan one day when I was about 15. He came in my room, unplugged it while I was laying on my bed basking in the windy goodness, and brought it back to his room. He jerry rigged a system of locking the fan to itself in his room, but I was determined to crack the code. I shoved Perek around, ransacked his room, hungry for high-speed air circulation. During that rampage, Peter came to Perek’s rescue. He stood across the room as I was JUST about to free the fan, and threw a combination lock at me. It hurt. Perhaps he had a few years of pent up anger regarding that whole knife-chase thingy. Whatever. Perek kept his fan.
There was also some psychological warfare going on. Because I was young, I don’t remember Padrin and Prinna fighting a lot. Sure they argued, but I don’t remember Padrin chasing Prinna around with any sort of weapon ever. I do remember, because the evidence existed for a long time after it happened, one day when Padrin put on her thinking cap. In their shared closet, Padrin had written, in permanent marker, “I HATE PADRIN” and then blamed it on Prinna. I wonder if it’s still written in that closet…
See? The commonality between all these situations is none of us like sat down and chatted about our feelings and had a great big family hug over a bowl of marshmallows or whatever, while a soft tune played in the background, teaching us all an important lesson. We were kids. Real, live kids. In the 80’s. That’s just how problems were solved. I’d never condone physical fighting these days. I just wouldn’t. But there’s something so wonderfully innocent about it when it comes to me and my own brothers and sisters. And I’m pretty nostalgic about it now, as it relates to the current situation in which I find myself and my brother. I’m sure he’d like to pin me to the ground and dangle spit in my face while doing a typewriter on my collar bone (for old time’s sake), but that just doesn’t work as adults. Or does it??
Have a great weekend everyone!!
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Crazy People Have the Worst Manners
City living is great. I love 99% of it. What I DON'T love is the crazies that seem to gravitate towards me when I'm minding my own business, walking around downtown. I intend to prove here that I am, for reasons unknown to me, frequently the target of loud, ranting, cracked out rages. And I do NOT handle it well. I typically live by the motto “Live and let live”. But these unpredictable, obviously either over- or under-medicated people find ME, and hone in on me. I never know what to do or say, or how to act. What would YOU do in these situations??
Case #1: I was downtown waiting for my bus to go home from work, listening to my iPod. Three very homeless, very drunk, very loud people came and stood about 3 feet away from me. The 2 men were openly discussing the prostitution habits of the 1 woman (whose name I caught to be Mary). Then they all decided to go find some drugs, and the woman suggested using her “talents” to score. After deciding her skills were sorely lacking, the men wondered aloud, “Couldn’t we just steal a purse?” I clutched my Kate Spade tighter than I ever have in my entire life. My blood pressure nearly killed me when Mary came over to me, got right in my face, and spewed “Hey! HEY!” I took an earbud out of my ear. “Yes?” “What time does that [expletive deleted] #10 bus get here?” Me: “I don't know, sorry.” She snarled her toothless grin at me and spit out: “Bitch”.
Rude! But here comes the Crazy. The woman then went back with the men. Man #1 says, “Mary. Mary. You got some poo poo on your jacket.” Mary’s all “It ain’t poo! It’s…chocolate!” Man #2: You ain’t got no chocolate! It’s poo!” Mary’s all “IT AIN’T POO!” So, Man #1 takes a step towards Mary and says “Let me taste it.” HE PROCEEDS TO LICK THE MYSTERIOUS BROWN SMUDGE ON MARY’S JACKET. After a second, Man #1 smacks his lips and says, “Well, it’s definitely poo, but it ain’t yours.”
Oh. My. Gah.
Case #2: About a week ago, I again was waiting for my bus. A quiet, average-looking, albeit very smelly, couple was sitting on the curb next to me, passing what I assumed to be a crack pipe (Thanks, Intervention!) back and forth. I got a little nervous, and started to ease my way to another bus stop when the woman started screaming at me. “DON’T WALK AWAY FROM ME! I WANT MY [expletive deleted] MONEY AND MY KID BACK! DON’T MAKE ME CUT YOU!” And then she yelled like this for about 45 seconds. I froze. I had no idea what to do. I casually slowed down and peeked back over my shoulder at her. Turns out, she was yelling at a guy on a bike about a block away who, I’m assuming, she did not know. But the blood didn’t stop rushing to my head. What if she had a gun? What if she started to think I was the one with her baby/money? At that point, I was too freaked out to walk to another bus stop for fear I’d draw attention to myself and get “cut”. I just stood there, feet made out of cement, staring straight ahead and listening to the couple threaten everyone from the biker, to the stop sign, to the cabbie that passed by. I’ve never been angrier at my bus for being 1 minute late.
Final Case: Which brings me to this morning. I got off the bus, (SERIOUSLY! I need to find a new bus stop!) and started to walk to work. I noticed a very unstable man who I’ve seen before, and he was yelling at the top of his lungs about the racist people who "took his spot on the last NASA flight". I tried to cross to the other side of the street to avoid him, but he kind of jogged up behind me. I had my iPod on, of course, and pretended not to hear him when he screamed at me, “HEY GREY JACKET! GIMME A DOLLAR! I’LL TRADE YOU FOR $0.50!” Now, I’m no financial analyst, but it sounded like a pretty bunk deal to me. So, I kept walking. I heard him stop running and he yelled, “NEXT TIME, THEY TAKIN' ME UP IN THAT FANCY SPACESHIP AND YOU’LL BE SORRY!” I don’t even know what that means, but I’m worried for Buzz Aldrin.
Does anyone else have these run-ins in their neighborhood? What are people supposed to do? I feel like a bad person for being so, I don’t know, suspicious. I have GOT to stop watching Intervention and Drug Wars because I’m starting to suspect everyone has a gun and nothin’ to lose. And maybe I need to start driving to work. To hell with public transportation! If I get stabbed by a woman with poo on her jacket, I highly doubt anyone will say “Well, thank God she didn’t leave a giant carbon footprint!”
Case #1: I was downtown waiting for my bus to go home from work, listening to my iPod. Three very homeless, very drunk, very loud people came and stood about 3 feet away from me. The 2 men were openly discussing the prostitution habits of the 1 woman (whose name I caught to be Mary). Then they all decided to go find some drugs, and the woman suggested using her “talents” to score. After deciding her skills were sorely lacking, the men wondered aloud, “Couldn’t we just steal a purse?” I clutched my Kate Spade tighter than I ever have in my entire life. My blood pressure nearly killed me when Mary came over to me, got right in my face, and spewed “Hey! HEY!” I took an earbud out of my ear. “Yes?” “What time does that [expletive deleted] #10 bus get here?” Me: “I don't know, sorry.” She snarled her toothless grin at me and spit out: “Bitch”.
Rude! But here comes the Crazy. The woman then went back with the men. Man #1 says, “Mary. Mary. You got some poo poo on your jacket.” Mary’s all “It ain’t poo! It’s…chocolate!” Man #2: You ain’t got no chocolate! It’s poo!” Mary’s all “IT AIN’T POO!” So, Man #1 takes a step towards Mary and says “Let me taste it.” HE PROCEEDS TO LICK THE MYSTERIOUS BROWN SMUDGE ON MARY’S JACKET. After a second, Man #1 smacks his lips and says, “Well, it’s definitely poo, but it ain’t yours.”
Oh. My. Gah.
Case #2: About a week ago, I again was waiting for my bus. A quiet, average-looking, albeit very smelly, couple was sitting on the curb next to me, passing what I assumed to be a crack pipe (Thanks, Intervention!) back and forth. I got a little nervous, and started to ease my way to another bus stop when the woman started screaming at me. “DON’T WALK AWAY FROM ME! I WANT MY [expletive deleted] MONEY AND MY KID BACK! DON’T MAKE ME CUT YOU!” And then she yelled like this for about 45 seconds. I froze. I had no idea what to do. I casually slowed down and peeked back over my shoulder at her. Turns out, she was yelling at a guy on a bike about a block away who, I’m assuming, she did not know. But the blood didn’t stop rushing to my head. What if she had a gun? What if she started to think I was the one with her baby/money? At that point, I was too freaked out to walk to another bus stop for fear I’d draw attention to myself and get “cut”. I just stood there, feet made out of cement, staring straight ahead and listening to the couple threaten everyone from the biker, to the stop sign, to the cabbie that passed by. I’ve never been angrier at my bus for being 1 minute late.
Final Case: Which brings me to this morning. I got off the bus, (SERIOUSLY! I need to find a new bus stop!) and started to walk to work. I noticed a very unstable man who I’ve seen before, and he was yelling at the top of his lungs about the racist people who "took his spot on the last NASA flight". I tried to cross to the other side of the street to avoid him, but he kind of jogged up behind me. I had my iPod on, of course, and pretended not to hear him when he screamed at me, “HEY GREY JACKET! GIMME A DOLLAR! I’LL TRADE YOU FOR $0.50!” Now, I’m no financial analyst, but it sounded like a pretty bunk deal to me. So, I kept walking. I heard him stop running and he yelled, “NEXT TIME, THEY TAKIN' ME UP IN THAT FANCY SPACESHIP AND YOU’LL BE SORRY!” I don’t even know what that means, but I’m worried for Buzz Aldrin.
Does anyone else have these run-ins in their neighborhood? What are people supposed to do? I feel like a bad person for being so, I don’t know, suspicious. I have GOT to stop watching Intervention and Drug Wars because I’m starting to suspect everyone has a gun and nothin’ to lose. And maybe I need to start driving to work. To hell with public transportation! If I get stabbed by a woman with poo on her jacket, I highly doubt anyone will say “Well, thank God she didn’t leave a giant carbon footprint!”
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Hot Mess
It’s extremely hot today. (How hot IS it?) It’s so hot that my car melted down to its basic elements and then the aluminum seeped into the ground and poisoned all the mice who thought it was water. It was crazy.
We don’t have air conditioning in our house. One of the pitfalls of living in an old house is the common lack of central air. I lived in an air conditionerless house from ages 1-18. On really hot nights, my brothers, sisters and I would go sleep down in the basement for a little relief. We had huge commercial-size fans that we’d point directly at our heads and drift off to sleep in a hot flash haze. It was like sleeping in pea soup sometimes.
I cannot function well when I’m hot. I get really cranky and frustrated. I get anxious and panicky and I can‘t stop moving around. When I get in a hot car, my lungs pretty much shut down, and I gasp “I can’t breathe…I can’t breathe!” until some air movement revives me. It’s like Heat Anxiety. I dread getting my hair cut, because no matter where I go, the stylist will always shoot the hot air of a hair dryer directly in my face, and I’ll hold my breath until it’s done. Sometimes they do it for a long time, and I truly fear that I will pass out.
So today, I had to leave the sweet comfort of my office building and brave the disgusting weather to get some lunch. I walked outside and it was like someone punched me in the face and then covered me in mayonnaise. It was horribly hot, humid, and there was no wind to relieve me. I alternated between struggling to breathe and just holding my breath. I was angry at everyone I walked by who didn’t look as hot as me. And the people who were running down Nicollet Mall? I wanted to trip them. Who works out in this madness?! Not me, that’s for sure.
I’ve never met anyone with this same affliction. This allergy to heat. When the air around me is hot and thick, something in my brain overheats and major body functions (like, oh, breathing) cease to cooperate.
I wonder if this is an actual disorder. I wonder if there’s a picture in the Mayo Clinic Health Bible of a girl standing outside wearing pants and a t-shirt, and it would show an x-ray of her chest and all the muscles and bones have collapsed inside of her. Next to her, there’d be a little clipart image of a sweating thermometer eating a popsicle, and bursting at the 100+ degree weather. And that girl would be me. And the disorder would be called Heatus Explosivitis.
I would host a fundraiser to provide all of the people suffering from H.E. with a personal igloo. I’d ask you to donate money. By donating just 30 cents a day, you could save a woman like me from living a life of struggle and despair.
I think I’ve entered into a heat-induced delirium. This is all starting to sound pretty good. Alright, stay cool guys!
We don’t have air conditioning in our house. One of the pitfalls of living in an old house is the common lack of central air. I lived in an air conditionerless house from ages 1-18. On really hot nights, my brothers, sisters and I would go sleep down in the basement for a little relief. We had huge commercial-size fans that we’d point directly at our heads and drift off to sleep in a hot flash haze. It was like sleeping in pea soup sometimes.
I cannot function well when I’m hot. I get really cranky and frustrated. I get anxious and panicky and I can‘t stop moving around. When I get in a hot car, my lungs pretty much shut down, and I gasp “I can’t breathe…I can’t breathe!” until some air movement revives me. It’s like Heat Anxiety. I dread getting my hair cut, because no matter where I go, the stylist will always shoot the hot air of a hair dryer directly in my face, and I’ll hold my breath until it’s done. Sometimes they do it for a long time, and I truly fear that I will pass out.
So today, I had to leave the sweet comfort of my office building and brave the disgusting weather to get some lunch. I walked outside and it was like someone punched me in the face and then covered me in mayonnaise. It was horribly hot, humid, and there was no wind to relieve me. I alternated between struggling to breathe and just holding my breath. I was angry at everyone I walked by who didn’t look as hot as me. And the people who were running down Nicollet Mall? I wanted to trip them. Who works out in this madness?! Not me, that’s for sure.
I’ve never met anyone with this same affliction. This allergy to heat. When the air around me is hot and thick, something in my brain overheats and major body functions (like, oh, breathing) cease to cooperate.
I wonder if this is an actual disorder. I wonder if there’s a picture in the Mayo Clinic Health Bible of a girl standing outside wearing pants and a t-shirt, and it would show an x-ray of her chest and all the muscles and bones have collapsed inside of her. Next to her, there’d be a little clipart image of a sweating thermometer eating a popsicle, and bursting at the 100+ degree weather. And that girl would be me. And the disorder would be called Heatus Explosivitis.
I would host a fundraiser to provide all of the people suffering from H.E. with a personal igloo. I’d ask you to donate money. By donating just 30 cents a day, you could save a woman like me from living a life of struggle and despair.
I think I’ve entered into a heat-induced delirium. This is all starting to sound pretty good. Alright, stay cool guys!
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Can I Get That Recipe?
Something was rotten in the state of Minnesota. A couple days ago, my roommate Sanna and I noticed a gnarly smell coming from the kitchen. As we were poking around the bags of bread and chips trying to locate the cause the cause of the funk, I said “Ew. The last time I smelled something this bad, Perek had a bag of potatoes that had rotted and liquefied in back of the cupboard.” Lo and behold, we discovered a bag of rotten potatoes. Liquefied.
How can this happen not once but twice, you ask? It’s not like our kitchen is dirty. We wash the counters, throw away garbage, wash the dishes. But we have very limited counter space, and only three shelves available for food storage. So food gets lost sometimes.
So the first time I found funky potatoes, we had all been smelling something gross for a few days. Upon a deeper search, I found them way in the back of Perek’s shelf, behind boxes of pasta, cans of beans, and a jar of peanut butter. The bag of what had previously been potatoes was now a thick, gooey, sludge that ran down the back of the cupboard. I tied a tshirt around my face, covered my hands in Ziploc bags, and spent 20 minutes scrubbing the “potatoes” off the shelf. Gagging the whole time. This was back when I lived with the three boys, and they all sat in the living room playing Halo while I cleaned. Turns out, they decided they could stand the smell. Since I couldn't, I was the one who had to tie on the t-shirt.
But now it’s officially happened twice. The fact that the same problems happen whether I live with 3 boys or 1, leads me to believe the problem is not just Testosterone’s clever habit of neglecting cleaning. Clearly, the problem is that food just expires too quickly and in entirely too disgusting of a way. We need to do something about this, people!
How can this happen not once but twice, you ask? It’s not like our kitchen is dirty. We wash the counters, throw away garbage, wash the dishes. But we have very limited counter space, and only three shelves available for food storage. So food gets lost sometimes.
So the first time I found funky potatoes, we had all been smelling something gross for a few days. Upon a deeper search, I found them way in the back of Perek’s shelf, behind boxes of pasta, cans of beans, and a jar of peanut butter. The bag of what had previously been potatoes was now a thick, gooey, sludge that ran down the back of the cupboard. I tied a tshirt around my face, covered my hands in Ziploc bags, and spent 20 minutes scrubbing the “potatoes” off the shelf. Gagging the whole time. This was back when I lived with the three boys, and they all sat in the living room playing Halo while I cleaned. Turns out, they decided they could stand the smell. Since I couldn't, I was the one who had to tie on the t-shirt.
But now it’s officially happened twice. The fact that the same problems happen whether I live with 3 boys or 1, leads me to believe the problem is not just Testosterone’s clever habit of neglecting cleaning. Clearly, the problem is that food just expires too quickly and in entirely too disgusting of a way. We need to do something about this, people!
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
No Autographs, Please
I was “discovered” in second grade. During the annual 2nd Grade Fables, a woman from a local basic cable station saw me in my groundbreaking performance as The Sun in the The Tortoise and the Hare (thinking back, I have no idea what part the Sun played, but apparently, it was a great part). So, this woman found out my name and contacted my parents about having me appear in a bumper for a show called KidsWorld on The Family Channel. National TV? Sign me up! I had, what she called, charisma.
So, there I was, a scrawny girl with a bowl cut, who didn’t know when to shut up. The world was my stage. I thought for sure this role was the beginning of a long, brilliant career in film. I was too naïve to be nervous. I was too young to understand embarrassment. More than that, though, I was too confident to think I could fail.
I showed up to the TV station and sat in the control room, and got to play around with the buttons and levers. I had a cue card. I read my lines like a seasoned professional. Everything was comin’ up roses. It was wonderful. I was in Rhode Island when the show aired that summer, and my mom and I watched my debut together at the neighbors house. I was elated.
Cut to 5th grade. Now, I was a scrawny girl with longer hair and glasses, who had no idea what to say in front of adults. I was nervous all the time. I started biting my nails. I wanted, no, I yearned for, the acceptance of others. I was terrified to fail. I hated what a developing self-esteem and self-awareness did to me. In 5th grade, we performed poems about insects on that same basic cable channel. I sat with my partner, staring into the endless tube of that same video camera lens. Our poem was about cicadas. We were both dressed in all green. My partner and I were supposed to alternate every couple of lines. She spoke a couple, then me, then her, then me. Well, technically, she spoke a couple, and then I froze. For probably 20 minutes. I remember the rush of self-awareness, the sharp sting of everyone’s eyes on me, and an acute awareness of every nerve in my body.
My dreams of being a famous actress were dashed with one lost line. One forgotten phrase, and I decided, right then and there, to never put myself back in that position again. And since then, I haven’t.
There are times in my life when I think about that elation I felt while watching myself on TV. I think about how easy it was for me to succeed just because I didn’t consider the possibility that I could fail. It was so…simple. I envy the girl I was on that day. Maybe it was the bowl cut, but I was empowered. Then again, maybe I’m just, like, a non-messed up former child actor who has successfully drifted into the anonymity of real life. Yeah, let’s go with that.
So, there I was, a scrawny girl with a bowl cut, who didn’t know when to shut up. The world was my stage. I thought for sure this role was the beginning of a long, brilliant career in film. I was too naïve to be nervous. I was too young to understand embarrassment. More than that, though, I was too confident to think I could fail.
I showed up to the TV station and sat in the control room, and got to play around with the buttons and levers. I had a cue card. I read my lines like a seasoned professional. Everything was comin’ up roses. It was wonderful. I was in Rhode Island when the show aired that summer, and my mom and I watched my debut together at the neighbors house. I was elated.
Cut to 5th grade. Now, I was a scrawny girl with longer hair and glasses, who had no idea what to say in front of adults. I was nervous all the time. I started biting my nails. I wanted, no, I yearned for, the acceptance of others. I was terrified to fail. I hated what a developing self-esteem and self-awareness did to me. In 5th grade, we performed poems about insects on that same basic cable channel. I sat with my partner, staring into the endless tube of that same video camera lens. Our poem was about cicadas. We were both dressed in all green. My partner and I were supposed to alternate every couple of lines. She spoke a couple, then me, then her, then me. Well, technically, she spoke a couple, and then I froze. For probably 20 minutes. I remember the rush of self-awareness, the sharp sting of everyone’s eyes on me, and an acute awareness of every nerve in my body.
My dreams of being a famous actress were dashed with one lost line. One forgotten phrase, and I decided, right then and there, to never put myself back in that position again. And since then, I haven’t.
There are times in my life when I think about that elation I felt while watching myself on TV. I think about how easy it was for me to succeed just because I didn’t consider the possibility that I could fail. It was so…simple. I envy the girl I was on that day. Maybe it was the bowl cut, but I was empowered. Then again, maybe I’m just, like, a non-messed up former child actor who has successfully drifted into the anonymity of real life. Yeah, let’s go with that.
Friday, June 25, 2010
The Man Plan
I’m live blogging directly from the Party Planning Headquarters - our house. We are hosting a Minute to Win It party tomorrow night at our house. (Based on the TV show of the same name. It’s basically a bunch of minute-long games where you try and do pretty straightforward challenges. Complete them in a minute or less, and you move on). It’s 11:00 p.m., and the boys who are planning the party (my roommate/boyfriend, my brother, and their friend Chad) just got home and are ready to begin preparations. It’s become wildly clear that men and women plan parties verrrrry differently.
The meeting is kicked off when the guys get home from Target, and dump a shopping bag full of ping pong balls on me. “Yeaaaa!“ they exclaim. Meeting shall come to order.
They each open a beer and get to work. “Planning” consists of playing all the games that we’ll play tomorrow - just to make sure they are doable. They talk about how much beer we‘ll need. They decide on the best Buzzer noise to use when a minute is up. So far, no talk of decorations, hors d’oeuvres, or ice-breakers. None of the bowls, plates, and boxes they are using match at all.
As they move from event to event, they decide to drink a beer before each one. Performance is suffering. Tables are leveled, trash is talked, logistics are calculated. Still, not one mention of crepe paper or cute things to do for a welcome sign. What will people think when they get here, and there are NO decorations?! No appetizer table?! The humiliation…
I’m fighting the urges to comment on the zillion things I would do differently. The suggestions are spilling around in my head. “Why don’t you…”, “maybe you should…” and then they all start laughing hysterically. A banana hangs from a string around Chad’s waist, and the buzzer goes off. In between man-giggles, one of them gasps, “this is going to be the best party ever!” and they all emphatically agree. And somehow, even though there is no themed music mix made, and no creative ways of displaying the ice and straws, I’m pretty sure they’re right. (OMG, seriously, WHAT is that smell?!)
The meeting is kicked off when the guys get home from Target, and dump a shopping bag full of ping pong balls on me. “Yeaaaa!“ they exclaim. Meeting shall come to order.
They each open a beer and get to work. “Planning” consists of playing all the games that we’ll play tomorrow - just to make sure they are doable. They talk about how much beer we‘ll need. They decide on the best Buzzer noise to use when a minute is up. So far, no talk of decorations, hors d’oeuvres, or ice-breakers. None of the bowls, plates, and boxes they are using match at all.
As they move from event to event, they decide to drink a beer before each one. Performance is suffering. Tables are leveled, trash is talked, logistics are calculated. Still, not one mention of crepe paper or cute things to do for a welcome sign. What will people think when they get here, and there are NO decorations?! No appetizer table?! The humiliation…
I’m fighting the urges to comment on the zillion things I would do differently. The suggestions are spilling around in my head. “Why don’t you…”, “maybe you should…” and then they all start laughing hysterically. A banana hangs from a string around Chad’s waist, and the buzzer goes off. In between man-giggles, one of them gasps, “this is going to be the best party ever!” and they all emphatically agree. And somehow, even though there is no themed music mix made, and no creative ways of displaying the ice and straws, I’m pretty sure they’re right. (OMG, seriously, WHAT is that smell?!)
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
An Urban Fairy Tale
So, the time has come to once again start looking for a new roommate. And today, I thought about when I moved in to this house with my brother, his friend, and another boy.
It all started with a happy girl, her brother, his friend, and a dream. A dream that would take her from the humdrum confines of quiet suburbia into the hustle and bustle of the big city. The beautiful girl, her brother, and his friend were living in a place too small for all their hopes of hosting kick-ass theme parties. So, that wonderful girl spent hours searching Craigslist and visiting places that, as Goldilocks once discovered, were just never quite right. Until she tiptoed into the fancy neighborhood they had all but dared to dream of. She peeked inside the windows and saw the original hardwood floors, the beautiful dark crown molding, and the 2 entire levels from which they could each spread their wings. And though hesitant at first, the two boys finally realized what that spectacular little girl already knew. They had found their home.
On moving day, a curious creature appeared. Next to her brother and his friend stood another boy. A boy that the gorgeous little girl immediately did not like. Turns out, the Wonderland Castle was too expensive for three people. “There shall be a third boy living with us, and the four of us shall be happy” declared the boys. The furniture went in, the ping pong table was set up, a keg was procured, and yet the bright girl was sad. She was outnumbered. The boys did not care about her new shoes, or her hair cut. They liked their new roommate the best. They started watching sports with him, instead of the dating shows she so loved. They could no longer stand the sound of the remarkable girl filing her perfect nails, and she was shunned up to the highest tower of the castle (okay, yeah it was technically her room, but still).
The weeks went by. The three boys tested her seemingly endless patience time and again. If she was reading quietly, they came home and talked loudly about stocks and other trivialities. If she spent the whole day washing the dishes, she would soon learn there were more hidden under the couches.
But then something happened. Something terrible. One morning, the eternally-youthful girl saw a hideous beast tear across the kitchen floor. Oh no! The mice had come to stake their claim. She screamed for help. As the girl stood on the couch, fearing for her life, the boys took control. They hit one mouse on the head with a wine bottle, they squished one under a giant Tupperware container. They set the traps, then they took out the garbage when it contained a slain mouse, and the girl was no longer afraid. And something changed. She began to enjoy their company. They grilled her food and she made them brownies. She laughed at their disparaging remarks, they laughed at her inability to do math, and alas, they were happy.
As the weeks turned into months, then into years, something changed again. The extraordinary young girl and the strange boy who lived down the hall went to lunch. One night, they watched a movie. They chatted about hardships over cold beers. They commiserated in their shared hatred of bananas. He went shopping with her, and she watched his Frisbee games. One day, the strange boy asked the clever and intelligent girl on a date. And then another. And another. And the best part about the whole story? Nothing else changed in the enchanted castle.
Until the brother and his friend had to move out. But the moral of this story is change is only bad until someone saves your life from hideous, probably rabid, mice.
It all started with a happy girl, her brother, his friend, and a dream. A dream that would take her from the humdrum confines of quiet suburbia into the hustle and bustle of the big city. The beautiful girl, her brother, and his friend were living in a place too small for all their hopes of hosting kick-ass theme parties. So, that wonderful girl spent hours searching Craigslist and visiting places that, as Goldilocks once discovered, were just never quite right. Until she tiptoed into the fancy neighborhood they had all but dared to dream of. She peeked inside the windows and saw the original hardwood floors, the beautiful dark crown molding, and the 2 entire levels from which they could each spread their wings. And though hesitant at first, the two boys finally realized what that spectacular little girl already knew. They had found their home.
On moving day, a curious creature appeared. Next to her brother and his friend stood another boy. A boy that the gorgeous little girl immediately did not like. Turns out, the Wonderland Castle was too expensive for three people. “There shall be a third boy living with us, and the four of us shall be happy” declared the boys. The furniture went in, the ping pong table was set up, a keg was procured, and yet the bright girl was sad. She was outnumbered. The boys did not care about her new shoes, or her hair cut. They liked their new roommate the best. They started watching sports with him, instead of the dating shows she so loved. They could no longer stand the sound of the remarkable girl filing her perfect nails, and she was shunned up to the highest tower of the castle (okay, yeah it was technically her room, but still).
The weeks went by. The three boys tested her seemingly endless patience time and again. If she was reading quietly, they came home and talked loudly about stocks and other trivialities. If she spent the whole day washing the dishes, she would soon learn there were more hidden under the couches.
But then something happened. Something terrible. One morning, the eternally-youthful girl saw a hideous beast tear across the kitchen floor. Oh no! The mice had come to stake their claim. She screamed for help. As the girl stood on the couch, fearing for her life, the boys took control. They hit one mouse on the head with a wine bottle, they squished one under a giant Tupperware container. They set the traps, then they took out the garbage when it contained a slain mouse, and the girl was no longer afraid. And something changed. She began to enjoy their company. They grilled her food and she made them brownies. She laughed at their disparaging remarks, they laughed at her inability to do math, and alas, they were happy.
As the weeks turned into months, then into years, something changed again. The extraordinary young girl and the strange boy who lived down the hall went to lunch. One night, they watched a movie. They chatted about hardships over cold beers. They commiserated in their shared hatred of bananas. He went shopping with her, and she watched his Frisbee games. One day, the strange boy asked the clever and intelligent girl on a date. And then another. And another. And the best part about the whole story? Nothing else changed in the enchanted castle.
Until the brother and his friend had to move out. But the moral of this story is change is only bad until someone saves your life from hideous, probably rabid, mice.
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