Wrap Artist

Uff da. Bring on the snow. I’ve got my butt planted on the couch, watching the Vikings game. Those weirdos are playing OUTSIDE in the U of M football field. What kind of freakshow goes to watch a football game in subzero, snowy weather? Geo, Perek, and two of their friends, that’s who. They have been outside since about 3:30 this afternoon, waiting to get INSIDE the OUTDOOR stadium. Seriously, freak shows.

Well, I’m officially done with work until 2011. I went to work for a grueling 4 hour workday, and now I’ve got the next two weeks off. Me likey PTO. I got home, watched a movie, did some Christmas shopping, and came home to do one of my favorite things ever. I wrapped like 15 gifts. I. Love. Gift wrapping. Love it. If I were a zillionaire and could open my own business, I’d open a gift wrapping place. And not like one of those generic backrooms at Crate and Barrel, where they slap a pre-cut ribbon on top of a solid white box and call it a day. No, no. I’ve got a serious vision.

You know that scene in Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory where Willy opens that teeny door and they go into a candy wonderland? Replace the chocolate river with tissue paper, the trees with rolls upon rolls of different wrapping paper, and those little candy teacup flowers with bows and you’re halfway to what I want. There is nothing, and I mean nothing, more enjoyable for me to do than go and buy gift wrap. All the options, colors, and textures are like an aphrodisiac. And the ribbons! Oh man, I love ribbon like I love bagels. The best is the curling ribbon that comes with like 5 colors on a roll. Intoxicating.

I like to coordinate wrapping papers. They’re like outfits. I’ll wrap one present in red, black, and white paisley print paper, and another in a yellow pinstripe paper, then tie them together with white and yellow ribbons. Oh, this also means I frequently buy people two gifts. The paper looks so much better that way. Unfortunately, this year I only got one kind of wrapping paper. I thought it went together with a different paper I already had, but it didn’t, so I was stuck with the plain old multi-colored snowflake paper.

After the paper is chosen, I need to find boxes. One of my biggest annoyances with wrapping presents is when they are oddly-shaped. What the H happened to companies giving out gift boxes with things? Rude. Now, I either have to salvage an old clothes box or roll up the shirt in the paper and tie the ends, like a piece of candy. It feels like such a cop out. But when I have BOXES, yee haw! When I was younger, Prinna used to let me French braid her hair because I did it “tight” - meaning no bumps. No saggy pieces. Perfect. Well, that’s how I like to wrap. Nice and snug. If boxes were girls, they’d all be wearing corsettes.

So, then the ribbon goes on. Lots and lots and lots and lots of ribbon. It quite literally ties it all together. And honestly, I don’t understand why people use NON curling ribbon. There is nothing more satisfying than a perfectly curled ribbon. Not too tight, not too loose. Just like hair curls. My ribbons are Jennifer Aniston’s hair.

This is why I want a gift wrapping shoppe (yup, I‘m going to be a jerk about it and add the extra “PE“ at the end). Now, don’t get me wrong, people, it’ll be pricey. Gold-flecked wrapping paper and Swarovski crystals don’t come cheap. It’s luxurious to have a well-wrapped gift. If you’re going to take the time to buy a gift, you should take the time to have it wrapped well. It’s like making pasta and leaving off the grated cheese. Why bother? In my shoppe, I’m going to do all the wrapping myself. Everything will be in an actual BOX, and it’ll look elegant and fun. I’ll add diamond ring charms to wedding gifts, glow-in-the-dark bracelets to kids gifts (or possible rave gifts, if such a thing exists), and incense sticks to a hippie gift.

Well, for now I’ll just have to keep working on a gift wrap ROOM in my house. I’ll be just like Candy Spelling. Or, I just need someone to wrap up the zillion dollars I’d need fulfill my life‘s dream. If you need help with the ribbon, I’m happy to help…

An Immaculate Concept

I did it, you guys. I finally did it. People doubted me. They thought, “Pharon never follows through on her dreams and goals.” And I know, I know. I’ve done this kind of thing before. You know, promise myself and my friends and family that I will ACHIEVE something! And then sit down with a glass of wine and debate whether or not to paint my nails instead of getting off my tuckus and taking a step towards success and maturation. But not today, people. NOT TODAY! I have tiptoed into the unknown, and beat the crap out of adversity. Today, I am a winner. Today, I am an adult.

Today I cleaned my room.

It was ugly, friends. It was scary and I didn’t know what I’d find under Shoe Mountain, or behind Old Magazine Canyon. But I did it. I put all my clothes back into the closets that threw them up in the first place. I dug through old clothes and old makeup and amassed a giant bag of “easier to throw away than clean up”. I found the gross little fake scars I wore to the Zombie Pub Crawl inside my running shoe (maybe I should start actually USING those shoes). I matched up shoes that were under the desk, on the desk, under the bed, and in my t-shirt drawer. Finally, I looked around at my room. I put my hands on my hips, and took in the splendor that was a spotless room. The bed was made. The dirty laundry was sorted out from the clean laundry - and then WASHED! I couldn’t believe what I had accomplished. I can’t wait to mess it up again…just to relive this cleansing high.

The truth is this. I hate cleaning my room, and there is no way that I am capable of KEEPING a room clean. I have too many clothes that I throw around like confetti, and end up in a tornado of Banana Republic and The Gap. I’m like the people on Hoarders. I can tiptoe through the piles of clothes, shoes, and empty boxes and then pluck a white tank top from the depths of a pile of crumpled up clothes I washed 2 weeks ago. It’s like a gift to find that needle in the haystack. I’m proud of it, sometimes.

I’ve been like this for my entire life. So, it’s not like I’m going to change any time soon. I just can’t keep my bedroom under control. When I was really young, and playing outside with my neighbor Claire, my mom would be all “Pharon! Stop eating those ants and come in and clean your room!” Lucky for me, I was a very manipulative little brat, and Claire had that lovely, easily-manipulated mind that so many kids have. Five minutes later, I’d be laying on my bed and directing Claire where to hang my Scotty dog sweater and denim overalls. I’d be like “Claire, the faster my room gets clean, the faster I can come over and play fashion show.” Unlike me, Claire was a phenomenal cleaner. She was efficient, and organized. She’s exactly that way today. In between commercials on a TV show, she’ll mop her kitchen floors. So, we all have our strengths. And cleaning? ‘Tis not my forte.

So tonight, I can bask in the cleany goodness that is my bedroom. I won’t trip on empty gift bags or twist my ankle on a round brush hiding under sweatpants. It’ll be nice, I guess. But how will I know what clothes I have to choose from unless they are all carefully thrown onto the floor?

Whatevs. I’m glad it’s over with. I don’t have to worry about cleaning it for another month week or so, and I finally have matching socks again. Everybody wins. For today, at least. Next time? Next time, maybe I’ll see if Claire is bored…

Breaking News! I'm Awkward!

If you could sit down and interview anyone right now, who would it be? Seriously…straight up anyone. Lots of people would be like “Ghandi” or “Jesus” or “Snookie” or someone similarly prolific. I could never sit across from, say, Barack Obama with like a zillion well-thought out questions, and stay cool the whole time. I once met Arnold Schwarzenegger's stunt double in 1998, and fell totally mute. I’m so NOT cool.

So today, I watched an interview Anderson Cooper did with Eminen, and it was pretty good. If it had been me doing the interviewing, it would have been catastrophic. I’d probably throw up some gang sign or offer him some Vicodin or something. Eminem would get up, rip his mic off, and fire whoever set up the interview. And then get me fired. And get all my friends fired. Sorry, friends. I’ll stay away from the formal interviews for now.

But I just don’t have a really great answer to that very basic question of Who I Would Like to Interview If I Got The Chance. I mean, I guess I’d say someone like Sarah Silverman, because I idolize her, but I know that wouldn’t go very well either. I’d be gushing the whole time. “Sarah! Sarah! Remember in your movie Sarah Silverman: Jesus is Magic when you did that bit about Jewish people driving German cars? Oh man, that was so funny! And, and, and, when, on your TV show when you hallucinated because you drank too much cough syrup! I loved that episode! OH! And that song you sing where you‘re having carnal relations with Matt Damon! Genius!” No where in that total Fan Girl situation would I be able to ask a relevant question, AND stay calm long enough to hear the answer.

Maybe I could start with someone I’m not obsessed with. You know, sit down at a coffee shop with a tape recorder and pad and pen, and say something like:

Pharon Square: Thanks for letting me pay for your coffee, Mr. Nicolas Cage. It’s, uh, pretty okay to meet you, I guess. Your hair is, um, unfortunate. Tell me, what is your acting process? Like, how do you achieve such an incredibly high level of mediocrity?
Nic Cage: Uhhhhh…..whaaaa? Am I on Con-Air?
Pharon Square: No, you’re at Starbucks.

I just wouldn’t be able to find a happy medium between gushing my affection and fighting the urge to cut the other person’s face. In theory, sure, there are some people I’d like to sit down and have a beer with, but I guarantee they wouldn’t want to sit with me. Kate Spade has no interest in how I had the paint store match a paint to the color of a Kate Spade box so I could cover my walls in Kate Spade green. She’d be all, “Oooookay….whoops, I forgot about that jury duty thing I have to leave right now for.” And I guarantee Nelly Furtado would call in the cops when I start signing all her songs back to her…even the ones in Portuguese. I’m just not cool enough to interview the people I like, and I’m too cool for the likes of Heidi and Spencer Pratt.

I guess I’ll have to leave the juicy tell-alls to TMZ and Barbara Walters. All that caring and listening and talking seems like waaaay too much work for me anyhow. Plus, I figure, for every one interview with Ghandi, it’d take like a zillion interviews with the Nicolas Cage’s of the world, and I just don’t need to know the meaning of life that badly.

Fantasy Football

Sunday blues are no more. I know that tomorrow is Monday, and the work week starts all over again, but Sundays are wonderful now because of football. I love it. I love my team, even when they are, um, inconsistent. But I love them so much more when they’re good and they win. So, Sundays are great in my book. Thank you, NFL. That being said, here are the reasons I could never play football (professionally or otherwise).

Reason #1: I am not in good enough shape. I’m not even talking about like RUNNING BACK shape, either. Have you seen the defensive players? They are roughly 1,000 pounds. They sweat when they bend over at the line of scrimmage. And I imagine that 90% of their weight is straight up French fries and pizza. But even these guys get more exercise than me. I mean, I could PROBABLY beat them in the Sit n’ Reach, but that’s of little consolation. There’s not one position I could play on the field. Sure I played soccer for 17 years, so I could MAYBE try for a kicking position, but even that’s pretty far-fetched. My hands are tiny, I’d drop the ball. And even if I held onto it, I’d probably only be able to kick it about 25 feet.

Reason #2: I would cry. I don’t know how these guys don’t just sit on the field after getting smashed by two ginormotrons and have themselves a good cry. Plus, have you heard the kind of mean things these guys say to each other? Sticks and stones will break my bones, sure. But words will ALSO hurt me. If I dropped the ball, or missed a tackle, I’d be sitting on the sidelines blubbering, “But they were YELLING at me! Right in my face! They wouldn’t leave me alone! Why won‘t they just shut up?” But mostly, it’s the physical contact. My eyes start watering when I stub my toe. If I got hit late, or I wasn’t expecting it, I’d just start crying and say that my knee hurt so I could go to the locker room and sit in the shower with my uniform on and just cry.

Reason #3: I don’t have the focus. When I played soccer in high school, I’d play terribly if a guy I liked came to watch. I’d be distracted by who he was talking to, wondering if he’s looking at me, or thinking about how good that pretzel he’s eating looks. There are a LOT of distracting things at football games. I would dance around to the music in between plays, tuning out the audibles. I’d be looking up at the Kiss Cam to see if anything embarrassing happens. I’d try and count how many people were wearing my jersey, or how many people painted signs that expressed their love for me. I’d constantly be wondering if I looked fat in the spandex pants and would miss the snap completely because I’d be checking myself out on the Jumbtron to see if I had panty lines. Game? What game?

Reason #4: I don’t like people getting all up in my personal space. All the butt-slapping, helmet-bumping and shoulder slamming that goes on would drive me nuts. I like the idea of huddles, and telling each other secrets or whatever they do in there, but that’s as close as I want to get. Stop spanking me. Stop coming up behind me and smacking my helmet. And for God’s sake, stop jumping on top of me after I get a touchdown. I know it was a good play, but instead of suffocating me, just give me a high five, or a firm handshake.

Reason #5:Finally, I couldn’t be a football player because it just sounds like a lot of work. All those practices and games? Sheesh. Plus, they work on nights and weekends and that’s when I do some of my best napping.

So, despite the thousands of offers I’ve received to try out, I’m going to have to just come right out and say Thanks, But No Thanks, NFL. I’m sure you’ll find a way to go on without me on your team.

Cabin Fever

I finally got a tan. All summer long, the weekends have either been rainy and gross, or suffocatingly hot. So outdoors has not been my friend. But after spending the weekend at my sister's cabin in the sunshiney perfectness, my shoulders are burnt, my nose hurts when I crinkle it in disgust, and life is very good. In said sunshiney perfectness, I spent the days learning that I am good at both shooting a BB gun and fishing. I was as surprised as your are…

I love cabins. I am very disappointed that at this point in my life, I myself do not have a cabin. Though I am not a fan of bugs, the outdoors, or doing a lot of work, there is something about cabin life that agrees with me. Cabin life is much better than home life. Both mornings, I woke up with a very awesome alarm clock. My niece, Eve, would come and put her face right next to mine and just wait for me to open my eyes. Also, the lax showering rules are great, there’s always something to do, and having a beer with breakfast is not out of the question.

And no matter which cabin I’m visiting, there are things about each one that makes me feel at home. Every bathroom has the AIM toothpaste that is in the process of expiring and the one-ply toilet paper. Every living room has a handful of year-old Good Housekeeping magazines and some crossword puzzles, and it‘s decorated with wooden-carved signs that say things like We Don‘t Skinny Dip, We Chunky Dunk. And outside has the reclining lounge chairs, the fire pits, the yard games, the giant grill, and a dock leading out to a boat. Everything at a cabin suggests relaxation at any cost.

Like cabins, I also looooove me a boat. I still don’t know how to drive one, or how I would dock it, but I am a great boat passenger. What is better than a boat? You can lay around in it, catching some rays, then just roll overboard into the water for a little relief from the heat. You can sip on a beer while towing a wake boarder through the double ups. And, like this weekend, you can just hang out, listen to music, and occasionally catch huge fish. Boats are the greatest. I really need to find a way to get a sick boat, and then I’ll just need to find a place to dock it. And learn how to drive it. And save my money for gas.

So now I’m home, my skin feels like fried chicken, all my clothes smell like a bonfire, and I’ve got more bug bites than I can count (who gets a bug bite on the outside of their pinky toe!? It’s the worst place, hands down). And I’m too pooped to write too many clever, witty remarks, but I’m definitely okay with that. Maybe I should be glad I don’t have my own cabin. I’d never get anything done, and I’d probably be too relaxed all the time to care about anything other than whether or not I should bring the hammock inside at night in case of rain.

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.