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 Lessons. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Lessons. Show all posts
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Hey Good Lookin', Whatcha Got Burnin'?
Today, we’ll be baking some Choc-Oat-Chip Cookies. Now, first thing’s first: open the wine. There’s a wine for practically every cooking job. Tonight? I’m going with “Red Wine”. It also goes with cooking chili, salad, wontons, brownies, and cereal. Sip slowly, but generously. Cooking is all about the buzz.
So, go ahead an open that cookbook. Yes, you’d better have a cookbook, folks. Who do you think you are, Julia Child? Well guess what: you’re not. You can’t just throw a bunch of food together willy-nilly and hope for the best. No, no, no. That’s just, well, that’s just silly. You need the recipe. I, for example, tried to go off-recipe once and ended up with watery, flat, doughy balls of mush. What was I TRYING to make you ask? Cornbread. Don’t make the same mistake, folks. There’s simply nothing you can make that someone else hasn’t already made better, and then written down the instructions.
As you are measuring the ingredients into the proper bowls, make sure to google “Can I use baking soda instead of baking powder?” because surely you have forgotten to buy one or the other. Note: they are NOT interchangeable. Shrug your shoulders as needed, and consider the missing ingredient “optional”. Go ahead and mix that batter up. Take care to dump all the flour into the dough at once, sending a floury poof into the air and onto your face. Chances are, you’ve mis-measured the flour anyway, so the extra ounce or whatever flying in the air won’t cause any problems. Under no circumstance, however, are you to let the flour mix with your wine. Continue to add wine to your body liberally.
As the batter is mixing, feel free to stick your finger in the bowl as the little beater thing swirls around and around. If and when the beater thing snaps your finger away, loudly curse the inanimate object. Consume another slug of wine.
Next, search wildly for a clean cookie sheet. After discovering that a roommate has taken the cookie sheet to a friend’s house, make a sorry attempt at cleaning the dirty sheet. The heat of the oven will burn off whatever gunk you don’t quite get. Now that you’ve put your first batch of questionable cookies in the oven, pat yourself on the back and start maniacally cleaning the kitchen. Inevitably, the flour that sprayed the whole kitchen will be the toughest to clean. I suggest using 409. Warning: Do not attempt to spray the 409 onto the ceiling, though. It will fall in your eyes. Loudly curse gravity.
The smell of baking cookies is a wonderful aroma. You’ll want to prematurely remove the first batch from the oven, but fight the urge. Stand at the oven and obsessively open and close the oven door, making sure to not burn the cookies. When ready, remove pan from oven. Slide cookies off pan and onto a makeshift cooling rack. Now, this could be a paper towel, a pseudo-clean kitchen towel, or just a freshly 409’d counter. The fumes will affect the taste of the cookies, but not enough for people to really notice. After you’ve put the next batch of cookies in the oven, lick your fingers. It will be at this point that you will remember that you have forgotten to wash your hands. Wash hands.
Now, this is the most important step of the Pharon Square baking process. You must, and again, I cannot stress this enough, you must completely forget about the last batch in the oven. Yes, they will burn, but this is a necessary step which you must not fight. The smell of burnt cookies will quickly mask the previous yummy aroma. This is very important because 1) it will remind you to turn off the oven, and 2) it will take away your urge to inhale a dozen of the cookies.
The final step is to sit back, finish your wine if you haven’t already, and wait for the acclaim. More than likely, people will be perfectly happy eating fresh, homemade cookies. However, if for some reason some know-it-all asks if you forgot the butter, insult them back as needed, and blame it on the wine.
Bon apetit!
So, go ahead an open that cookbook. Yes, you’d better have a cookbook, folks. Who do you think you are, Julia Child? Well guess what: you’re not. You can’t just throw a bunch of food together willy-nilly and hope for the best. No, no, no. That’s just, well, that’s just silly. You need the recipe. I, for example, tried to go off-recipe once and ended up with watery, flat, doughy balls of mush. What was I TRYING to make you ask? Cornbread. Don’t make the same mistake, folks. There’s simply nothing you can make that someone else hasn’t already made better, and then written down the instructions.
As you are measuring the ingredients into the proper bowls, make sure to google “Can I use baking soda instead of baking powder?” because surely you have forgotten to buy one or the other. Note: they are NOT interchangeable. Shrug your shoulders as needed, and consider the missing ingredient “optional”. Go ahead and mix that batter up. Take care to dump all the flour into the dough at once, sending a floury poof into the air and onto your face. Chances are, you’ve mis-measured the flour anyway, so the extra ounce or whatever flying in the air won’t cause any problems. Under no circumstance, however, are you to let the flour mix with your wine. Continue to add wine to your body liberally.
As the batter is mixing, feel free to stick your finger in the bowl as the little beater thing swirls around and around. If and when the beater thing snaps your finger away, loudly curse the inanimate object. Consume another slug of wine.
Next, search wildly for a clean cookie sheet. After discovering that a roommate has taken the cookie sheet to a friend’s house, make a sorry attempt at cleaning the dirty sheet. The heat of the oven will burn off whatever gunk you don’t quite get. Now that you’ve put your first batch of questionable cookies in the oven, pat yourself on the back and start maniacally cleaning the kitchen. Inevitably, the flour that sprayed the whole kitchen will be the toughest to clean. I suggest using 409. Warning: Do not attempt to spray the 409 onto the ceiling, though. It will fall in your eyes. Loudly curse gravity.
The smell of baking cookies is a wonderful aroma. You’ll want to prematurely remove the first batch from the oven, but fight the urge. Stand at the oven and obsessively open and close the oven door, making sure to not burn the cookies. When ready, remove pan from oven. Slide cookies off pan and onto a makeshift cooling rack. Now, this could be a paper towel, a pseudo-clean kitchen towel, or just a freshly 409’d counter. The fumes will affect the taste of the cookies, but not enough for people to really notice. After you’ve put the next batch of cookies in the oven, lick your fingers. It will be at this point that you will remember that you have forgotten to wash your hands. Wash hands.
Now, this is the most important step of the Pharon Square baking process. You must, and again, I cannot stress this enough, you must completely forget about the last batch in the oven. Yes, they will burn, but this is a necessary step which you must not fight. The smell of burnt cookies will quickly mask the previous yummy aroma. This is very important because 1) it will remind you to turn off the oven, and 2) it will take away your urge to inhale a dozen of the cookies.
The final step is to sit back, finish your wine if you haven’t already, and wait for the acclaim. More than likely, people will be perfectly happy eating fresh, homemade cookies. However, if for some reason some know-it-all asks if you forgot the butter, insult them back as needed, and blame it on the wine.
Bon apetit!
Monday, December 6, 2010
Don't Count On It
Another day, another failure at applying mathematics to real-world situations. I wish I would have worked a TITCH harder in 3rd grade math. Without that basic comprehension, I also have no concept of estimating, budgeting, or distance. Prinna and I did some shopping last night, and we were reminded why neither she nor I have any business using numbers. We stood at the check-out counter, trying to figure out the pricing, additional costs, a discount, and really trying to add everything up in our head (what are we, Einstein!?!). Then our heads exploded and flew across the counter, splattering on the register.
The whole mathy mess just reminded me that my life has been one long Numbers-Induced panic attack, interrupted by life, writing, talking, organizing closets, multi-tasking, shopping, and other things I excel at. I remember doing times tables in 4th grade, and that’s literally the last memory I have of learning math. After that, it’s just panic.
In high school, I called home in a whispering panic. Perek, who must have been like 14 at the time, picked up. “Perek! I’m in line in Target. I have like $8 in my account, and I’m buying gum and a diet Coke. How much is the tax going to be? Do I have enough or do I have to put back the gum?!” He was silent. He took a deep breath and said, “Pharon, yes. Tax is only going to be like 13 cents. It’s 7 percent of the total.” I stopped listening after “yes” and got both the gum AND the pop. Later that same year, I was working at Gap Kids. I rung someone up, and it came to something like $13.60. The woman handed me a ten, a five, and a dime. I stared at the dime, not knowing how to make change. The woman said, “Honey, just give me back $1.50.” Idiot.
I also have no concept of time or distance. The clock in my car is, obnoxiously, exactly 25 minutes fast. I explained my very complex reasoning behind the clock setting to Geo this weekend, but I totally lost him. I said, “If I don’t know how long it takes to get somewhere, I know I automatically have 25 minutes longer, instead of looking at the real time and having to guess based on the exact time.” I mean, even me just WRITING THAT OUT reminds me that it’s nonsense.
My poor, poor dad. My dad is THE numbers guy. He can add two sets of two-digit numbers IN HIS HEAD! Imagine his horrifying disappointment when I made it explicitly clear that I was a total math moron. I was in college, home for a break. I wanted to visit my friend Madeline in Chicago. My mom suggested, “Do you have any frequent flyer miles? Just use those.” So, I called to make the reservations. When I hung up the phone, I said “Huh, I didn’t realize Chicago was so far away.” My dad was standing next to me reading the mail and said “What do you mean?” I said “Apparently, it’s 25,000 miles away. I though it was a little less than that.”
He asked me what in God’s name made me think Chicago was that far away. I said “That’s how many frequent flyer miles it takes.” So, not only do I not understand distances, but I clearly have no concept of how airline miles work either. My dad sighed, and stared out the window as if he could see my college tuition flying out of it. “Pharon, Chicago is not 25,000 miles away. The entire circumference of the world is about 25,000 miles.” Facepalm.
Well, despite my lack of basic arithmetic abilities, I’ve managed to survive this long without them. I have tons of other stuff I’m good at that, in my opinion, totally outweigh the “cool” ability to figure out a tip at a restaurant (which, for the record, my phone calculator does perfectly every single time). I can organize anything, I‘m a sick doodler, I can small talk with the best of ‘em, and I can pull up any celebrity fact in any situation. My mind is already chockfull of that kind of useful information. So yeah, there’s no room at the Inn for math. You know what that means? Apparently, Math is my Jesus. Merry Mathmas!
The whole mathy mess just reminded me that my life has been one long Numbers-Induced panic attack, interrupted by life, writing, talking, organizing closets, multi-tasking, shopping, and other things I excel at. I remember doing times tables in 4th grade, and that’s literally the last memory I have of learning math. After that, it’s just panic.
In high school, I called home in a whispering panic. Perek, who must have been like 14 at the time, picked up. “Perek! I’m in line in Target. I have like $8 in my account, and I’m buying gum and a diet Coke. How much is the tax going to be? Do I have enough or do I have to put back the gum?!” He was silent. He took a deep breath and said, “Pharon, yes. Tax is only going to be like 13 cents. It’s 7 percent of the total.” I stopped listening after “yes” and got both the gum AND the pop. Later that same year, I was working at Gap Kids. I rung someone up, and it came to something like $13.60. The woman handed me a ten, a five, and a dime. I stared at the dime, not knowing how to make change. The woman said, “Honey, just give me back $1.50.” Idiot.
I also have no concept of time or distance. The clock in my car is, obnoxiously, exactly 25 minutes fast. I explained my very complex reasoning behind the clock setting to Geo this weekend, but I totally lost him. I said, “If I don’t know how long it takes to get somewhere, I know I automatically have 25 minutes longer, instead of looking at the real time and having to guess based on the exact time.” I mean, even me just WRITING THAT OUT reminds me that it’s nonsense.
My poor, poor dad. My dad is THE numbers guy. He can add two sets of two-digit numbers IN HIS HEAD! Imagine his horrifying disappointment when I made it explicitly clear that I was a total math moron. I was in college, home for a break. I wanted to visit my friend Madeline in Chicago. My mom suggested, “Do you have any frequent flyer miles? Just use those.” So, I called to make the reservations. When I hung up the phone, I said “Huh, I didn’t realize Chicago was so far away.” My dad was standing next to me reading the mail and said “What do you mean?” I said “Apparently, it’s 25,000 miles away. I though it was a little less than that.”
He asked me what in God’s name made me think Chicago was that far away. I said “That’s how many frequent flyer miles it takes.” So, not only do I not understand distances, but I clearly have no concept of how airline miles work either. My dad sighed, and stared out the window as if he could see my college tuition flying out of it. “Pharon, Chicago is not 25,000 miles away. The entire circumference of the world is about 25,000 miles.” Facepalm.
Well, despite my lack of basic arithmetic abilities, I’ve managed to survive this long without them. I have tons of other stuff I’m good at that, in my opinion, totally outweigh the “cool” ability to figure out a tip at a restaurant (which, for the record, my phone calculator does perfectly every single time). I can organize anything, I‘m a sick doodler, I can small talk with the best of ‘em, and I can pull up any celebrity fact in any situation. My mind is already chockfull of that kind of useful information. So yeah, there’s no room at the Inn for math. You know what that means? Apparently, Math is my Jesus. Merry Mathmas!
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Go Ahead...Make My Day
I got my hair cut tonight. Exciting, huh? I know, my life is sooooo glamorous. But sitting in that salon chair got me thinking. About what? I don’t know. Lots of stuff, I guess. One of those things was how much I babble when I’m sitting there. I used to go to the same girl over and over. But the conversations got stale, and she was one of those people who blasted my face with the hair dryer until I couldn’t breathe. Yeah, she got the boot.
So, now I visit the Aveda Instruction Salon from time to time, where the stylists are like not quite certified and they need live models. You know, like animal testing. Because let’s face it, people. I’ve got the hair of a hippie. It’s long, straight, and just kind of like there. It’s too thin to be luxurious, too fine to be voluminous. The point is, it’s not hard to cut my hair. Snip, snip, clip, clip, pay at the front desk. I used to spend $75 at the fancy salon with the cucumber water and complimentary micro-dermabrasion treatments in the lobby. And then I’d walk out looking much like I look tonight. But now, going to the teaching salon, I saved like $50. Sure, my hair wasn’t completely dry when I left, and it took like an hour-and-a-half to trim ¾ of inch off, but I participated in the teaching experience. And I’m proud of that.
Okay, so I’m sitting there, telling myself to just chill and play it cool. Before I knew it, though, I found myself telling this girl, who was all of 17, about all my personal issues. Family issues, living-arrangement issues, I just basically threw up on her. Poor Alexis. She handled it like a champ, though. And yes, I have a clump of my own hair in my mouth, but she was really very sweet.
Another thing I noticed, when my hair was all wet and matted down to my head, and my tiny pinhead was sticking out the top of a giant cape, was that I don’t wear enough make up. Or have a tan. And at the end of the work day, the make up that I DID have on had gradually made its way down my face and into thin air. I was a straight-up mess. I looked awful. I looked around at all the shiny haired, perfectly coiffed stylist girls, each with their fancy matching outfits and coordinated jewelry, and I just felt like an ogre. Salons are supposed to make you feel good. Aveda, in particular, is supposedly full of “Day Makers”. Not the case. I’d prefer my stylists homely and unfortunate with a jelly stain on their sweater. I’d feel GREAT there. Anyone know of a place like that?
So, then the big reveal came. She whips the cape off, spins me around and says, “So???? Whaddya think??” I always feel like I feel when the waiter opens a bottle of wine for me and stands there while I pretend to know what I’m supposed to say. I WANT to say, “Yeah. So…it’s shorter! And, it appears as though it’s shiny and clean. Thanks!” I don’t know what I’m looking for. I don’t know how carefully to inspect it, or how much I need to gush. I always ALWAYS overdo it. “OHMYGOD! I love it! It’s like I have different hair! This looks amazing!”
I left feeling like instead of having MY day made, I made HER day. And then I over-tipped because I can’t do math and panicked at the check out desk. I think I might consider going back to my old system of trimming my own hair after a glass of wine with dull scissors from the knife block in the kitchen.
Have a great weekend, everyone!
So, now I visit the Aveda Instruction Salon from time to time, where the stylists are like not quite certified and they need live models. You know, like animal testing. Because let’s face it, people. I’ve got the hair of a hippie. It’s long, straight, and just kind of like there. It’s too thin to be luxurious, too fine to be voluminous. The point is, it’s not hard to cut my hair. Snip, snip, clip, clip, pay at the front desk. I used to spend $75 at the fancy salon with the cucumber water and complimentary micro-dermabrasion treatments in the lobby. And then I’d walk out looking much like I look tonight. But now, going to the teaching salon, I saved like $50. Sure, my hair wasn’t completely dry when I left, and it took like an hour-and-a-half to trim ¾ of inch off, but I participated in the teaching experience. And I’m proud of that.
Okay, so I’m sitting there, telling myself to just chill and play it cool. Before I knew it, though, I found myself telling this girl, who was all of 17, about all my personal issues. Family issues, living-arrangement issues, I just basically threw up on her. Poor Alexis. She handled it like a champ, though. And yes, I have a clump of my own hair in my mouth, but she was really very sweet.
Another thing I noticed, when my hair was all wet and matted down to my head, and my tiny pinhead was sticking out the top of a giant cape, was that I don’t wear enough make up. Or have a tan. And at the end of the work day, the make up that I DID have on had gradually made its way down my face and into thin air. I was a straight-up mess. I looked awful. I looked around at all the shiny haired, perfectly coiffed stylist girls, each with their fancy matching outfits and coordinated jewelry, and I just felt like an ogre. Salons are supposed to make you feel good. Aveda, in particular, is supposedly full of “Day Makers”. Not the case. I’d prefer my stylists homely and unfortunate with a jelly stain on their sweater. I’d feel GREAT there. Anyone know of a place like that?
So, then the big reveal came. She whips the cape off, spins me around and says, “So???? Whaddya think??” I always feel like I feel when the waiter opens a bottle of wine for me and stands there while I pretend to know what I’m supposed to say. I WANT to say, “Yeah. So…it’s shorter! And, it appears as though it’s shiny and clean. Thanks!” I don’t know what I’m looking for. I don’t know how carefully to inspect it, or how much I need to gush. I always ALWAYS overdo it. “OHMYGOD! I love it! It’s like I have different hair! This looks amazing!”
I left feeling like instead of having MY day made, I made HER day. And then I over-tipped because I can’t do math and panicked at the check out desk. I think I might consider going back to my old system of trimming my own hair after a glass of wine with dull scissors from the knife block in the kitchen.
Have a great weekend, everyone!
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Phoney Baloney
Oh, hey Blackberry! What’s that little “SOS” symbol on your non-touch pad screen? Hmm…it’s so strange because all you’ve been doing is laying around in my purse, so I don’t know WHY you would randomly stop accepting and making phone calls. Okay, so maybe you’re moody for no reason. Where on EARTH would you get that characteristic?! Oh, you learned it from watching me? Fine, I get it. The point is, my phone is on the fritz, and I’d very much appreciate it if it would get over itself. It’s randomly not working, and me yelling at it is seemingly having little to no effect on it. Well, I’m out of solutions.
I’ll admit it. I made some compromises when I got this recent excuse for a mobile device. I gave up the 3G network, the flash on a camera, the one-touch ability to change my ringtone…because all I wanted was a full keyboard and a functioning camera (despite the no flash thing, which I didn‘t realize until much much later). Those were luxuries my old phone didn’t have. Though, my old phone DID double as a mirror, which totally ruled. It was the LG Shine, and I got it because LC from The Hills was in an ad for it, and that’s all I needed. Plus, it was essentially indestructible. I treated that phone like a brick yo-yo. Never once did it SOS on me.
Full disclosure: I once had a pager in middle school. I have no idea why. I remember the songs it played - later called “Ringtones” - and all the hilarious one-word L33T speak words that would pop up every once in awhile. HELL. HELLO. BOOBS. BOOB. Endless fun!! My first phone was that Nokia phone every person on the planet had. No texting, no camera, no colored screen. No frills. Just a regular ol’ phone. And when I got it my parents enforced the “FOR EMERGENCIES ONLY!” rule by loading it with like 20 minutes a month. I was in college before I got a phone I could actually talk on long enough to explain what I was going to wear out that night. (Side note: my roommate Tina, who is all of 21 years old, thinks it’s positively HYSTERICAL that I didn’t have a cell phone in middle school. Sorry girl, but I got Jem and the Holograms, strong interpersonal skills, Reebok high tops, day-glo, and the ability to research information NOT on wikipedia. I think we can all agree that I come out ahead.)
My mom was IT when it came to adopting the “wireless phone” phenomenon. She was the first person I ever knew that had a phone she could carry around with her. She had this phone that was attached to a 25-pound charger that she easily toted around in a giant shoulder bag. And she looooves to tell us the story of when she got her first “wireless phone” call. She explained to us 5 kids that the phone was for EMERGENCIES ONLY. The first call she got from us? One of us in hysterics because someone had eaten the last of the cereal. The term “emergency” is so subjective.
Still, I have no desire to get one of those crazy fancy phones, shoulder bag or not. Kim (sorry to call you out, Kim, but this is just too good) is on her 3rd iPhone, I believe. People don’t realize how easily, and often, a phone can fall into a toilet. I myself am far too clumsy to own a phone that costs more than I would spend on a Kate Spade bag. But, hindsight being 20/20, I should have at least sprung for the 3G on this phone. Or at least the “Non SOS’ing” function. Let’s be honest though. My current phone bill shows that I’ve used 250 minutes of talk time all month. On the other hand, I’ve sent 1,000 text messages. I just don’t talk on my phone that much. Talking is for people who still have 3 letters on each number on their phone. Sheesh, n00bs.
So, I guess I’m stuck in a perpetual state of SOS. I made a snap decision that only took into account the price, and the so-called “smart”ness of a smartphone. Sure, I can take a low-quality picture of a fox eating a Big Mac and send it right to Facebook and Twitter, but at what cost? Someone could be calling me right now. Right this very moment. And I’d look at it and ignore it, and then text them back saying “What’s up?” Instead, I guess I’ll just wait for my phone to get over itself and come back to life. The good news is that I’ve got plenty of cereal to tide me over for awhile.
Have a great weekend, everyone!
I’ll admit it. I made some compromises when I got this recent excuse for a mobile device. I gave up the 3G network, the flash on a camera, the one-touch ability to change my ringtone…because all I wanted was a full keyboard and a functioning camera (despite the no flash thing, which I didn‘t realize until much much later). Those were luxuries my old phone didn’t have. Though, my old phone DID double as a mirror, which totally ruled. It was the LG Shine, and I got it because LC from The Hills was in an ad for it, and that’s all I needed. Plus, it was essentially indestructible. I treated that phone like a brick yo-yo. Never once did it SOS on me.
Full disclosure: I once had a pager in middle school. I have no idea why. I remember the songs it played - later called “Ringtones” - and all the hilarious one-word L33T speak words that would pop up every once in awhile. HELL. HELLO. BOOBS. BOOB. Endless fun!! My first phone was that Nokia phone every person on the planet had. No texting, no camera, no colored screen. No frills. Just a regular ol’ phone. And when I got it my parents enforced the “FOR EMERGENCIES ONLY!” rule by loading it with like 20 minutes a month. I was in college before I got a phone I could actually talk on long enough to explain what I was going to wear out that night. (Side note: my roommate Tina, who is all of 21 years old, thinks it’s positively HYSTERICAL that I didn’t have a cell phone in middle school. Sorry girl, but I got Jem and the Holograms, strong interpersonal skills, Reebok high tops, day-glo, and the ability to research information NOT on wikipedia. I think we can all agree that I come out ahead.)
My mom was IT when it came to adopting the “wireless phone” phenomenon. She was the first person I ever knew that had a phone she could carry around with her. She had this phone that was attached to a 25-pound charger that she easily toted around in a giant shoulder bag. And she looooves to tell us the story of when she got her first “wireless phone” call. She explained to us 5 kids that the phone was for EMERGENCIES ONLY. The first call she got from us? One of us in hysterics because someone had eaten the last of the cereal. The term “emergency” is so subjective.
Still, I have no desire to get one of those crazy fancy phones, shoulder bag or not. Kim (sorry to call you out, Kim, but this is just too good) is on her 3rd iPhone, I believe. People don’t realize how easily, and often, a phone can fall into a toilet. I myself am far too clumsy to own a phone that costs more than I would spend on a Kate Spade bag. But, hindsight being 20/20, I should have at least sprung for the 3G on this phone. Or at least the “Non SOS’ing” function. Let’s be honest though. My current phone bill shows that I’ve used 250 minutes of talk time all month. On the other hand, I’ve sent 1,000 text messages. I just don’t talk on my phone that much. Talking is for people who still have 3 letters on each number on their phone. Sheesh, n00bs.
So, I guess I’m stuck in a perpetual state of SOS. I made a snap decision that only took into account the price, and the so-called “smart”ness of a smartphone. Sure, I can take a low-quality picture of a fox eating a Big Mac and send it right to Facebook and Twitter, but at what cost? Someone could be calling me right now. Right this very moment. And I’d look at it and ignore it, and then text them back saying “What’s up?” Instead, I guess I’ll just wait for my phone to get over itself and come back to life. The good news is that I’ve got plenty of cereal to tide me over for awhile.
Have a great weekend, everyone!
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, November 2, 2010
Rock the Vote
Did you vote? I really hope so. I really do, because whatever your views are, they do no good sitting alone in your head. Even if you think you HAVE no opinion on anything and think you don’t care about who wins because all politicians are basically evil, there IS an issue out there that affects you. And the least you can do is get educated and fill out a ballot to do your part. I know that a lot of my friends vote. Many of them are well-informed, intelligent people, and many don’t even share my opinions. But I’m so glad they take an active role in who is elected. It’s downright irresponsible to choose not to vote.
Personally, I know how important voting is. During my senior year of high school, I was elected as The Biggest Flirt in my grade. It was truly an honor to be granted such a prestigious award. I knew, looking out among my constituents, that I had a duty to perform from that moment on. I would work tirelessly to reassure my compatriots they had indeed voted for the right girl for the job. I would not let them down. Later in the year, I would also be elected as The Biggest Flirt in band, as well. And yes, I was the incumbent, though no race is ever a guaranteed win. It was a privilege to win not once, but twice. I was humbled by the overwhelming acknowledgment by my peers.
But I know the heartbreak, people. I know the pains of losing, or more accurately, never being elected. I was not captain of the soccer team, I wasn’t on a chair of my sorority, and as far as I know, I currently hold no public office. But the most devastating loss was in high school, that same year I bounded to the heights with my twin Flirt of the Year awards.
I thought I was a shoe-in for being on Homecoming Court. In my high school, the days before Homecoming Week consisted of the student body voting for the members of Court. Then, after the voting, and as a kick-off to the week, members of the elected court were woken up in the middle of the night, and shuffled off to their first exclusive Members-Only breakfast in pajamas. The rest of the week consists of these 18 or so girls and boys running the school from atop their golden high-horses, creating their own exclusive club of inside jokes and private parties. I wanted that so desperately. My boyfriend at the time ended up on Court, my best friends were on Court, and yet, I sat up that night, in adorable pajamas, hoping that they would come and pick me up and whisk me away to Perkins for chocolate chip pancakes. They did not. It was a crushing defeat. Or, rather, willful negligence.
I have known the highs and lows. I know the power of a name on a ballot, and of its absence as well. Sometimes all it comes down to is whether or not you like someone’s last name. It’s a clumsy popularity contest, full of empty promises (“I promise! I’ll be the best Homecoming Queen ever! And no more taxes on the middles class!”), and little side deals made with nerds and jocks and giant corporations with “special interests”.
So I get out there and cast my ballot, in the hopes that the person for whom I vote will not sit up in bed alone waiting for the party to come and sweep them into the glorious warmth of popularity and acceptance. And my expectation is that, if elected, they will do their job as I performed mine during my Reign of Flirting: With the respect, honor, and gratitude of those who put them there.
Monday, October 25, 2010
What, Me Worry?
Full disclosure, y’all. I’m not the happiest camper right now. In fact, I’m a whole messy bundle of emotions that I don’t know what to do with. Primarily, I’m a little worried. I don’t really want to go into all the details just now, but do me a solid, and send out your positive thoughts in this general direction. Thanks, yo.
When I was little, my mom used to call me a Worrywart all the time. I remember worrying that lightning would strike the tree in our back yard, which would then crash into my house and right on to my bed. While I was sleeping in it. I worried, after watching the critically ignored Made for TV Movie “I Know My First Name is Steven” that I would get kidnapped. I worried that Kevin, the boy in my swim class, wouldn’t like me because I didn’t know how to do the Butterfly stroke (BTW, the worrying made me QUIT SWIM TEAM). I worried about soccer games and piano recitals, and I worried that I’d run out of underwear before school (AGAIN! It happened once when I was like 10 years old, and my mom made me wear a pair of Prinna‘s). There were no limits to my worrying.
Somewhere along the way, I ended up not worrying ENOUGH anymore. I’d waltz into dangerous situations in downtown Minneapolis, I’d show up unprepared for tests just basically hoping to pass, I ended up just kind of pawning it all off on “Fate”. I’d be all, “Meh, if I’m supposed to pass this test, I will.” or “If Kevin doesn’t like me, he’s not worth my time anyway.” I got lazy. I got complacent. I got too Sure of everything. But after getting my first “F”, I discovered Fate had a cruel sense of justice anyway.
Then I started the Selective Worrying. There were things I couldn’t do anything about, so I’d obsess over something like sleeping through my alarm clock. I’d spend night after night, waking up every couple of hours to check the clock. Instead of worrying that I wouldn’t get a job I was interviewing for, I’d worry about just getting lost on my way to the interview, and arrive 2 hours early because I don‘t know how to manage driving time. I’ve spent literally hundreds of hours worrying about what to wear, instead of what I was really scared of. Typically it was things like getting in a car accident, spending my life alone, or seeing my house catch on fire and losing everything I’ve ever had. Those aren’t things I can worry about. They’re too big, too impossible to prevent. So, I cop out and worry instead about getting poisoned by the moldy food in our fridge. That’s the kind of thing I can worry about and then fix.
When I was little, and worrying about something like whether or not I’d grow a watermelon in my stomach from swallowing a watermelon seed, I remember taking refuge under my bed. I’d drag my Barbies and My Little Ponies under there with me, and make THEM act out the situations. “Oh no, Sparkle Pony! You have a watermelon in your tummy! Dr. Barbie, you have to fix it!” And with a couple quick pats on the pony’s tummy, the watermelon would be gone and Dr. Barbie would hop in her Ferrari and speed away to Ken’s house. The only thing left to worry about then was finding Barbie some matching shoes for her hot date. Though, if you’ve ever played with Barbies, you'd know that this was impossible.
I wish I still had that kind of coping skill: the imagination to both create and solve a problem all on my own. My imagination these days is limited only to whether or not Nelly Furtado will be able to sing at my non-existent wedding. I wish I worried more, though, because then it would just be something I do and would be used to it. I would learn to embrace that trait, as I have my incessant need to eat carbohydrates, instead of shoving the worry onto something less-deserving. I’d be able to bite my nails and just deal with it. But as it stands, I’ll just continue to worry about not worrying about the right things in the right way.
When I was little, my mom used to call me a Worrywart all the time. I remember worrying that lightning would strike the tree in our back yard, which would then crash into my house and right on to my bed. While I was sleeping in it. I worried, after watching the critically ignored Made for TV Movie “I Know My First Name is Steven” that I would get kidnapped. I worried that Kevin, the boy in my swim class, wouldn’t like me because I didn’t know how to do the Butterfly stroke (BTW, the worrying made me QUIT SWIM TEAM). I worried about soccer games and piano recitals, and I worried that I’d run out of underwear before school (AGAIN! It happened once when I was like 10 years old, and my mom made me wear a pair of Prinna‘s). There were no limits to my worrying.
Somewhere along the way, I ended up not worrying ENOUGH anymore. I’d waltz into dangerous situations in downtown Minneapolis, I’d show up unprepared for tests just basically hoping to pass, I ended up just kind of pawning it all off on “Fate”. I’d be all, “Meh, if I’m supposed to pass this test, I will.” or “If Kevin doesn’t like me, he’s not worth my time anyway.” I got lazy. I got complacent. I got too Sure of everything. But after getting my first “F”, I discovered Fate had a cruel sense of justice anyway.
Then I started the Selective Worrying. There were things I couldn’t do anything about, so I’d obsess over something like sleeping through my alarm clock. I’d spend night after night, waking up every couple of hours to check the clock. Instead of worrying that I wouldn’t get a job I was interviewing for, I’d worry about just getting lost on my way to the interview, and arrive 2 hours early because I don‘t know how to manage driving time. I’ve spent literally hundreds of hours worrying about what to wear, instead of what I was really scared of. Typically it was things like getting in a car accident, spending my life alone, or seeing my house catch on fire and losing everything I’ve ever had. Those aren’t things I can worry about. They’re too big, too impossible to prevent. So, I cop out and worry instead about getting poisoned by the moldy food in our fridge. That’s the kind of thing I can worry about and then fix.
When I was little, and worrying about something like whether or not I’d grow a watermelon in my stomach from swallowing a watermelon seed, I remember taking refuge under my bed. I’d drag my Barbies and My Little Ponies under there with me, and make THEM act out the situations. “Oh no, Sparkle Pony! You have a watermelon in your tummy! Dr. Barbie, you have to fix it!” And with a couple quick pats on the pony’s tummy, the watermelon would be gone and Dr. Barbie would hop in her Ferrari and speed away to Ken’s house. The only thing left to worry about then was finding Barbie some matching shoes for her hot date. Though, if you’ve ever played with Barbies, you'd know that this was impossible.
I wish I still had that kind of coping skill: the imagination to both create and solve a problem all on my own. My imagination these days is limited only to whether or not Nelly Furtado will be able to sing at my non-existent wedding. I wish I worried more, though, because then it would just be something I do and would be used to it. I would learn to embrace that trait, as I have my incessant need to eat carbohydrates, instead of shoving the worry onto something less-deserving. I’d be able to bite my nails and just deal with it. But as it stands, I’ll just continue to worry about not worrying about the right things in the right way.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Repent!
I’m going to do my best at blogging coherently tonight. I’m writing this during the Vikings game, and it’s a tight game so far. But I’ll try my best to stay focused, because I have a lot to get off my chest.
Okay, so first of all, I want to say “Sorrrrrry, Mom….” to, duh, my mom. She has planned a birthday dinner for me this coming Thursday night (have I mentioned it’s my birthday on Thursday? Probably not…I like to be really low-key about my birthdays. /sarcasm) and I crapped all over her plans. Which makes me sound like a total jerk. I’m lucky to have almost my whole ginormous family come out for my birthday, so restaurant options become limited. And when it was decided that we’d go to the private room at Olive Garden (When we’re there, we’re family!) I couldn’t get past the thought of the unlimited breadsticks that I could eat for days. The problem is, I’m about to squeeze myself into a tiny black dress for my Halloween costume next weekend, and my will power is lacking. But instead of just deciding not to eat 20 breadsticks, I complained and sounded like an ungrateful brat. So, Mom, in front of the fives and tens of people who read this, I’m sorry.
Now that we’ve gotten that ugliness out of the way, I’d now like to apologize to the fine people at Forever 21 who may have had the unhappy sight of my Minnesota-white body squeezed into a black sequined mini-dress. I don’t typically find myself in the glaringly bright store with floor-to-ceiling mirrors anymore. But, in the interest of finding an appropriate Snooki dress (yup, I’ll be dressing up as the lovable Guidette for Halloween), Kim and I made our way to Forever 21. I was reminded immediately, that I am NOT forever 21. We filled my arms with gold, black, bejeweled and ruched mini dresses and, well, it went questionably. At one point, Kim, who was waiting for me outside the dressing room as I tried on dress after dress, had to ask “Pharon, what are you laughing at!?” I mean, people, seriously. It was hilarious. There were cut-outs and elastic in places that should not have cutouts or elastic. Plus, I’m only 5’2” and these dresses were S.H.O.R.T.! Who wears that stuff?! But finally, I found one that didn't make me want to throw up. I peeked my head through the curtain and beckoned Kim in to the room with me. I stood uncomfortably in front of my dear friend, tugging at the dress, and hoped she wouldn’t start crying at the sight. Instead, she said, helpfully, “You’ll have stilettos on, and so much jewelry! Plus, the bars don’t have florescent lights in them. I think you look great!” God bless you, Kim.
Finally, I want to say “My Bad” to my liver. On Friday night, Liz, Ally and Kim came over and we did some work on some Prosecco and other various wines. Clean up on Saturday morning was really easy because all I did was collect like 8 empty bottles of wine and throw them in the garbage. But I really pushed my body to process all that, and it did a great job. So, I’m sorry and thank you, Body.
Whew! I feel better already! Now I can start the week fresh, and determined not to commit these same atrocities again. I mean, except the last one. That one just, well, my heart wasn’t really in that one.
But for realsies, I had a great weekend, and hopefully I have no more apologies like this next Sunday!
Okay, so first of all, I want to say “Sorrrrrry, Mom….” to, duh, my mom. She has planned a birthday dinner for me this coming Thursday night (have I mentioned it’s my birthday on Thursday? Probably not…I like to be really low-key about my birthdays. /sarcasm) and I crapped all over her plans. Which makes me sound like a total jerk. I’m lucky to have almost my whole ginormous family come out for my birthday, so restaurant options become limited. And when it was decided that we’d go to the private room at Olive Garden (When we’re there, we’re family!) I couldn’t get past the thought of the unlimited breadsticks that I could eat for days. The problem is, I’m about to squeeze myself into a tiny black dress for my Halloween costume next weekend, and my will power is lacking. But instead of just deciding not to eat 20 breadsticks, I complained and sounded like an ungrateful brat. So, Mom, in front of the fives and tens of people who read this, I’m sorry.
Now that we’ve gotten that ugliness out of the way, I’d now like to apologize to the fine people at Forever 21 who may have had the unhappy sight of my Minnesota-white body squeezed into a black sequined mini-dress. I don’t typically find myself in the glaringly bright store with floor-to-ceiling mirrors anymore. But, in the interest of finding an appropriate Snooki dress (yup, I’ll be dressing up as the lovable Guidette for Halloween), Kim and I made our way to Forever 21. I was reminded immediately, that I am NOT forever 21. We filled my arms with gold, black, bejeweled and ruched mini dresses and, well, it went questionably. At one point, Kim, who was waiting for me outside the dressing room as I tried on dress after dress, had to ask “Pharon, what are you laughing at!?” I mean, people, seriously. It was hilarious. There were cut-outs and elastic in places that should not have cutouts or elastic. Plus, I’m only 5’2” and these dresses were S.H.O.R.T.! Who wears that stuff?! But finally, I found one that didn't make me want to throw up. I peeked my head through the curtain and beckoned Kim in to the room with me. I stood uncomfortably in front of my dear friend, tugging at the dress, and hoped she wouldn’t start crying at the sight. Instead, she said, helpfully, “You’ll have stilettos on, and so much jewelry! Plus, the bars don’t have florescent lights in them. I think you look great!” God bless you, Kim.
Finally, I want to say “My Bad” to my liver. On Friday night, Liz, Ally and Kim came over and we did some work on some Prosecco and other various wines. Clean up on Saturday morning was really easy because all I did was collect like 8 empty bottles of wine and throw them in the garbage. But I really pushed my body to process all that, and it did a great job. So, I’m sorry and thank you, Body.
Whew! I feel better already! Now I can start the week fresh, and determined not to commit these same atrocities again. I mean, except the last one. That one just, well, my heart wasn’t really in that one.
But for realsies, I had a great weekend, and hopefully I have no more apologies like this next Sunday!
Thursday, October 14, 2010
AARGH! Kelly Clarkson!
Loooove me some Happy Hour. Valerie, Lana and I met up at Cause in Uptown tonight (I highly recommend this place if you love good deals and excellent service, without having to fight for your server) and had some good ol’ fashioned girl time. Out of the hundreds of topics that were brought up, the one that really got my attention was Eyebrow Waxing. We talked about the intricacies of waxing vs. no waxing vs. do-it-yourself vs. professional service. We came to the conclusion that humans have entirely too much hair on our bodies.
My first experience with shaving was when I was 12. I went away to soccer camp, where I was on a team with older girls. One in particular took one look at my pre-pubescent legs and said “EW! Why don’t you shave?!“ Then she went back to organizing her Multiples and snap bracelets. I got home from soccer camp and asked my sister Prinna “How do you shave your legs?“ She wasn’t all that interested in, like, teaching me a vital life lesson so she mumbled “You just take a razor and go zhoop zhoop zhoop up your legs.“ She made quick, upward motions with her hands. So, I went in the bathroom, found a Bic and went zhoop zhoop zhoop. I was not planning on the 4 inch long piece of skin that came off due to too much pressure and dry legs. My mom made me use an electric razor after that. Then, when I was in high school, I used to shave my arms. Like, the whole arm. I thought it made me look skinnier. At the time, I was all of 80 pounds soaking wet, so I don’t know what my problem was.
The point is, I’ve never really “gotten” shaving. I’m lazy, clumsy, busy, tired and a bunch of other things that makes it exhausting to care about it. The only times I really focus on tweezing my eyebrows is when I have insomnia and can’t sleep. Then it becomes an obsession. And the morning after, it becomes a Mistake. I look like I’m always questioning what you’re saying.
However, I LOVE beards and moustaches (on men, duh). If I had one, I’d groom it constantly. I’d make funny shapes and styles. Facial hair is like an accessory! I’m always fascinated by it. I would have a little comb, and twirl my moustache between my fingers, or tug my beard when I’m confused…stuff like that.
Now, I’m not necessarily saying guys have it easy (Okay, I KIND of am saying that) but they have a much smaller surface area to attend to. I will say this, though. Two gentleman, who shall remain nameless to preserve their dignity, decided that they wanted to wax their backs. They didn’t want to go in someplace to have it done, so they gave me money to go buy them some wax. Next thing I know, one is laying on a dining room table while the other rips off the strips with the brute force of a dinosaur. The next day, one of them had a ginormous bruise on their back from the unfortunate technique of the velociraptor he had hired for the job.
Turns out, being a human is a hairy situation. The one thing that separates us from, say, lizards, is the fine hair that covers our bodies. Also, we are warm-blooded. And we don’t eat bugs. And other stuff that makes us different. But really the relevant thing here is the hair. And yet we spend zillions of dollars and like a quadrillion hours of time removing it. Why?
Well, I don’t know what to do about it. I guess people are just fine with their razors and laser hair removers and bleach and whatever else people use. Me? I have found that if I just systematically shave off layers of skin, like when I was younger, the hair will stop growing eventually.
On that note, you hairy freaks, have a great weekend!
My first experience with shaving was when I was 12. I went away to soccer camp, where I was on a team with older girls. One in particular took one look at my pre-pubescent legs and said “EW! Why don’t you shave?!“ Then she went back to organizing her Multiples and snap bracelets. I got home from soccer camp and asked my sister Prinna “How do you shave your legs?“ She wasn’t all that interested in, like, teaching me a vital life lesson so she mumbled “You just take a razor and go zhoop zhoop zhoop up your legs.“ She made quick, upward motions with her hands. So, I went in the bathroom, found a Bic and went zhoop zhoop zhoop. I was not planning on the 4 inch long piece of skin that came off due to too much pressure and dry legs. My mom made me use an electric razor after that. Then, when I was in high school, I used to shave my arms. Like, the whole arm. I thought it made me look skinnier. At the time, I was all of 80 pounds soaking wet, so I don’t know what my problem was.
The point is, I’ve never really “gotten” shaving. I’m lazy, clumsy, busy, tired and a bunch of other things that makes it exhausting to care about it. The only times I really focus on tweezing my eyebrows is when I have insomnia and can’t sleep. Then it becomes an obsession. And the morning after, it becomes a Mistake. I look like I’m always questioning what you’re saying.
However, I LOVE beards and moustaches (on men, duh). If I had one, I’d groom it constantly. I’d make funny shapes and styles. Facial hair is like an accessory! I’m always fascinated by it. I would have a little comb, and twirl my moustache between my fingers, or tug my beard when I’m confused…stuff like that.
Now, I’m not necessarily saying guys have it easy (Okay, I KIND of am saying that) but they have a much smaller surface area to attend to. I will say this, though. Two gentleman, who shall remain nameless to preserve their dignity, decided that they wanted to wax their backs. They didn’t want to go in someplace to have it done, so they gave me money to go buy them some wax. Next thing I know, one is laying on a dining room table while the other rips off the strips with the brute force of a dinosaur. The next day, one of them had a ginormous bruise on their back from the unfortunate technique of the velociraptor he had hired for the job.
Turns out, being a human is a hairy situation. The one thing that separates us from, say, lizards, is the fine hair that covers our bodies. Also, we are warm-blooded. And we don’t eat bugs. And other stuff that makes us different. But really the relevant thing here is the hair. And yet we spend zillions of dollars and like a quadrillion hours of time removing it. Why?
Well, I don’t know what to do about it. I guess people are just fine with their razors and laser hair removers and bleach and whatever else people use. Me? I have found that if I just systematically shave off layers of skin, like when I was younger, the hair will stop growing eventually.
On that note, you hairy freaks, have a great weekend!
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Braaaaains
Another weekend, another set of lessons learned. First off, fake blood is, well, not removable. But before I get to that very useful tidbit of information, I just want to say one thing. Saturday was the 3rd Angel Birthday for my niece Sophia who passed away from SIDS. I spent the day with my family at Pine Haven pumpkin patch. It was really wonderful to spend time together, enjoying the weather, and thinking of Sophia. And in addition to all this tragedy and grief, my brother-in-law is being sued and harassed by his former employer, Federated Insurance. And while I spent Saturday night with 8,000 people dressed up as zombies (again, more on that later), this disgusting excuse for a company is the real soul-less, blood-thirsty monster. I urge you, when you have the time, to check out my sisters blog at www.fedupwithfederated.com. Their actions are nothing short of merciless and evil. So, yeah, please check that out if you haven’t already.
Okay, so apparently every year for 6 years, people get dressed up as zombies and stagger around the West Bank moaning and yelling “Braaaaains!” I have never been on this Zombie Pub Crawl before, but this year, Ally and I went and bought the make up and got all zombified. Ally was a Zombie Geisha, and I was a Zombie Mental Patient. And we. Looked. Good.
Another lesson I learned was that when they advertise “drink specials for zombies” what they really mean is “No drink specials, and in fact, Pharon, beer is way more expensive than you thought.” So, my wallet is significantly lighter…and bloodier. Yeah, there was a lot of fake blood around. And it got all over me. I had some that I applied myself, but I came home with a lot more of it. It’s still on me. It like STAINED my skin. My hands, legs and stomach all looked like I was slapped repeatedly. So yeah, I don’t know how to get it off. Note to future zombies: Don’t put fake blood on anything you can’t cover up for work on Monday.
But it was a pretty fun night. Seeing 8,000 people dressed up as everything from Zombie Santas to Zombie Marilyn Monroes staggering around the city, moaning and begging for braaaains was quite a sight. And being part of it was great. One bonus of dressing as a zombie for a Saturday night was that I was really comfortable. I wore scrubs and a white t-shirt with flip flops. It was like wearing pajamas. And there was cheering going on, which I love at any event. “What do we want?” “BRAAAINNS!” “When do we want ‘em?” “BRAAAINNS!”
But, now all I want is bed. And when do I want it? Now.
Okay, so apparently every year for 6 years, people get dressed up as zombies and stagger around the West Bank moaning and yelling “Braaaaains!” I have never been on this Zombie Pub Crawl before, but this year, Ally and I went and bought the make up and got all zombified. Ally was a Zombie Geisha, and I was a Zombie Mental Patient. And we. Looked. Good.
Another lesson I learned was that when they advertise “drink specials for zombies” what they really mean is “No drink specials, and in fact, Pharon, beer is way more expensive than you thought.” So, my wallet is significantly lighter…and bloodier. Yeah, there was a lot of fake blood around. And it got all over me. I had some that I applied myself, but I came home with a lot more of it. It’s still on me. It like STAINED my skin. My hands, legs and stomach all looked like I was slapped repeatedly. So yeah, I don’t know how to get it off. Note to future zombies: Don’t put fake blood on anything you can’t cover up for work on Monday.
But it was a pretty fun night. Seeing 8,000 people dressed up as everything from Zombie Santas to Zombie Marilyn Monroes staggering around the city, moaning and begging for braaaains was quite a sight. And being part of it was great. One bonus of dressing as a zombie for a Saturday night was that I was really comfortable. I wore scrubs and a white t-shirt with flip flops. It was like wearing pajamas. And there was cheering going on, which I love at any event. “What do we want?” “BRAAAINNS!” “When do we want ‘em?” “BRAAAINNS!”
But, now all I want is bed. And when do I want it? Now.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, September 20, 2010
What We’ve Got Here is A Failure to Communicate
So, I'm in a bit of a war with a dude/chick on eBay right now. It’s a fierce battle of wits and honor, and there can be only one winner. It’s a matter of principles and integrity. As William Wallace might say, "It's well beyond rage. Help me. In the name of Christ, help yourselves. Now is our chance. Now. If we join, we can win." Plus, the whole thing is just plain annoying.
Here’s the long and the short of it. Two weeks ago, I was looking for a sweatshirt to give as a gift to Geo. The ones I was finding on the regular sites and stores were BLAHHHH, but then I found the one I wanted. On eBay. The seller claims to have a “store” where they print and ship everything, and indeed their stock levels were quite high. So, I did some clicking around and quickly decided, “Yup, this person checks out!”
Well, the Seller is a jerk. I may be getting scammed here. But I am way too stubborn to put a stop to the whole thing. See, here’s how it all went down:
I purchased said sweatshirt on a Tuesday. On Wednesday, I thought, ‘Maybe I should follow up with them and let them know I’m kind of on a deadline here.’ So, I sent a very nice email, requesting information. Here’s a snippet of my email:
”Can you please let me know the estimated delivery date of this item? I saw your excellent feedback and comments on how quickly you ship items, and initially didn't give it a second thought, but it's a gift for someone, so I just want to double check.”
Here was the response I received, verbatim:
”shouldn’t take to (sic) long”
Uh, okay. Helpful? Well, the birthday came and went. No sweatshirt. Then I got a message that the Seller was now “Unavailable until October”. So immediately I panicked, punched the air, and launched some profanities at my computer screen. Then I composed myself and emailed the seller again.
”It appears as though you are gone until Oct. and there is no shipping information/tracking # available. I need to know if this will not be sent until you return in October, or the tracking information so I can figure out whether or not I need to cancel this transaction.”
The seller’s response, again, verbatim:
"youll have it soon"
Well, that was it. I sent another email to Shakespeare. I informed him/her about the basic principles of Business Ethics, and how he/she was failing miserably. Then I reminded him/her of the repercussions bad feedback can have, and reiterated my overall disgust with the lack of information I was getting. I then threatened, “You are making me very worried about my purchase, and making yourself seem very shady. Don’t make me ask for my money back.”
The Seller replied that answering my emails was taking time away from shipping items, and they would just as soon refund my money than have to deal with this transaction any longer. HA! We’ll see about that! I will NOT be bullied into giving in to the crazy demands of an Evil Corporation who preys on the innocence of people who just want a stupid Sons of Anarchy sweatshirt! Cancel the transaction? NEVAHHH! Muahahahaha!
So I started to write another furious, spiteful email informing the Seller of my refusal to be neglected as a paying customer. Then, I stopped writing it. How long would this go on? How long will I be at the mercy of this faceless scam artist? I can end this. I decided to cut my losses and admit defeat. Sure, it may scar my reputation in the crazy-competitive world of the online sweatshirt-buying biz, but who cares? I can take the high road here (see MOM??) and sleep well tonight.
Here’s the long and the short of it. Two weeks ago, I was looking for a sweatshirt to give as a gift to Geo. The ones I was finding on the regular sites and stores were BLAHHHH, but then I found the one I wanted. On eBay. The seller claims to have a “store” where they print and ship everything, and indeed their stock levels were quite high. So, I did some clicking around and quickly decided, “Yup, this person checks out!”
Well, the Seller is a jerk. I may be getting scammed here. But I am way too stubborn to put a stop to the whole thing. See, here’s how it all went down:
I purchased said sweatshirt on a Tuesday. On Wednesday, I thought, ‘Maybe I should follow up with them and let them know I’m kind of on a deadline here.’ So, I sent a very nice email, requesting information. Here’s a snippet of my email:
”Can you please let me know the estimated delivery date of this item? I saw your excellent feedback and comments on how quickly you ship items, and initially didn't give it a second thought, but it's a gift for someone, so I just want to double check.”
Here was the response I received, verbatim:
”shouldn’t take to (sic) long”
Uh, okay. Helpful? Well, the birthday came and went. No sweatshirt. Then I got a message that the Seller was now “Unavailable until October”. So immediately I panicked, punched the air, and launched some profanities at my computer screen. Then I composed myself and emailed the seller again.
”It appears as though you are gone until Oct. and there is no shipping information/tracking # available. I need to know if this will not be sent until you return in October, or the tracking information so I can figure out whether or not I need to cancel this transaction.”
The seller’s response, again, verbatim:
"youll have it soon"
Well, that was it. I sent another email to Shakespeare. I informed him/her about the basic principles of Business Ethics, and how he/she was failing miserably. Then I reminded him/her of the repercussions bad feedback can have, and reiterated my overall disgust with the lack of information I was getting. I then threatened, “You are making me very worried about my purchase, and making yourself seem very shady. Don’t make me ask for my money back.”
The Seller replied that answering my emails was taking time away from shipping items, and they would just as soon refund my money than have to deal with this transaction any longer. HA! We’ll see about that! I will NOT be bullied into giving in to the crazy demands of an Evil Corporation who preys on the innocence of people who just want a stupid Sons of Anarchy sweatshirt! Cancel the transaction? NEVAHHH! Muahahahaha!
So I started to write another furious, spiteful email informing the Seller of my refusal to be neglected as a paying customer. Then, I stopped writing it. How long would this go on? How long will I be at the mercy of this faceless scam artist? I can end this. I decided to cut my losses and admit defeat. Sure, it may scar my reputation in the crazy-competitive world of the online sweatshirt-buying biz, but who cares? I can take the high road here (see MOM??) and sleep well tonight.
Monday, September 13, 2010
The Way to A Podcaster's Heart...Is Not Through His Stomach (Thank God)
Today I was treated to a sneak-peek at the boys' pod cast. Perek, Mitch, Chad, and Geo have been in the process of developing, recording and editing their own pod cast and tonight I got to listen to it. Don’t be jealous, people. My early-adopter status comes after years of dedication to the guys. I’ve literally spent hours watching and re-watching the video of their Boys Trip to South Dakota. Oh, and also, I’m dating one of them. And another one of them is my brother. Whatever. I digress.
Anyway, back to their pod cast. I have to hand it to them. It’s really funny. And I actually learned some things. I can’t wait for the next one! As soon as it’s up and running, I’ll let you guys know. And for you male readers: You especially will love it, I promise. Okay, so they have this special segment every month where they each have to do a challenge for the next month. Then at the next pod cast, they share their results. I bring this all up because I didn’t know what this month’s challenge was until I listened tonight.
Here’s the gist of it. All the guys had to do something “altruistic” for their girlfriends/wives/someone special for a month. Without telling them. You know, fix something that they get nagged about and see what happens. Cleaning, morning routines, etc. So, on comes Geo. He mentioned, with NO prompting, that I do not nag. That I really don’t bug him about anything. I’m just that great of a girlfriend. Okay, Geo, major major points there. So, Geo’s challenge was simply to accept food when I offered it. Rough, right?
Let me try and explain what makes this “challenging”. Geo and I are Jack Sprat and his wife. I gain weight after just looking at a bagel. Geo has the metabolism of a hummingbird who‘s on a steady diet of 5 Hour Energy. Needless to say, we eat very different meals. Geo’s McDonald’s, I’m egg whites. And one of the oddest things Geo has ever said is that he doesn’t like cold food. He says “Every food is better hot, and everything hot is better.” Therefore, no salads. No carrot sticks. Not even a sandwich at Subway. And that’s like, 50% of my diet.
The problem with Geo’s “challenge” was that, because I’m not insane I have long since stopped asking Geo if he wants to try the low-fat, low-sodium wontons I make. Or the caprese salad with the perfect amount of balsamic drizzled on top. What it boiled down to is that all he “had” to eat was homemade grilled pizza, some Caesar salad, and some Asian-style chicken skewers that he actually already likes. Again: Rough, right?
I don’t know if I should be flattered or very insulted. I mean, on the one hand, it’s nice to know that I am not a naggy girlfriend, and that I really have no complaints about Geo. He really is amazing. But on the other hand, Geo basically had to force himself to eat my cooking. Is that a win? I mean, I guess I’ll take it. Come to think of it, I’ll gladly give up my responsibilities to feed others. I’ll take it as my reward for not nagging. Here’s a secret, too. I don’t even really like cooking. I’m not all that good at it. It’s really hard for me. I frequently burn things (and once set a pot of oil on fire), and the only thing I know about measurement is that a pint’s a pound the world around which has virtually no importance in the kitchen.
The point is, I’m really excited to be able to share their pod cast with you when it’s ready. I know you guys will all love it as much as I do. Plus, I’m going to go ahead and assume they’ll probably say awesome things about me every episode. It'll take up like half the episode, I'm sure. Well, unless it’s about how to cook anything more complicated than cereal.
Anyway, back to their pod cast. I have to hand it to them. It’s really funny. And I actually learned some things. I can’t wait for the next one! As soon as it’s up and running, I’ll let you guys know. And for you male readers: You especially will love it, I promise. Okay, so they have this special segment every month where they each have to do a challenge for the next month. Then at the next pod cast, they share their results. I bring this all up because I didn’t know what this month’s challenge was until I listened tonight.
Here’s the gist of it. All the guys had to do something “altruistic” for their girlfriends/wives/someone special for a month. Without telling them. You know, fix something that they get nagged about and see what happens. Cleaning, morning routines, etc. So, on comes Geo. He mentioned, with NO prompting, that I do not nag. That I really don’t bug him about anything. I’m just that great of a girlfriend. Okay, Geo, major major points there. So, Geo’s challenge was simply to accept food when I offered it. Rough, right?
Let me try and explain what makes this “challenging”. Geo and I are Jack Sprat and his wife. I gain weight after just looking at a bagel. Geo has the metabolism of a hummingbird who‘s on a steady diet of 5 Hour Energy. Needless to say, we eat very different meals. Geo’s McDonald’s, I’m egg whites. And one of the oddest things Geo has ever said is that he doesn’t like cold food. He says “Every food is better hot, and everything hot is better.” Therefore, no salads. No carrot sticks. Not even a sandwich at Subway. And that’s like, 50% of my diet.
The problem with Geo’s “challenge” was that, because I’m not insane I have long since stopped asking Geo if he wants to try the low-fat, low-sodium wontons I make. Or the caprese salad with the perfect amount of balsamic drizzled on top. What it boiled down to is that all he “had” to eat was homemade grilled pizza, some Caesar salad, and some Asian-style chicken skewers that he actually already likes. Again: Rough, right?
I don’t know if I should be flattered or very insulted. I mean, on the one hand, it’s nice to know that I am not a naggy girlfriend, and that I really have no complaints about Geo. He really is amazing. But on the other hand, Geo basically had to force himself to eat my cooking. Is that a win? I mean, I guess I’ll take it. Come to think of it, I’ll gladly give up my responsibilities to feed others. I’ll take it as my reward for not nagging. Here’s a secret, too. I don’t even really like cooking. I’m not all that good at it. It’s really hard for me. I frequently burn things (and once set a pot of oil on fire), and the only thing I know about measurement is that a pint’s a pound the world around which has virtually no importance in the kitchen.
The point is, I’m really excited to be able to share their pod cast with you when it’s ready. I know you guys will all love it as much as I do. Plus, I’m going to go ahead and assume they’ll probably say awesome things about me every episode. It'll take up like half the episode, I'm sure. Well, unless it’s about how to cook anything more complicated than cereal.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Do You Remember?
Finally! The Labor Day weekend can begin! I’ve treated myself to taking Friday off, and look forward to filling my long weekend with hours upon hours of not Laboring. I did some research (a.k.a. briefly breezed through the Wikipedia entry) on Labor Day. Much as the name suggests, Labor Day is a day to celebrate the “working man”. To give rest to those who build the foundation on which this country stands. Also, it’s the official start to the NFL season. w00t.
When I was little I thought Labor Day had something to do with babies. You know, the whole “she’s going into labor!” thing? Yeah, I thought that’s what this weekend was all about. I don’t remember what I must have thought happened to spark the annual federal holiday in terms of a pregnant woman about to give birth, but I imagine it had something to do with the stork. Maybe it was his only day off. Or, his busiest day of the year. Who can say? The fact of the matter is, all things about that thought process were wrong. Such is life…
So Labor Day. The finest holiday I do not understand. According to sources (Wikipedia), there is a declaration that there are supposed to be parades and speeches by prominent leaders. Sounds, uh, fun? I’ll pass on those things. Instead, I will celebrate my love and appreciation for fellow workers by sleeping late, drinking beer, painting my nails, and decorating for my niece’s 5th birthday party. I can’t believe they didn’t include ANY of those national pastimes in the original declaration. Fools.
I do know one thing for sure. Labor Day is the day I start listening to Earth, Wind and Fire’s September on repeat. It’s pretty much the world’s greatest song of all time. I dare you to listen to it and not feel warm inside your bones. There was a perfect Labor Day a couple years ago when my friend Ally, Geo, Perek, and I hung out and played games all day and listened to the song on repeat. For like 3 hours. The best song for the best time of year. Now, I’m going back to watching the final pre-season Vikings game and gearing up for a delicious weekend of relaxing, enjoying the weather, and a whole lotta this:
(Happy Labor Day, kids. Be smart. Be safe. Be Youtiful.)
When I was little I thought Labor Day had something to do with babies. You know, the whole “she’s going into labor!” thing? Yeah, I thought that’s what this weekend was all about. I don’t remember what I must have thought happened to spark the annual federal holiday in terms of a pregnant woman about to give birth, but I imagine it had something to do with the stork. Maybe it was his only day off. Or, his busiest day of the year. Who can say? The fact of the matter is, all things about that thought process were wrong. Such is life…
So Labor Day. The finest holiday I do not understand. According to sources (Wikipedia), there is a declaration that there are supposed to be parades and speeches by prominent leaders. Sounds, uh, fun? I’ll pass on those things. Instead, I will celebrate my love and appreciation for fellow workers by sleeping late, drinking beer, painting my nails, and decorating for my niece’s 5th birthday party. I can’t believe they didn’t include ANY of those national pastimes in the original declaration. Fools.
I do know one thing for sure. Labor Day is the day I start listening to Earth, Wind and Fire’s September on repeat. It’s pretty much the world’s greatest song of all time. I dare you to listen to it and not feel warm inside your bones. There was a perfect Labor Day a couple years ago when my friend Ally, Geo, Perek, and I hung out and played games all day and listened to the song on repeat. For like 3 hours. The best song for the best time of year. Now, I’m going back to watching the final pre-season Vikings game and gearing up for a delicious weekend of relaxing, enjoying the weather, and a whole lotta this:
(Happy Labor Day, kids. Be smart. Be safe. Be Youtiful.)
Thursday, August 12, 2010
OMG. TGIF + BFF = wOOt!
After a brief appearance at work tomorrow (Can I get a ‘what-what‘ for summer hours?!), my weekend will begin. My friend Madeline is making a guest appearance, coming all the way from Chicago, IL. I’m ecstatic to see her, especially after getting bailed on last night by two separate, yet equally guilty, friends who shall remain nameless. Ouchie.
Madeline and I met in college and have survived exactly one fight, numerous personal tragedies, and more tailgates than 90% of the population. She doesn’t come to the Cities a lot, because she’s lived in Chicago for too long and is now a bonafide Chicago Snob. But I don’t care, because 24 hours from now, Madeline and I will be in Minneapolis, at the same time, in the same house.
The aforementioned ONE fight we’ve ever been in was because of $10. That’s it. I thought she owed me, she (wrongfully) disagreed. We didn’t talk for weeks. We are both that stubborn. People we hardly knew referred to that time as “when the world fell apart”. It shook the very foundation on which the school stood. Friends were divided, bars were claimed, territories were marked. Then, we got over ourselves and pretended like it never happened. I like that in a person.
But overall, we don’t fight. When we disagree, we change the subject. We don’t silently stew about the wrongs the other one has committed, we tell each other. I’d love it if all my relationships were like that. We can yell and scream at each other one night, and then the next day hug it out and move on. Because when it comes right down to it, we have too much fun together to throw it away because of bickering. We protect each other, we care about each other, and we trust each other. Plus, we have very different taste in men, which solves like 80% of problems most women our age have. At the end of the day, I laugh hardest with her, I’ve cried hardest with her, and I’ve probably partied hardest with her.
And I won’t bore you, or embarrass myself, with the gagillion stories of the fun we’ve had, but I hope you’ll take me at my word when I say that they were great. Lately, Madeline has been going through a wide variety of transitions in life. I’m boring and I haven’t changed in, well, too long. But there is something so exciting about seeing someone you’ve only seen a couple times since the “glory days”, no matter how different you may be. I feel invincible, like those days of terrorizing a town together are right at my fingertips. And disappointed as I was to learn that she may want to just stay at my house all night because she’s bringing her dog and doesn’t want to leave her alone, I have a feeling Minneapolis just isn’t ready for us yet.
Have a great weekend, everyone!
Madeline and I met in college and have survived exactly one fight, numerous personal tragedies, and more tailgates than 90% of the population. She doesn’t come to the Cities a lot, because she’s lived in Chicago for too long and is now a bonafide Chicago Snob. But I don’t care, because 24 hours from now, Madeline and I will be in Minneapolis, at the same time, in the same house.
The aforementioned ONE fight we’ve ever been in was because of $10. That’s it. I thought she owed me, she (wrongfully) disagreed. We didn’t talk for weeks. We are both that stubborn. People we hardly knew referred to that time as “when the world fell apart”. It shook the very foundation on which the school stood. Friends were divided, bars were claimed, territories were marked. Then, we got over ourselves and pretended like it never happened. I like that in a person.
But overall, we don’t fight. When we disagree, we change the subject. We don’t silently stew about the wrongs the other one has committed, we tell each other. I’d love it if all my relationships were like that. We can yell and scream at each other one night, and then the next day hug it out and move on. Because when it comes right down to it, we have too much fun together to throw it away because of bickering. We protect each other, we care about each other, and we trust each other. Plus, we have very different taste in men, which solves like 80% of problems most women our age have. At the end of the day, I laugh hardest with her, I’ve cried hardest with her, and I’ve probably partied hardest with her.
And I won’t bore you, or embarrass myself, with the gagillion stories of the fun we’ve had, but I hope you’ll take me at my word when I say that they were great. Lately, Madeline has been going through a wide variety of transitions in life. I’m boring and I haven’t changed in, well, too long. But there is something so exciting about seeing someone you’ve only seen a couple times since the “glory days”, no matter how different you may be. I feel invincible, like those days of terrorizing a town together are right at my fingertips. And disappointed as I was to learn that she may want to just stay at my house all night because she’s bringing her dog and doesn’t want to leave her alone, I have a feeling Minneapolis just isn’t ready for us yet.
Have a great weekend, everyone!
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
New Thoughts, New Roommates
Much like the weather in Minnesota, my living situation has changed, again.
After a long day of stifling heat, now it’s raining, our house is cooling off, and the perks of a female-dominated home are really coming to fruition.
Our new roommate Tina moved in last week, and the house is clean. It smells good. The TV is off, and Tina and her boyfriend just opened a bottle of wine. Tina and I are chillin’, Sanna is probably reliving her day at work where she served coffee and a turkey sandwich to THE Josh Harnett. (Apparently, he is even cuter in real life. Swoon!) The boys are just chatting about the good ol’ days of playing Halo in college. And now there is talk of playing Scrabble.
This is nothing like living with boys. Again, I want to reiterate my preference of living with boys, but nights like this really give the male species a run for their money. I can’t remember the last time any of my roommates were all in the same room, talking, no TV, playing some nice, wholesome board games.
Something keeps tugging at me though. The TV remote? Facebook? The desire to perform senseless acts of push-ups? I don’t know, but it’s almost a little alarming at how quiet and peaceful our house is right now. I’m used to the sounds of ESPN, or arguing about politics, or just general noise. So now that everything is as I used to believe it should be, it strikes me as odd that I’m so distracted by the sheer newness of it all. Also, the boys talking about Halo makes me want to play Halo. And that, my friends, is something I just don’t typically do.
There’s no competition around me. There’s no testosterone brimming at the edge of every comment. I have a feeling that if I wanted to, I could talk about my feelings, and people just might listen. Is it wrong that I feel a little out of place?
But then again, maybe being around all that masculinity has tamed my feminine prowess to the point of non-existence. But I have a dress on right now, people. And I like it. Sure I’m sipping a cold beer, but I’m doing it with jewelry on. I don’t know, I think this is a good thing. I think I need to regain some feminine skills, like communication and compassion. And showering.
And just now I realized that this might just work after all. Sanna turned on the TV, the Scrabble game seems to be getting quite tense, and I’m sitting in front of the fan while the wind blows up my dress without a care in the world. If men are from Mars, and women are from Venus, I do believe I may have found Earth. (Plus, neither Tina nor Geo had any problem telling me how dumb that last line was, and it felt good.)
After a long day of stifling heat, now it’s raining, our house is cooling off, and the perks of a female-dominated home are really coming to fruition.
Our new roommate Tina moved in last week, and the house is clean. It smells good. The TV is off, and Tina and her boyfriend just opened a bottle of wine. Tina and I are chillin’, Sanna is probably reliving her day at work where she served coffee and a turkey sandwich to THE Josh Harnett. (Apparently, he is even cuter in real life. Swoon!) The boys are just chatting about the good ol’ days of playing Halo in college. And now there is talk of playing Scrabble.
This is nothing like living with boys. Again, I want to reiterate my preference of living with boys, but nights like this really give the male species a run for their money. I can’t remember the last time any of my roommates were all in the same room, talking, no TV, playing some nice, wholesome board games.
Something keeps tugging at me though. The TV remote? Facebook? The desire to perform senseless acts of push-ups? I don’t know, but it’s almost a little alarming at how quiet and peaceful our house is right now. I’m used to the sounds of ESPN, or arguing about politics, or just general noise. So now that everything is as I used to believe it should be, it strikes me as odd that I’m so distracted by the sheer newness of it all. Also, the boys talking about Halo makes me want to play Halo. And that, my friends, is something I just don’t typically do.
There’s no competition around me. There’s no testosterone brimming at the edge of every comment. I have a feeling that if I wanted to, I could talk about my feelings, and people just might listen. Is it wrong that I feel a little out of place?
But then again, maybe being around all that masculinity has tamed my feminine prowess to the point of non-existence. But I have a dress on right now, people. And I like it. Sure I’m sipping a cold beer, but I’m doing it with jewelry on. I don’t know, I think this is a good thing. I think I need to regain some feminine skills, like communication and compassion. And showering.
And just now I realized that this might just work after all. Sanna turned on the TV, the Scrabble game seems to be getting quite tense, and I’m sitting in front of the fan while the wind blows up my dress without a care in the world. If men are from Mars, and women are from Venus, I do believe I may have found Earth. (Plus, neither Tina nor Geo had any problem telling me how dumb that last line was, and it felt good.)
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Misogy-neato!
This weekend, I went to Prinna’s to help her and my mom redecorate her laundry room. And by “help” them, I mean that I painted one corner of the floor and then played with my nieces while Prinna and my mom did all the actual work. After all the final pieces were arranged, we collapsed down on the couches to enjoy some quiet and a quick Movie on Demand. Now don’t ask why, because I don’t know, but Prinna chose the movie Gidget, made in 1959, starring the perfectly perky Sandra Dee. If you don’t already indulge in old movies like this, I highly suggest you start. Immediately. Gidget did not disappoint. It had all the elements of a great, old movie:
* The now-clichéd premise: A gang of surfer dudes adopt a young, totally square, unwomanly, naïve girl into their group, take her under their wings and teach her to surf. The girl, who they nickname Gidget, falls hard for the bad boy - the awesomely named Moon Doggie - and after a string of hilarious missteps and gaffes, the girl gets the guy. There’s a sunset, a kiss, and a radical happy ending.
* The simple characters. First there’s Moon Doggie and Gidget, there’s the weathered beach bum Kahuna, the mom who makes a hot dinner every night promptly at 5 p.m., the disciplinary dad who brings home the bacon, and a gaggle of other nameless lackies who pepper the beach with high-fives and pseudo-sexist comments.
* There’s the always-necessary beach party (or, as Kahuna refers to it, an orgy).
* The horrible green screen work and special effects. Kahuna “surfs” while wearing a sombrero-type hat thing and smoking a cigarette. The “ocean” looks more like a lake with all the seaweed and brown stuff in the water that they couldn’t photoshop out. And, best of all, Prinna saw the budgetary restrictions in full effect at the beach party scene. There’s a totally outrageous band of brass players playing their happy-go-lucky rebel rock, and all the ne’er-do-well kids are alternating between smooching and jitterbugging on the beach. Crazy orgy, indeed! During one of the dancing scenes, one of the guys in the background hurls his “girl” up in the air, and she comes crashing down onto the beach. Upon closer inspection, we discovered that the “girl” is a stuffed dummy, as are many of the other party goers. Who needs paid extras?!
*Finally, it had the kind of message that a gal like me just loves. The message is literally crocheted on a napkin-thing, framed, and hung on Gidget’s bedroom wall. “A girl becomes a woman when she brings out the best in a man.” Ahhh…sweet, sweet misogyny.
The old movies that I love have most of these elements in common. I can’t explain why I love movies that promote, nay enforce, such a different view on life than I have. It’s all about getting the man to love you, to cook him a great dinner, and to look great and be sweet while doing it. If these were the standards today, I’d fail miserably. Sure, I’ve got the guy. But I can’t cook, I can barely apply make up, and I’d never bite my tongue if some dude on the beach told me I belonged in the nursery (yes, this an actual BURRRNNN in Gidget).
Nevertheless, I’m pretty sure I’ll watch Gidget again. I’m pretty sure I’ll actually seek out movies like this and watch them on a rainy day in my pajamas while sipping a glass of wine and not doing dishes or laundry. It doesn’t get any more escapist than that!
* The now-clichéd premise: A gang of surfer dudes adopt a young, totally square, unwomanly, naïve girl into their group, take her under their wings and teach her to surf. The girl, who they nickname Gidget, falls hard for the bad boy - the awesomely named Moon Doggie - and after a string of hilarious missteps and gaffes, the girl gets the guy. There’s a sunset, a kiss, and a radical happy ending.
* The simple characters. First there’s Moon Doggie and Gidget, there’s the weathered beach bum Kahuna, the mom who makes a hot dinner every night promptly at 5 p.m., the disciplinary dad who brings home the bacon, and a gaggle of other nameless lackies who pepper the beach with high-fives and pseudo-sexist comments.
* There’s the always-necessary beach party (or, as Kahuna refers to it, an orgy).
* The horrible green screen work and special effects. Kahuna “surfs” while wearing a sombrero-type hat thing and smoking a cigarette. The “ocean” looks more like a lake with all the seaweed and brown stuff in the water that they couldn’t photoshop out. And, best of all, Prinna saw the budgetary restrictions in full effect at the beach party scene. There’s a totally outrageous band of brass players playing their happy-go-lucky rebel rock, and all the ne’er-do-well kids are alternating between smooching and jitterbugging on the beach. Crazy orgy, indeed! During one of the dancing scenes, one of the guys in the background hurls his “girl” up in the air, and she comes crashing down onto the beach. Upon closer inspection, we discovered that the “girl” is a stuffed dummy, as are many of the other party goers. Who needs paid extras?!
*Finally, it had the kind of message that a gal like me just loves. The message is literally crocheted on a napkin-thing, framed, and hung on Gidget’s bedroom wall. “A girl becomes a woman when she brings out the best in a man.” Ahhh…sweet, sweet misogyny.
The old movies that I love have most of these elements in common. I can’t explain why I love movies that promote, nay enforce, such a different view on life than I have. It’s all about getting the man to love you, to cook him a great dinner, and to look great and be sweet while doing it. If these were the standards today, I’d fail miserably. Sure, I’ve got the guy. But I can’t cook, I can barely apply make up, and I’d never bite my tongue if some dude on the beach told me I belonged in the nursery (yes, this an actual BURRRNNN in Gidget).
Nevertheless, I’m pretty sure I’ll watch Gidget again. I’m pretty sure I’ll actually seek out movies like this and watch them on a rainy day in my pajamas while sipping a glass of wine and not doing dishes or laundry. It doesn’t get any more escapist than that!
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Chicks and Balance
I got a much-needed shot of estrogen tonight. My friends Lana and Valerie and I hung out and enjoyed some champagne and lemonade cocktails with some delicious fruit and chocolate treats from Lunds. Yum! The three of us sat and chatted about friends, boyfriends, husbands, interior design, fun kitchen gadgets, and all that good stuff. It’s good for my soul, I think. I just don’t get the opportunity to indulge all that much.
I’ve always been more of the Girl Who Hangs Out With the Guys. I like (most) sports, I know a thing or two about building desks, I don’t typically talk at length about the details of my day, and I’m usually pretty content with doing nothing at all. I don’t even mind video games that much. In fact, I welcome the distraction sometimes. I can appreciate and tell pretty dirty jokes, and most importantly, I can get made fun of for wearing ugly shoes and not spend an hour crying in the bathroom. I think that’s why I’ve always preferred to live with guys. They aren’t complicated. They make sense to me.
But there is something to be said about Girls Night. A little “I'm freaked out about...” or “I don’t know what to do about…” never hurt anyone, and having a girl friend or two to bounce that back is refreshing. At first when I showed up tonight, Lana asked “So what’s new?” I said “Oh, not much” out of habit. But 3 ½ hours later, I’ve spilled my guts, and they’ve listened to every word. They don’t judge, they don’t dismiss or make fun of me, and they don’t criticize. Meanwhile, I’m totally enthralled in Valerie’s attempt at helping her boyfriend choose furniture, and checking out all the fun wedding stuff Lana got. It’s like the chocolate raspberry mascarpone we devoured tonight. I love it. I don’t eat it every day, but when I do, I enjoy every bite.
It’s all about balance, people. A healthy diet needs both the comfort foods and the good-for-you foods. So, my comfort meal of “wearing pajamas until 3 p.m. while watching football and drinking beer” can only be maintained if I can fit in the “put on matching clothes and do my hair in order to be presentable in public to meet articulate, smart ladies and have an actual discussion” part. As if to illustrate my point, a ginormous bug literally just crawled across the table, and I screamed like, well, a girl before smooshing it with a ping pong paddle and inspecting the carnage…balance.
I’ve always been more of the Girl Who Hangs Out With the Guys. I like (most) sports, I know a thing or two about building desks, I don’t typically talk at length about the details of my day, and I’m usually pretty content with doing nothing at all. I don’t even mind video games that much. In fact, I welcome the distraction sometimes. I can appreciate and tell pretty dirty jokes, and most importantly, I can get made fun of for wearing ugly shoes and not spend an hour crying in the bathroom. I think that’s why I’ve always preferred to live with guys. They aren’t complicated. They make sense to me.
But there is something to be said about Girls Night. A little “I'm freaked out about...” or “I don’t know what to do about…” never hurt anyone, and having a girl friend or two to bounce that back is refreshing. At first when I showed up tonight, Lana asked “So what’s new?” I said “Oh, not much” out of habit. But 3 ½ hours later, I’ve spilled my guts, and they’ve listened to every word. They don’t judge, they don’t dismiss or make fun of me, and they don’t criticize. Meanwhile, I’m totally enthralled in Valerie’s attempt at helping her boyfriend choose furniture, and checking out all the fun wedding stuff Lana got. It’s like the chocolate raspberry mascarpone we devoured tonight. I love it. I don’t eat it every day, but when I do, I enjoy every bite.
It’s all about balance, people. A healthy diet needs both the comfort foods and the good-for-you foods. So, my comfort meal of “wearing pajamas until 3 p.m. while watching football and drinking beer” can only be maintained if I can fit in the “put on matching clothes and do my hair in order to be presentable in public to meet articulate, smart ladies and have an actual discussion” part. As if to illustrate my point, a ginormous bug literally just crawled across the table, and I screamed like, well, a girl before smooshing it with a ping pong paddle and inspecting the carnage…balance.
Monday, June 28, 2010
PHARON = Eleven Points in Scrabble
This afternoon, I got a phone call at work. I answered methodically, “Hello, this is Pharon” and they asked, “Can I speak with Pharon?” I was quiet for a moment, biting my tongue, and replied, “Yes, this is Pharon”. Duh. “Oh,” he continued, “I thought you were a guy”. Now, if this were a rare occurrence, I probably wouldn’t write about it. But the fact that it happens a handful of times every week got me thinking. Then this link came up on Twitter from Mental Floss (a HIGHLY enjoyable time-waster!) Baby Naming Laws How appropriate! An article on names that are off-limits in other countries? Yes please! Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, the name Pharon wasn’t listed anywhere as an off-limit name. Not even in Japan! But I gotta wonder, “what’s in a name”? Or more importantly, “What’s in MY name”?
My name is made up. The way I’ve heard the story, my parents used Scrabble tiles. They put a ‘P’ down, and just went to town adding letters after it. I have 2 brothers and 2 sisters, all of whose names start with P. It’s a tradition that I used to think was lame and contrived. But now, I have every intention of carrying that tradition on in my own family. But still, “Pharon”? I mean, what does that even mean? The answer, of course, is Nothing. It doesn’t mean anything. I have been burdened, or blessed, with the responsibility to define my own name. No one grew up with a zillion Pharons in their class. And no one knew a Pharon who pushed a helpless girl off the top of the twirly slide in third grade just because the poor girl wasn’t paying attention and didn’t go down the slide fast enough, which caused her to skin her knee, miss recess, and have to sit in the nurses office while all the other kids played kickball outside. No. As far as I’m concerned, there is not another Pharon, evil or otherwise.
So all my life, I’ve been like this ambiguous mystery. Am I a boy or a girl? Do I have a good sense of humor because my name is weird, or am I just weird? Am I clever or am I automatically a disappointment because I’m not as creative as my name? It’s all there. And for all intents and purposes, I am solely responsible for the definition of myself. Because no one knows what to expect from a Pharon, do they?
Well, I’ve gone ahead and decided what to expect if you ever meet a girl named Pharon. Pharon’s are sometimes lazy. We like pretending we know how to do stuff, like write in HTML, change a flat tire, or walk with grace. We are loyal, and sometimes jealous. We’re dog people. We are thoughtful when necessary and can be downright nasty when angry. We’ve got freakishly small feet. And we know what counts: our family, our friends, and a hammock on our front porch.
But I’m pretty happy to be the only Pharon I’ll probably ever know. No one compares me to someone else, no one confuses me with that other Pharon, and no one ever says, “Wow, you do NOT seem like a Pharon.” ‘Cause honestly, who else would I be?
My name is made up. The way I’ve heard the story, my parents used Scrabble tiles. They put a ‘P’ down, and just went to town adding letters after it. I have 2 brothers and 2 sisters, all of whose names start with P. It’s a tradition that I used to think was lame and contrived. But now, I have every intention of carrying that tradition on in my own family. But still, “Pharon”? I mean, what does that even mean? The answer, of course, is Nothing. It doesn’t mean anything. I have been burdened, or blessed, with the responsibility to define my own name. No one grew up with a zillion Pharons in their class. And no one knew a Pharon who pushed a helpless girl off the top of the twirly slide in third grade just because the poor girl wasn’t paying attention and didn’t go down the slide fast enough, which caused her to skin her knee, miss recess, and have to sit in the nurses office while all the other kids played kickball outside. No. As far as I’m concerned, there is not another Pharon, evil or otherwise.
So all my life, I’ve been like this ambiguous mystery. Am I a boy or a girl? Do I have a good sense of humor because my name is weird, or am I just weird? Am I clever or am I automatically a disappointment because I’m not as creative as my name? It’s all there. And for all intents and purposes, I am solely responsible for the definition of myself. Because no one knows what to expect from a Pharon, do they?
Well, I’ve gone ahead and decided what to expect if you ever meet a girl named Pharon. Pharon’s are sometimes lazy. We like pretending we know how to do stuff, like write in HTML, change a flat tire, or walk with grace. We are loyal, and sometimes jealous. We’re dog people. We are thoughtful when necessary and can be downright nasty when angry. We’ve got freakishly small feet. And we know what counts: our family, our friends, and a hammock on our front porch.
But I’m pretty happy to be the only Pharon I’ll probably ever know. No one compares me to someone else, no one confuses me with that other Pharon, and no one ever says, “Wow, you do NOT seem like a Pharon.” ‘Cause honestly, who else would I be?
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