Hold That Thought

I spent a blissful 45 minutes on hold tonight. Wait, did I say blissful? I meant Excruciating. It was the worst kind of hold music, too. That tune-less, high-pitched orchestra song that just goes on and on and on and on, with brief periods of interruptions from the "helpful" automated woman, encouraging me to stay on the line as my turn would come just as soon as the next operator becomes available. She may as well have said "Yup, you're still on hold. I don't feel your pain because I am but a computer and lack human emotion." I'd rather she mind her own business and let me enjoy the horrible, yet consistent music.

I'm definitely preferable to having a countdown when I'm on hold. You know, the "Thank you for holding," - oh, well you're quite welcome - "There are..." pause for even more robotic voice - "seven.teen. Callers in front of you." I like that a lot, because I look forward to hearing that strange woman. She comes on and it's like playing the lottery. I'm all "ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod! Am I close? Am I close!?!" It's just a much better use of my time on the phone. Then there's the rare time when you'll go from like the 17th person on hold to the 12th in one period. It's times like that when I pity the poor folks who couldn't hack the hold. That, or they just had a wicked quick question, and if that was the case I would guess they asked the kind of question that could have been easily answered online. Either way, they are schmucks and I reap the rewards.

You know what I'd like to hear when I'm on hold? Other people's calls. One, it'd make you think twice about calling with something stupid or personal which, okay, could be a bad thing arguably. But think of all the juicy personal problems of other people you'd be privy to! Awesome, and possibly super hilarious. I would love to hear the ONE call, to like Comcast, from the person who DOESN'T have the power turned on on their TV. "Oh, I have to turn it on? Okay! Yup, that seems to have done the trick. Thanks!" Dummy. And two, who knows how many people on hold have the same question I have? If I were #214 in line on hold, I'd be willing to bet a nice chunk of change that the person at #3 has a similar, if not the exact same, question as me. See? Everyone's a winner.

Okay, I get the theory behind hold music, though. It lets me know my call is still connected, keeps me paying attention by every once in awhile playing an awesome instrumental version of "Rich Girl", and it calms me down usually. I hate being on hold, but that darn cathartic flute solo eases my frazzled nerves every time. So, yeah. I get while we all have to suffer through it. It, much like PMS, is a necessary evil.

But aren't we far enough along technologically that Hold Music is simply archaic? I don't think I've even used my phone to talk on it for like weeks. And yet, when I finally do make a call, it's like calling 1988. "Where we're going we don't NEED roads." Yes, that was a Back to the Future reference. Love it. We're all used to instant information, you know? So hold music is just, well it's just DUMB. I can't even believe I'm writing about it. It just totally caught me off guard. I was on hold for SO long, and the music was SO bad I just couldn't wrap my head around it. I wish I had the capability to video phone customer service places, and then instead of hold music, they'd have like Hold Movies. Or Hold Family Guy Episodes. That would, well, that would just be tops.

Geez, even WRITING about Hold Music has calmed my nerves a little bit. I went from stressed and worried to mind-numbingly bored. I guess we'll call it cheap therapy for now. A quick fix for a broke nutjob. I suggest next time you find yourself traveling back in time and waiting on hold, you try and enjoy the forced slow down. It's like watching Sixteen Candles on VHS. Not ideal, but a good way to slow down and enjoy some Spandau Ballet.

Get Lost

“We have to go back.” If you ever watched Lost you know what I’m talking about. And tonight, friends, We Went Back. Kim and Nick came over, we opened some beer and wine, and got to work watching the last season of Lost and going back to The Island. I’m going to go ahead and spare you non-Losties and NOT write a whole blog about how much I totally love and miss Lost. I am fighting the urge the write things like “Waaaaaalt!” and “Chahlie, stay away from ma bay-bay”, and talk about things like how much I hate Kate and her constant “I’m coming with you” statements. I’ll refrain. But I will tell you this: If you didn’t or won’t watch Lost, your life will be unfulfilled.

Oh, I also want to say a quick little thing to Losties: Did you all hear about the 30 or so people who hit the JACKPOT by playing the Lost numbers in the lottery?! CRAZY! One of the creators of Lost joked that all the people who won are cursed. HILARIOUS.

Alright, moving on, I’m going to just confess something. Lost is not just a show for me. It’s actually a way of life for me. I get lost allllllll the time. As in: hopelessly, desperately, pathetically lost. I have no internal compass. I have no idea where west is from where I am right now, and if you asked me what part of Minneapolis I live in, I would tell you “Right near the Walker museum”. Because I have no idea if I’m in north, south, east, or west Minneapolis. It’s like my hopeless relationship with math. Nothing logical makes sense in my head.

I think maybe it has a little something to do with a couple things. One: I was not a good driver when I got my license. My mom restricted me from driving any further than a 4 block radius of my house. Rightfully so, though. About a week after being allowed to drive to school, I rear-ended someone. I'm an idiot. Anyway, TWO: I've only ever lived in Iowa and Minnesota, which all pretty much look the same to me. There's always just like a main road, and a bunch of side streets. I take the main roads until Google Maps tells me to exit. Not difficult.

Kim and I were driving from school in Iowa City back home to Minneapolis. We were trying a new route that I had looked up. Kim was hesitant. About 2 hours into the ride, we came to the realization that we weren't exactly lost, but we certainly weren't taking the fastest way. She never took my directions again.

I think that by far, the most infamous example of my knack for getting lost was when I was driving from Padrin's house in Decorah, IOWA to Iowa City, IOWA. I figured it wouldn't be too difficult. I wrote down some directions, popped in a CD and went on my way. Two hours later, I'm in Illinois. I know you're thinking, "But Pharon, didn't you figure out that you were lost when you were CROSSING OVER THE MISSISSIPPI RIVER?" No. No, I didn't know that crossing the giant bridge was sending me into an entirely different state, because shockingly, I have no idea where the Mississippi River is in relation to anything else. It's in the middle of the country. That's all I know. But driving around in Iowa/Illinois looks exactly the same, so I didn't realize I was lost until waaaaay too late. I had to call my work from a gas station to explain I would be late for my waitressing shift. When they pressed me for more details, I pretended I lost the signal and hung up.

I wish I had a better sense of direction, I really do. But honestly, with GPS, Google street view, and everything else, I don't get lost all that often. As long as I follow the directions, I'm great. But if I miss one turn, or one exit is under construction, I'm screwed. Did you guys know that if you call 411 and give them your current location and your destination, they can GIVE YOU DIRECTIONS? I know this, because it's on my speed dial. Well, it was before I had a phone with internet. The point is, I'll never have to suffer through the embarrassment of stopping in to gas station to ask for directions to place that ends up being "Uh, that's literally down the block" ever again.

Oh well. I guess I'm stuck using the numerous technological devices at my disposal to get from point A to point B.

But, back to Lost. We are re-watching the last season of the show, and I'm just as enthralled as I was the first time I saw it. The odd thing is, for as complicated and twisty and turny as it is, I can follow the story. Now, if someone made me DRIVE to a different city to WATCH Lost, you can bet I'd never get there.

Have a great weekend, everyone! Losties, this one's for you...

(Hopefully Not) The Best Part of Waking Up

Welp, it's official. I'm THAT GIRL. I've allowed Geo to drag me to a coffee shop to sit next to each other, while we both stare at our own computers. I'm like a wannabe-writer from 5 years ago. Geo convinced me to come by saying "J.K. Rowling used to sit at a coffee shop and write all day every day. Then she wrote a little book called Harry Potter." I dismissed him and said I'd never heard of the woman, but secretly, I wondered if Spyhouse Coffee would give me free coffee all day if I promised to sit here and write something really good.

So, I'm sitting at Spyhouse Coffee. Writing. I'm that jerk. My first attempt at putting together some writing samples for a couple little side projects went, um, not well. I came up with nothing. I just kept thinking "Man, I just wanna write my blog". So, I'm doing just that. Whatever works, right?

Sanna works at Spyhouse and she has told me that THE Josh Hartnett is kind of a "regular" here. I warned Geo, as we left the house, that if Josh Hartnett is here, I'm leaving him for Josh. Geo took one look at me, in my giant full-length down coat, carrying my 1,700 pound computer bag and he laughed right in my face. He then commented that maybe I should brush my hair first.

Alas, there is no Josh Hartnett. Just me and a bunch of other jerks sitting, typing, and drinking coffee. So cliche. Honestly, I don't know how people come to write anything, even an email, at these places. The music is LOUD. And it's music I hate. So, I've also got my iPod on, blaring the new T.I. album. I couldn't be more distracted. And yet, the blogging continues.

When I was home during college, I used to sit at this hipster coffee shop in Uptown with my friends all night. We weren't old enough to go to bars, so we'd drink Italian sodas as if they were cocktails, and cram ourselves into the back corner of Pandora's Coffeehouse while we'd talk about, like, how we couldn't stand living with out parents. We literally spent HOURS there at least 4 nights a week. I'm so glad I turned 21. Bars are far superior to coffeehouses. But, I guess, it's not totally awesome to be sitting at a bar for hours upon hours during the day. It would get pretty expensive, and people start wondering if you have a problem with the booze.

Anyway, I'm halfway through with my coffee, I'm growing more and more distracted by the people around me. There is a table of four people, each sitting in front of their own computer, each not speaking to each other. There is a line of people who ordered coffee and then drowned it in sugar and flavored creamer - why order coffee in the first place? There's a lot of hipster facial hair on the guys, and lots of layered scarves on the girls. Also, I don't know who ever said the newspaper business is dying, because apparently every person who comes to a coffee shop during the day reads a paper. Not even on a computer. That's one trend I definitely support. What's old is kitsch again...thanks, Hipsters. You very well may be keeping The New York Times in business.

I gotta hand it to the people here, though. No one has bugged me. No one expects me to leave my seat anytime soon. And, let's keep it real, I'm sitting here during the day writing a BLOG. To the other patrons here, I'm just a girl who probably doesn't have a job, who writes a blog about her feelings or other random crap, and who is probably wearing an Old Navy sweater to be ironic. Little do they know, though, I'm a girl who DOES have a job, who writes a blog about her feelings or other random crap, and is wearing an Old Navy sweater because she thinks it's cute and it was only $5. Suckers.

Okay, time to pack up and head out. I've successfully finished a blog, edited an essay for Geo, wrote some random writing projects, and checked in on Twitter for the first time in like a week. I feel both productive and relaxed. However, I've gotten nowhere on my novel about child wizards. Oh well, you win some, you lose some.

Good Thing Hipsters Don't Read Blogs Anymore

I looked up the meaning of “hipster” today. That’s right, I went to good ol’ urbandictionary.com just so I knew for sure what I was saying when I snarl “UGH, HIPSTERS". Turns out, too many hipsters are web-savvy and know how to enter their own meanings on urbandictionary.com. Here are some gems:

“The Hipster walks among the masses in daily life but is not a part of them and shuns or reduces to kitsch anything held dear by the mainstream. A Hipster ideally possesses no more than 2% body fat.”

“…a subculture of men and women typically in their 20's and 30's that value independent thinking, counter-culture, progressive politics, an appreciation of art and indie-rock, creativity, intelligence, and witty banter.”

Okay, so riddle me this, Hipsters. Where, in all the definitions of “hipster” does it say you have to be a total D-Bag whilst shunning conventions? I had the unfortunate opportunity to wait in line at the grocery behind two hipsters last night, and I gotta say: Idiots. Total idiots. The guy and the girl were trying to scan a loose apple. For like 5 minutes. And they dawdled around like they were the only people in store. The guy was wearing glasses with no lenses in them (I could tell, because he stuck his finger through the frames to rub his eye) and French-rolled jeans with an ironic Polo tshirt on, as if he's trying to say, “Take THAT, societal norms! I am dressing like an 80’s homeless person and it’s cool because I am NOT FITTING IN!!” Yes, bravo, young lad. You’re really proving to everyone that you are different. By wearing exactly what all the other hipsters wear. COOL.

I know not all hipsters are like this. I know that there's a breed of wannabe-Hipsters, or Whipsters, who probably give the good ol’ fashioned hipsters - the creative, eccentric, tight-pants-wearing, advertising-firm-working, A Clockwork Orange-reading pioneers - a bad name.

But, much like crazy people, these Whipsters flock to me like I’m a half-off sale at American Apparel. There was the couple at the grocery store, the guy with fake glasses (what IS it with the fake glasses!?) who spilled his beer all over me at the bar who shrugged and said “Guess I need a refill”, or the moron walking through the DON’T WALK sign while I’m making a legal right turn. When I yelled “Don’t Walk, Hipster! Can‘t you read?!” He yelled back “Reading is for the bourgeois!” Okay, fine, he didn’t yell that, but if he had even remotely acknowledged the world around him, I imagine that’s what he would have said.

The point is this: I don’t care what you wear, what music you listen to, what your political views are, or how many pairs of leggings you have. I really don’t. But for the love of God, have a little basic awareness of those around you. You’re no more special than I am. You’re not. I don’t care how many times you’ve been to the Salvation Army to buy your clothes, or how you‘ve refused to eat anything but soy since 2003…you can’t just la-di-da around the world and ruin my day. I’m not asking you to go to med school, or eat a burger, or even [gasp] buy an American car. I’m just saying that you’re kind of just acting like jerks. Let’s pull it together, shall we?

(As an added bonus, and if there’s any question left as to what a “hipster” looks like, allow me to direct you to Look at this F&*#@!% Hipster for some ridiculous examples. It’s an awesome time suck, though not for people who are easily offended. For the record, this website was introduced to me by a rad dude who is, arguably, a hipster, Geo’s friend Guam.)

But It FEELS Much Later

So did you all turn your clocks back? I hope so. How awkward to be the only person in the office for an hour only to realize you could have still been sleeping in your nice, cushy bed still. I almost can’t wait to go to sleep tonight, and it’s only like 9:00.

I’m definitely okay with going back to routine tomorrow. I had another awesome weekend. I spent Friday night with the fam, playing poker, and drinking wine. I watched the Hawkeye game with Kim on Saturday and then Ally and Liz meandered over to my house and we drank more wine on Saturday night. We watched a couple ridiculously awesome 80’s flicks throughout the day. One of the movies was Dirty Dancing. We all realized that, um, Dirty Dancing is totally inappropriate for children to watch. All of us had seen it a ton of times before, and love it. But in our most recent viewing, we discovered that as children, we had all unknowingly witnessed a botched abortion take place in front of our eyes. Sheesh…and people were worried about the suggestive dance moves? Really? Oh, the 80’s…how innocent we all once were.

Anyway, so today I got to go to the………VIKINGS GAME! Yay! Geo and I hit up downtown Minneapolis to watch one of the most exciting Vikings game of the whole season. A win in overtime? Deal me in! So, after drinking beer all day, eating hot dogs and chicken wings, and screaming at the defense for a few hours, my testosterone levels have sufficiently and wonderfully been depleted. But, during my jumping up and down in the confined space of the stadium seating, I smashed my knee into the seat in front of me. Owie. That’ll teach me to stay put next time.

The movies, the house guests, the football, the poker, the injuries, the beer…ugh. Yeah, I need the 9-to-5 to bring me back to home base. I need the proper lunches, the organized chaos, and the regular showering. There were so many people coming and going this weekend that it’ll be nice to be back at work, in the relative comfort and quiet office buildings can offer.

Now I’m really hoping for a slow week. It’s getting to be that time of year, where a nice, quiet house is wonderfully necessary, and it wouldn’t hurt to have a crock pot stewing in the kitchen. Will that be possible in a house of 4 people? Probably doubtful, but here’s hoping! Well, Skol Vikings, thanks to my girl friends for being awesome and hilarious, and don’t, under any circumstance, let your kids watch Dirty Dancing.

The Name Game

I’m going to come right out and say it. I want a nickname. Like a really bomb nickname. This weekend at Geo’s Frisbee party, I hung out with a room of guys I ONLY know by their nickname. And tonight, I watched Jersey Shore and they all have nicknames too. I’m jealous. All I want is a sick nickname. A sickname, if you will. But no. I’ve been Pharon my whole life.

There was a brief period of time when the guys I lived with called me P.H.-Dawg. It was a sorry attempt, because they had been calling Perek “P-Dawg” forever. So, I just got like the Xhilaration version of that. (Please tell me you know the brand Xhilaration. It’s the like generic brand of clothes at Target.) Eventually, and for like a couple weeks, they took to calling me “P.H.” I kind of liked it, but it was so vanilla. But, alas, they stopped calling me that anyways. And back to Pharon I went.

In middle school, I was known as “Pharon the Boy” for a couple traumatizing weeks. A couple jerks in my homeroom plastered the walls of the classroom with pieces of paper with a Microsoft Paint picture they drew of a boy, and on all of them, they wrote “PHARON THE BOY”. I walked in the room, my usual happy-go-lucky self, and my jaw dropped down to my Doc Martens. I seriously have NO idea why it started, but kids are cruel. I took it like a champ, though. Mercifully, this one eventually faded as well. Thank God.

In college, I sent in that little form to get some checks in the mail. They were going to be sooooo cute! Green pin stripes, I believe. So, I got the box of checks and went over to Madeline and Kelly’s house to show them off. (Luckily they are easily impressed.) I open the box of checks for them, very dramatically, and said “VOILA!” We took one look at them and Kelly burst out laughing. The checks were for PHARM. Sometimes Kelly still calls me Pharm. I think I’m even in her phone as Pharm. But again, it just didn’t stick.

As I mentioned a long time ago, my friend Claire calls me Papou. I actually do love that nickname. When she texts or Gchats me, she always says “Hey, Papou! How are YOU? What‘s NEW??” I love that! It rhymes, it’s cute, it’s not offensive, it didn’t stem from anything nasty. It’s perfect. But, she’s the only one who calls me that. It’s kind of our thing. But I want to walk into a party or business meeting and say, “Hey, what’s up? I’m Papou.” I can’t. No one else gets it.

But none of them stick! Can someone tell me how to get a nickname that actually STICKS? There’s like NO nickname for Pharon. It’s basically a nickname all in itself because it’s barely a real name. Curse this clever name! Can I just start one myself? Like, from now on everyone call me “Snooze”. Because I love to sleep, it rhymes with Booze, and, uh, my blog is Pharon Square, which rhymes with nightmare. When do you have a nightmare? When you’re taking a little snooze! I can’t believe no one else has thought of that!

Welp, this is Snooze, signing off…

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!

Wednesday Winner

I don’t have the energy to build this up the way it deserves. I just got back from an awesome Book Club, and I’ve got a lot on my mind. So, without further ado, I now present: THE WEDNESDAY WINNER!!



Polygamists! Yay! One man, several wives. Listen, I don’t get it. I really don’t. I just recently accepted the whole idea of one person + one spouse. So why you’d ever want more than one, I don’t know. But polygamy is the “Jon and Kate” of this season. Remember all those shows with parents who had like a zillion kids? Well, now it’s a zillion spouses. It’s everywhere these days. Tina and I have seen approximately a half dozen shows about polygamy this week. And let me tell you: it’s hilarious.

I mean, not only is polygamy illegal, it’s just unfortunate. But for some reason, these people really think it’s the bee’s knees. Some dude decides that he needs tons of wives to fulfill his spiritual destiny. Who am I to judge? Well, when you put it on TV, I get to be a judge. There’s a new TV show called Sister Wives where three women are married to some dude. They love it. One of them basically admitted that she could never just be married to a man. She’d be unhappy. She needs “sister wives”. In most other situations, someone would tell that poor woman to maybe just not marry that guy. It doesn’t seem like a good situation when you marry someone, hoping that at least one other person will come in to take some of the heat off.

But, as I mentioned, Tina and I have learned a lot about polygamy this week. For some reason, these shows are hot like fire. All these women sit around and talk about how they are soooo happy to be the “third wife” or the “sixth wife”. What? They just hang out and wait for their night with their husband. Until then, they just kind of raise their hundreds of kids. It’s the weirdest thing to me.

So, this week, this whole Polygamy thing made for some good conversations in the Pharon Square household. I now have 2 girl roommates and one male roommate. The chicks rule the roost. I can’t, for the life of me, understand why someone would choose that lifestyle. All that estrogen!! It’s so…so…undesirable. But again, the whole polygamy thing is the trend of the season. Polygamy is the new black, apparently. And it’s fascinating. It’s new. It’s funny. It’s not me. Which is why, this Wednesday, I declare polygamists the Wednesday Winner. They make me laugh, and more importantly, they make me happy I’m not them. Congratulations, polygamists! I don’t know how you’ll split this honorable award, but I’m sure you’ll find a way. You always do…

Boresville (Population: 1)

So bored. So, so, so very bored. I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting here, doing nothing, but it’s been awhile. I don’t have the TV on (nothing’s on), I think I’ve reached the end of the Internet and therefore have nothing else to look at, and I just don’t have anything I have to do tonight. So I’m just, like, sitting here. For 5 minutes straight, I thought about Smurfs and how awesome they are. I smurfin’ love the Smurfs. Then I just sat here. Not doing ANYthing. Not thinking about ANYthing.

I can’t remember the last time I actually felt truly BORED. When I was a kid, my friend (and next door neighbor) Claire and I were ALWAYS “bored”. We’d walk into the kitchen and ask my mom “What can we doooooo? We are so booooored!” She’d shoot off a half dozen ideas, none of which were quite right for us, and Claire and I would go back to moping until we’d eventually decide on a half-hearted fashion show. It was always either a fashion show or Restaurant. Both games enabled us to dress up and speak with a French accent. We’d go over and over and over the set-up before we even got to the actual game. Come to think of it, most of “playing” was just “planning on playing”. We’d work on our costumes, and then discuss our personas for hours. Who do we think should come in to eat? (New Kids on the Block.) What are we serving? (Chocolate cake and Goldfish.) Who gets to have the boyfriend? (I do.) By the time we set up all the rules, I had to go back home and clean my room.

Perek and I used to play Bank when we were bored. We’d get the thermoses from our lunch boxes, put Monopoly money in them and roll them back-and-forth across the floor while we laid underneath the twin beds in my room. That, or we’d play Sonic the Hedgehog on Sega and make up words to the instrumental songs on each level. We still remember some of the words. We were that cool. And if there was no one else to play with, I’d spend my days spying on my sisters or thinking of new ways to style my bowl cut.

The point is, I was always bored as kid, but had like a zillion things I could pretend to do. Now that I can actually do all the things in real life that I used to pretend I was doing, I don’t do it. Turns out? Going to the bank is not as much fun as it was with the thermoses. Then, at a certain point, boredom turns into “relaxation”. Sitting around with no plans, no chores, no place I have to rush off to is a luxury. I don't call my mom up and ask what I should do. I sit quietly and pray my phone doesn't ring. With that logic, I didn’t have a boring weekend, I had a relaxing weekend.

But right now? Right now, I’m definitely bored. And like the suggestions my mom would give us in the kitchen, nothing that I can do seems like any fun at all. Although, I kind of want to call someone and see if they want to play Fashion Show with me. Come on over, and we’ll dress up in all my ugly clothes and take Polaroids with our Barbies. I think THAT sounds fun.

False Alarm, Tony Danza. Continue to Maintain Your Distance

One of the most commonly misheard lyrics is Elton John's Tiny Dancer, when people sing “Hold me closer, Tony Danza…”. Well, years ago, I was sitting in a car with my friend Ally and singing the words to that very same song. Only I was singing ”Hold me close, I’m tired o’ daaaancin’”. Ally almost drove into a tree because she was laughing so hard. Between gasps for air, and with tears in her eyes, she laughed, “Pharon, it’s the NAME OF THE SONG!” Well, color me embarrassed.

I’m sort of known for picking up lyrics to songs at a freakishly fast rate. I can hear a song once and, usually, sing along with 90% of the song the next time I hear it. It's a gift. However, in my haste, I’ll scoot over a particular line I don’t know and mumble along. The problem is, most of the time I mess up the words, it’s actually the Title Of The Song. How can I pick up everything BESIDES the one thing a song explicitly gives us? Maybe I overthink the lyrics? Maybe I'm not actually LISTENING to the lyrics? I don't know.

For instance, today, I was singing along with a song by Vampire Weekend called Horchata. Until extremely recently (read: Today), I was singing the first line of the song as “In December, drinkin’ Hot Chowdahhh”. The real lyrics are “In December, drinkin’ Horchata”. Yeah. The NAME OF THE SONG is the part I got wrong. Facepalm.

More Proof Of this Pathetic Pattern:
Artist: Boyz II Men and Mariah Carey
Pharon’s Lyrics: Once We Dance
Actual Lyrics/Title of Song: One Sweet Day

Artist: Spin Doctors
Pharon’s Lyrics: One shoe, Prince will sleep before you
Actual Lyrics: One, Two Princes Kneel Before You
Title of Song: Two Princes

Artist: Prince
Pharon’s Lyrics: EIFFEL, DEIFFEL….DOO!!
Actual Lyrics/Title of Song: I would…die 4…U.

I know I’m not alone. There’s a whole website dedicated to misheard lyrics. There are zillions of them, and most are hilarious. But something about the fact that I just can’t comprehend that the SONG TITLE will, most likely, appear IN THE SONG confounds me. Does not compute. No comprende. Error 404-File or Directory Not Found.

Well, thank God for the internet and You Tube. Because of these technological advances, I can watch most song videos after someone has helpfully included the lyrics in the video. I’ll never be wrong again! Unless it's Sting (thanks Family Guy).

What about you? What are some of lyrics you never got quite right? I promise not to laugh. Hard. They can't be worse than Eiffel Deiffel Doo.

Randumb

Brace yourselves. I have no idea what's about to come out of this blog...I’ve truly outdone myself in way of the Procrastination Department. I have not done any of the following things I needed to do tonight: Laundry, cleaning my room, writing my blog, running a few errands, making a nice balanced dinner. Instead, I’m curled up on the couch, watching TV, drinking some wine, and eating left over giant cookie cake from Geo‘s birthday. My roommate Tina and I did run ONE errand: Trader Joe’s for some wine. Other than that, I’m a piece of blahhhhh tonight. This will really hurt me tomorrow morning when I wake up, trip over 12 pairs of shoes on my way to find something to wear to work. I loathe those mornings. And yet, still I do no laundry, I clean no room.

However, Tina and I have just had a wonderful idea. We were just talking about having babies. As in, how little we actually know about having babies. Yeah, we really don’t know very much at all. Turns out? It sounds pretty disgusting. So, we decided to have another glass of wine and try and watch a live birth. Neither of us has seen one before. And with the news of Prinna having another baby in April, I feel like, as a good aunt, I should really know a little more about this. Maybe as a woman I should know more about this…

Um, okay. So….check that off the list of things I shouldn’t have done tonight.

Thursday nights are just weird. It’s like thisclose to Friday, and I’m already ready to sleep until 11 a.m. tomorrow. I get bad ideas on Thursday nights. I’m so much more impressionable. Did you guys know that in some European countries the work week is only 32 hours long? That would mean I’d be done today. And then I’d have more time for the very European-y things I’d no doubt partake in. You know, eating some bread at a roadside bistro, not going to the dentist, wearing kicky hats, and complaining about the obnoxious yanks, things like that. Meh, I’d probably procrastinate on those things too.

I’ve gone way off topic. I’m not quite sure what the topic even is. I’ve lost focus. This is what I get for procrastinating and not thinking this blog through. Now, it’s just a random mish mash of things. Oh well, it’s basically the weekend anyway, so let’s just call it a day, shall we? Random or not, I hope you have a great weekend!

Dear Diary

Dear Diary,

OMG, today was soooooo fun! I spent the day with Geo, the cutest boy at school. He’s really good at sports, and so we went kayaking (no parents!) and even shared a kayak. We went to three different lakes, and saw homeless people living near the bridges! Sad :(. But we also saw a boy who tipped his kayak and ended up in the grody lake. LOL! It was super funny, Diary. And Geo was sooooo nice! He held my keys in the kayak and didn’t even make fun of me when I got out of the boat and my butt was all wet. I was SO embarrassed, but he said you couldn't even tell, so that’s good.



Then we went shopping in Uptown. OMG, we BOTH got sunglasses! I couldn’t decide which ones I liked at first, and Geo helpfully reminded me how hard it must be for me to find sunglasses ‘cause I have such a tiny head. But I got a super cool pair anyway.


When we got home, Geo made me a romantic lunch of burgers and homemade fries and we ate while we watched ESPN. The food was sooooooooooo good. The ESPN was so NOT good.

Anyway, I took a nap and now I’m all ready to go see my brother and his friend play at a real live BAR! They are REALLY good at singing and playing guitar. They could totally be famous. Boys in bands are soooooo cool, aren’t they? Maybe Justin Bieber will show up. I would DIE! OMG, seriously!


Okay, Diary, I gotta go put on some frosted lip gloss and leggings, and then find something for Justin Bieber to autograph if I see him.

Xoxo,
Pharon

Fantastic Mr. Fox...and other bedtime stories

I do not know what my problem is. I have, once again, stayed up too late on a school night. I know I will pay dearly for the tonight’s debauchery. And this all suddenly seems very odd to me, considering the fact that I used to thrive on late nights, then cram a quick sleep session in before getting up and going to class, as if the shut-eye was merely an afterthought. Sheesh, what has happened to me? Oh, and the picture of that animal up there? I'll explain in a second...

Tonight, after a long day at work, my boyfriend Geo took me out for an awesome dinner (if you ever find yourself in the Twin Cities, go check out Tavern on France…nom nom nom) and then we managed to work 18 holes of mini golf in before heading out to meet a couple friends for a quick drink. Somewhere between the jeans-stretching dinner and the fox we saw in the parking lot of the mini golf course (See? It's relevant), I managed to convince myself that “hey, it’s Monday. I’ll have the whole rest of the week to catch up on sleep.” But I know I won’t. I know I shall suffer the consequences of inadequate sleep until Saturday morning. But turn down a date night and sitting outside enjoying a Stella Artois with some long-lost friends? No, I cannot do those kinds of things. Not yet, anyway.

But I noticed that when I stopped my car to take pictures of said fox, I wanted to just lay my head down on my steering wheel and call it a night. And I briefly had that thought that lots of people sleep in their cars, right? Probably because, like me, they have just enjoyed a huge dinner and a relaxing stroll through the lush links of a mini golf course on a perfect summer night. I feel their pain.

I can tell you right now, that the outfit I’ll wear tomorrow may not match. My make up routine will suffer. Greatly. My hair, if washed, will be thrown up in a ponytail, and not even one of those ponytails that’s all sleek and shiny. It’ll be wavy and frizzy. My head will be racing all day from the inevitability of too much coffee, and it’s just not gonna be pretty. But, I guarantee you, I have not learned my lesson. I have already reasoned with myself that 11:30 p.m. is just not that late, and I only think it’s late because I go to bed too early on all the other nights. Will I have a different story to tell myself tomorrow at 10 a.m. when I’m begging my eyes to stay open? Yes. Will I re-rationalize everything all over again the next time 10 p.m. comes and goes and I’m nowhere near my bed? Life wouldn’t be the same if I didn’t.

Alright, I’m going to bed, but not before I really explain the picture of this really tiny, scrawny fox. We saw him scarfing down a double cheeseburger someone tossed in the parking lot of an office building. Geo said he probably had rabies. I think he was just enjoying a bedtime snack before hunkering down in his fox hole for a little snooze. But it was totally the weirdest thing I’ve seen in suburbia in a long, long time. Enjoy!

Nullabye

I am NOT a good napper. There are days that all I can think of is drifting off for a quick nap, maybe enjoying a short dream, and waking up refreshed. But the reality is this. If I’m tired enough to fall asleep during the day, it ain’t gonna be pretty.

Typically, I’ll nod off on the couch while sitting up, head thrown back, mouth wide open, and snoring. Snoring in a way that can only be described as, well, unladylike. And when I wake up, there’s no content smile, a cat-like stretch and a dewy, glowing face. No. I wake up horribly confused, unaware of what time it is, with mascara smeared down one side of my face and pillow marks denting my cheeks. And I’m cranky.

Apparently, this is nothing new. I asked my mom today if she remembers me being a good napper when I was a baby. First, she laughed pretty hard. Then she said, "No. I don't remember you ever napping. You always got by on minimal sleep." My poor parents. I was the 4th out of 5 kids and never napped? I was never quiet and calm enough to just lay down and give my parents a break? Well, what a treat I must have been...

I feel like a disappointment in a way. I come from a long line of professional nappers. My mom can close her eyes for 10 minutes, wake up immediately, and re-wallpaper a bathroom. My sisters are exactly the same. My dad is like a soldier. His eyes are closed, he may let out a deep snore, but his foot is constantly tapping to the music on the TV. He‘s pretty much existing in two conscious states at once. We have a picture of my older brother sleeping while he‘s standing up when he was an actual soldier in the Army. Seriously. Standing Up. And we’ve got a million pictures of my little brother napping in places like under a bed and on a stair. They're among the elite leaders of the world who just get it. (Smart People Nap)

As I write this, I’m fighting back the yawns. There’s a cool breeze in the room, I’ve got my perfect Nap Blanket (a very light, small, down blanket) across my lap, and the room is just starting to get dark. It’s too early to call it a night, and it’s definitely too late for an hour-long nap. And this might be the sleepiness talking, but I’m pretty sure this is the most exhausting catch-22 in the history of time. Life can be so cruel.

UR SO VAYN

So I ran to Target tonight, because, well why not? On my car ride, I noticed an astoundingly high number of cars with vanity plates. You know, license plates that say something. On purpose. Spell check optional. As I was driving behind WWSFBD, I decided that SFB would own a red Corolla, encourage me to see motorcyclists, and ultimately cut me off. SFB is a total jerk. I hate SFB.

Vanity plates are tattoos for your car. Some plates are profound. Some are funny. Some I wish I had myself. Like PAPOU, who I had the privilege of waiting behind at a red light. I loved that plate. I had no idea what it meant, but it made me laugh. I was driving with my friend Claire, who has graciously continued to call me Papou ever since.

But I’m sorry. Some vanity plates (and tattoos) are dumb. It’s like someone had a few drinks, and decided “I just want people driving behind me to know how much I love bananas,“ and strolled on over to the DMV. All of a sudden, B4N4N4S is stealing my parking spot at the mall. And now I can get mad at you by name, Bananas. And I can’t help but conclude that the 35 year old woman driving a Wrangler has a big ol’ bunch of bananas tattooed on her ankle.

Now, I don’t have a tattoo (or a vanity plate, for that matter). I always wish I did have a tattoo though. I’m definitely the kind of person who SHOULD have one. I pierced my eyebrow on whim, on my way to Speaking and Reading class in college. I dyed my hair black. Then blonde. Back to black. Red. You get the idea. I’m a firm believer in self expression. But, I gotta say, if I was allowed to get the tattoo(s) I wanted in high school, I’d have Chinese characters up and down all my fingers. With a cross on my second toe for good measure. And that delicate little butterfly/fairy doodle on my shoulder blade. Oh, and a boys name on my hip. Basically, I’d be a mess of self-expression, and no direction.

I’ve concluded that the reason I don’t have a tattoo is the exact same reason I don’t have vanity plates. I just plain don’t have one thing I can stick with for the rest of my life. Or until my lease is up. I mean, it’s a big decision, right? What WOULD SFB Do? Obviously SFB is pretty important to someone, and I’ll let it slide. But I hope we can all agree that no one should let GAGALVR near the tattoo parlor.