I Don't Think We're in Kenwood Anymore, Toto

You know what's scary? North Minneapolis. I'm still recovering from my brief trip into this neighborhood-less-traveled this weekend. And it's occurred to me that I'm either way too naive or an idiot. It could very well be a combo of the two. On our way to my friend Ally's house this weekend, Geo and I had to make a quick stop at what I thought "looked like a nice enough place". It was this out-of-the-way "Market" that was called Penn-Wood. "Hey!" I piped up happily, "that rhymes with Kenwood," which is the neighborhood we live in. "It's gotta be an okay place". It was NOT okay. Did YOU know that you can buy mugshots at convenience stores? I did not know this, and I'm still not even sure WHY you'd want to do that. My guess is that a lot of the people that frequent places like Penn-Wood are featured in the grainy Glamour Shots and want a copy for their portfolios. I waited patiently in line, oddly it was super busy, desperate not to make eye contact with anyone. Especially the girl buying Swisher Sweets, tinfoil, a giant bag of cheddar popcorn, and what I assumed was a gun or shiv or something. She was screaming on her phone that she "ain't afraid to go to back to jail". I stared in her exact opposite direction at a wall of mugshots.

As soon as I realized I was staring at a wall of pictures of known criminals, I panicked. What if everyone in there thought I was a "narc" or a fine member of law enforcement or something? I immediately dropped my eyes to concentrate aggressively on my fingers and tried to not let anyone see how nervous I was. The place was getting crowded, and the line was moving painfully slow. The girls in front of me were chatting with the clerk about someone named Nookie (not Snookie as I had hoped) who was apparently a dad again, and none too happy about it. "Hurry up! COME ON!" I wanted to say. I fought the reflex to loudly tap my foot and sigh in annoyance at their dawdling like I would normally do, and instead made sure to neither stare at nor avoid the man who had obviously just pocketed a handful of Snickers bars. I found myself wanting to run out of there screaming, but that would probably have caused a scene.

I don't know what goes through my head sometimes. I've never really been the kind of person who makes snap judgments on people or places unless he/she/it smells really bad. That's my only sensory perception that comes in to play. I'm like a dog or something. Penn-Wood didn't smell fishy, so I decided (wrongly) that everything was fine.

I was reminded of when I went apartment shopping by myself after moving home from college. Single girl, suburban born-and-raised, studied in Iowa City, and now wants to be in the "cool" part of a city she's not too familiar with? Sounds like a recipe for complete success, right? Wrong. I came home gushing to my parents about a place I found. I loved it. "First month's rent is FREE!! Can you believe that!?" My dad shuddered, while my mom explained to me that my dream apartment was smack dab in one of the absolute worst parts of the city (but it smelled so bleachy!!) I spent the next few hours driving around with my mom and dad, until we found a place that had locks on the doors, off-street parking, and was closer to a bus stop than a crack house, so that was pretty nice.

Sometimes I scare myself with my total lack of awareness when it comes to situations like this. I give too many people the benefit of the doubt. My mom likes to say I prefer "Reach-In-And-Steal-My-Wallet purses". You know, purses without zippers or other closures. I always shoot back with some excellent retort like, "Who would want to steal MY crap? I almost never carry cash, and I don't even have a checkbook!" Plus, I continue, it's not like I wouldn't be able to tell if someone was elbow-deep in my Kate Spade. Then again, I can't even feel my phone ring when it's in there and on Vibrate. Meh, she may have a point.

In college, we never even locked our doors. You didn't want to HINDER anyone who was willing to show up for a party. Open House! We'd, in fact, prop doors open so people didn't even need to get buzzed in. It seemed like such an unnecessary precaution, so we just found ways around it. Every once in awhile, I'd think of my mom's warnings. She told me a story of the drunk man who used to stumble into her childhood house in the middle of the night. I thought, "Yeah, but that was RHODE ISLAND, and this is IOWA where nothing dangerous ever happens ever. Ugh, it's so boring!" Naive, or idiot? Who can say?

I'm older now, and presumably wiser. So our little field trip on Saturday night really annoyed me. I think it also scarred Geo, seeing as how he'd be the one who I'd expect to save me from a mugging/beating/aggressive questioning of my interest in the wall o' criminals. Alas, we made it out of there and headed to Ally's a little shaky and, hopefully, a lot wiser.

Make that: decidedly not wiser. I literally JUST realized I left my phone at work. And at the risk of being phoneless and alarm-less for fewer than 10 hours, I made the rash decision to go back into downtown Minneapolis - at NIGHT - and retrieve my phone, lest it fall in the wrong hands. I tried to get Geo all excited to come with me and serve as my Protector Against Possible Evil, but he had to play Call of Duty better things to do. So, I went alone and wrapped my keys around my fingers like brass knuckles. Fortunately, I breezed in and out unharmed. But I've decided that I've pushed my luck enough and starting right meow, I'm going to hang out on my own side of the tracks for awhile. I think my mom and dad would be proud - and Geo will definitely be happier.

The Write Stuff

Seething. I was all prepared to write a blog ranting rationally pointing out the flaws of a recent development in my living situation, but I need to just shelve that right now. I can't unwrite the things I want to write at this moment. I can't unsay that I think it's downright communism to have to pay, however LITTLE, for my neighbors use of our washer/dryer. Especially after being without HEAT for three days. Oh, didn't I mention the heat went out AGAIN? Oh, because it did. I just, I don't, I can't...I shouldn't write in this state. I have to move on.

Non sequitor! I am SO sick of my handwriting. Is that weird? This afternoon, while making a “To Do” List, I started testing out different “R”s and “E”s and “G”s throughout the list. What’s that, Charlie Sheen? You want your crazy back? Sorry, I’m kind of using it right now. I came to the conclusion, however, that penmanship (rude! – penWOMANship!) is not exactly my forte. Trying to read my writing is like trying to get through the Danger Above level in Angry Birds without cheating. That is, to say, very difficult to do, and typically not worth it in the end.

I remember all through middle and high school, this one group of “popular” girls all had the EXACT SAME HANDWRITING. It was like they wrote in their own, programmed font and it was kinda creepy. You could seriously tell when a girl was making the leap from “average and well-liked” to “Dudes, meet me at my Jeep Wrangler and lets just go get manicures instead of going to History”. You could tell, because all of a sudden, she’d turn in her homework (intermittently now) and her letters would be all boxy and strong, and smooshed together. Exhibit A:

You better believe I tried every day for many many moons to write like that. You know, so I could trick the other girls into thinking I was popular too. I was doing my homework one night and I tried writing the crazy hard, tight letters. It was really tough and my hand started to cramp up. I switched the pen around in my hand so that it came out between my pointer and middle finger instead of between my thumb and pointer finger (you following me?) It kind of worked, actually! I was all “Yeah! I better start saving for my leopard-print steering wheel cover today!” But then my mom walked in and said “Ugh, what are you doing? It looks like you’re writing with your FOOT!” Foiled.

I still don’t like my handwriting, popular girl or not. Lately, though, I wish it was just really freaky neat and people would say “Pharon, could you come and write this nasty hate letter to this idiot who double parked? Your handwriting is totally the best!” There are times at work when I’m filling out forms and I’ll have to go over a whole line with white-out, because by the end of the sentence, even I can’t tell what I’ve written.

The point is, when I have to start signing autographs (and I know that day will come), no one will know what I've written, which is nice. Or terrible. I haven't decided yet. But maybe I should only worry about perfecting my "Best Wishes! Hope you can read this illegible mumbo-jumbo!"

All the Best,
Pharon

That's Quite Enough

Geez, who DOESN'T have a birthday this time of year? Real quick Birthday Shout Out to my very awesome, lifelong friend CLAIRE! It's her birthday today, so feel free to call her up and harass her with birthday wishes.

Call this The Weekend of Things That Didn't Quite Happen. I was supposed to hang out with Ally on Friday night, but I didn't. I couldn't quite muster up the energy to get off the couch to go out. I'm lame. Saturday, I finally bought a Kinect. Yay! After doing the math, I believe I worked out (read: dancing/playing Kinect Adventures) for approximately 6 hours straight on Saturday. Which means I didn't quite get to the Y to open a membership. And on Saturday night, I was going to try and get out to the local legendary bar Psycho Suzi's to meet up with some disgustingly awesome chicks with whom I used to work. I didn't quite make it, what with the post-"workout" nap and impending trip to the airport to pick up Geo. Then today I had big plans to go on a little shopping spree but ended up with like 2 measly shirts. Not quite the "spree" I had anticipated. In-Between Season shopping is so not good. It's still snowing out. I can't bring myself to buy any tank dresses, Urban Outfitters. Not quite ready for that.

Today, I forced Ally to play Kinect with me for a little while. After my third dance performance for her, I discovered she wasn't quite as into it as I was. I cut her some slack and we went and ate wings and had a beer instead. So very ladylike.

Ally is about a year and a handful of months younger than me. I tried, in vain, to explain to her that getting older is not quite awesome. We talked about our twenties, and how awesome they are. All those life lessons, and things learned "the hard way" are so worth it, we decided. But then we were talking about our sisters who are, like, born-again twenty year-olds. We both have sisters who did the whole "marriage/house/kids" thing in their twenties, and now their kids are basically old enough to stay home alone, so now our sisters are all goin' to Mexico and staying out too late drinking mojitos. They're like rich twenty-somethings. Ally and I both wondered silently if the grass really is greener on the older other side. Who's to say? Neither me nor Ally is quite qualified to answer that question.

Anyway, I did manage to clean my room, though. I found things on my floor that have been there since Christmas. I'm not quite up to snuff on my cleaning these days. But the sun finally shone through our windows today, and the amount of dust I could see on everything instantly made my eyes water. I wanted to pre-emptively Spring Clean, but we all know it's obvs not quite time for that. So instead I made a sub-par attempt at doing laundry. I had a load of whites sitting in the washer for over 24 hours. Whoops. Meh. I don't need socks quite that badly yet.

And I made it out for my weekly excursion to Target, but, as I've mentioned before, Weekend Target is just not quite right for me. Too busy, not enough carts, too much time to browse, not enough money to buy everything I want. Left to my own devices for that long, I ended up buying the Kinect but forgetting to buy soap. So I wasn't quite as fresh-faced as I usually am.

Okay, so I didn't quite get everything done I needed to do this weekend. It's okay, though. Next weekend is jam-packed with birthday parties and fun times. But it's not quite time for that yet. In the meantime, I'm going to have to get the haircut I couldn't quite manage to schedule this weekend, and eat some vegetables that I couldn't quite work into my weekend diet of pasta and Skinny Cow ice cream sandwiches (omg, they are so delicious, yet so horribly named. It's like the person who named them also named Dress Barn. It's just not quite right).

I had hoped to have a well-prepared blog for tonight, too, but, alas, I didn't quite do that now, did I? Oh wells. I think I'm going to get a couple dance routines in before bed, because I'm not quite sleepy yet.

Oh Baby

Oh yeah. Happy Hour with Lana and Valerie tonight. We meet at the same place, laugh about the same things, and order the same food every time we get together. I love it. I need it. Aside from just being a supes fun night out with my girl friends, it also just happened to be the Four Year Anniversary of Lana's successful brain surgery. She had a tumor from her brain removed four years ago. Imagine that: She was just driving home one day, and all of a sudden, she tried to turn left, and her body turned right. Cray-cray. But luckily for me (and, okay, for her too), she's back to 110% awesome! Happy Brain-iversary, Lana!!!

So the three of us sat, chatted, and drank wine (oh, and ordered a very unfortunate Panna Cotta). Then the conversation turned, as it always does, to crazy, scarring events from our adolescence. Did you guys ever get a robot baby in middle/high school? Lana did, and Valerie apparently got an Egg to take care of. I never enjoyed such an opportunity. Then, as if she took the words out of my mouth, Valerie exclaimed, "It's gotta be so hard! You can't just shove the robot baby in a locker! They like TRACK it!" I might have failed that test.

I looooooove babies. (Well, babies I KNOW - stranger's babies are weird, everyone knows that.) I love snuggling them and smelling their Johnson & Johnson No Tears-smelling heads. I love them. I have cuddled and snuggled the five most perfect nieces and nephews ever, and I get all high on their baby powdered bodies. They're so sweet. They're so perfect.

For two summers in college, I worked at a day care in Bloomington, MN. That's right, folks. I was in charge of America's Future. ME. Nevermind the fact that I couldn't even get myself dressed for the day, I presided over classes of spongy little brains that soaked up whatever nonsense I'd spill. I'd bop around from the three year-old room, to the school age kids, and back to the toddlers, but nothing was more sweet, more perfect than cradling a wee little baby in the Infants Room and rocking 'em to sleep. Nothing was more refreshing than seeing a baby smile for the first time, or being able to calm a baby down after a major tantrum. Watching those tiny little fingers work their way around a Cheerio and pop in their mouth was total icing on the cake.

So, yes. I love me some babies. I, however, am not ready to have one of my own. I like an uninterrupted sleep. I like knowing that, on a day-to-day basis, I will have nothing to do with another person's poop. At any given moment, though, I will drop absolutely everything I'm doing to go and hang out with my nieces and nephew. They're funny. They're clever. They think anything I do is funny. They're like the greatest audience ever.

The big thing here is, at the end of the night, I'm gettin' out of Dodge. I go home, watch Family Guy and fall asleep when I'm good and ready. And on some random nights, instead of chilling at home, watching TV in sweatpants, I'll squeeze into some skinny jeans and head out to meet friends for drinks. Tonight, I briefly considered how horrible I'd be at finding a babysitter on such short notice. Plus, I still hand off my sister's kids to someone else when they need changing, and when they're inconsolable, I panic and leave the room. That's like the HARD WORK that I am, at this moment, ill-equipped for.

And yet, ironically, the new season of Teen Mom is on right now. I feel waaaaay too similar to those poor, stupid girls. Except the one who's totally idiotic who literally couldn't care less about her own BABY. She should be sterilized.

Anyway, back to robot babies. I think I always WISHED I could have had that opportunity. I feel like I'd surprise myself. Like, I'd get a robot baby and turn in back in and they'd tell me that I'd just started to raise the next Einstein. I think I'd make a sick temporary parental figure. I'd probably go down in history as the best fake parent of a robot baby. As long as I could give it back eventually.

Did you guys get robot babies? Did it fan the flames of parental desire in you? I don't know. I don't think it would have helped me. I have too many incredible little kids I can hang out with whenever I want, and then just dip out when I need to. (Meanwhile, I'm posting an a-dor-a-ble video of one of my nieces playing with an iPad on the Pharon Square Facebook page...check it out for SURE!).

The consensus tonight was that not a one of us is necessarily ready to give up Happy Hour for If You're Happy and you Know It. But, if you have the opportunity, I highly suggest you encourage all your brothers and sisters to have a zillion babies. They're totally fun, when you don't have to clean up their poop.

This Is Not My Beautiful House

We’re moving in on week three of having houseguests. For a couple weeks, Geo’s brother was here staying with us and now Sanna has two friends visiting from Australia who have checked in for a week. G’day, mates. It’s fun, don’t get me wrong. Generally, I’m quite used to random people coming and going from my house at all times of day. It’s kind of like living on a Carousel. People get on, hang out for a bit, and then leave, passing the new people coming in on their way out. But if I’m really being honest, I gotta say: I’m ready to get off the ride.

I really have no idea if this is my advanced age talking, or a direct result of being surrounded by miscellaneous people constantly as of late, but I’ve been enjoying a lot of musically-backed montages of memories from when I was living alone. The sweetness of coming home to a house that looks precisely the same as when you left, the expectation of opening your front door and knowing exactly who is/is not going to be there, and the comfort of standing in your underwear in front of the fridge binge eating a brick of cheese in solitude. It feels but a dream now. You know that scene in Bridget Jones’ Diary when she’s like all depressed and drinking and singing at the top of her lungs in her pajamas?? How sad IS it that I want that?

Once upon a time when it was me and the guys living together, they went on a weeklong vacation together. I joked that, while they were gone, I would be laying around the couch in my Prom dress, drinking wine from the bottle, and watching The Notebook over and over. Oh! To have been that free! To have been that sure that I wouldn’t be disrupted!

Increasingly, I’ve been having this nagging desire to crank up some Britney and dance around while singing into a hair brush. But I have to stifle that. Much like I must stifle my urge to scream and yell and get mad when the situation comes up. Because now I can’t do those things on a whim. Someone is watching a movie. Or, the people downstairs are worried all my jumping will cave in the ceiling. Or, my shrill yelling is making me sound crazy and irrational, rather than totally justified – albeit loud. Blogger’s Non Sequitur: Just because someone is angry doesn’t mean they can’t yell. I hate when people act like they’re better at fighting just because they can keep their voice down. It’s called “Passion”, people. I must digress here.

The point is, the Grown Up train is leaving the station, and I intend to buy a ticket. Because I’ve been living with so many people for so long, I’m like this muted version of myself, I think. I don’t crank up music when I’m happy and energetic just to dance around to it, I don’t cry when I want to, I don’t just scream when I’m frustrated – which feels so incredibly good – and sheesh, I barely talk on the phone unless I can go outside. I’m typically a very loud, energetic person who laughs at the drop of a hat. Lately, though, I’m this cranky codger who likes things quiet, who didn’t even laugh at herself when she ran into a door. That’s just so not me.

I don't know, maybe I'm just suffering from major Cabin Fever. Or maybe this whole Frat Boy lifestyle ain't exactly what I thought it was. Whatever the issue is, I must remedy. Tonight, I fixed it with Happy Hours and fried appetizers. Tomorrow? Who knows? But at some point, I'm going to have figure it out for myself and take a scary step into scary Adultville. I hear it's not nearly as fun, but no one questions you when you just want to stay in to carbo-load with a loaf of bread and a good ol' fashioned book on a Kindle.

I must admit, though, I'm still torn. I came home from my 2nd Happy Hour tonight and cracked a beer with some wonderful company. I guess you choose your battles. And I'm assuming this is definitely a case of "The Grass Is Always Greener", but I'm pretty sure that doesn't mean that the grass is any less satisfying. Especially if you're old like me. We old people pretty much like anything.

Who is Lange Zyne, and How Old IS She?

You knew it was coming, didn’t you? Like I said before, I don’t typically make New Year’s Resolutions, so I guess maybe these should be considered a To Do List for 2011. Or, maybe more like “Pseudo-Challenging Goals Most People Do Anyway”. I feel like resolutions are so, I don’t know, final and scary. I would list things like “Learn Chinese” or “Shower Everyday” but everyone who knows me knows that those are impossible, and therefore won’t make any list I ever compile, unless it’s a list of things I’ll never do.

Without further ado, here’s my List of Things I Will Really Try and Do This Year, But Don’t Quote Me On It:

* As I’ve previously mentioned, learn how to put on makeup. As I write this list, I am relishing in Day Two of no makeup, and I will be sad to see these days go.

* Stop doing my laundry at my parents house. (NOTE: I KNOW how to do my own laundry. I’ve been doing it since I was 16, and in fact DO my own laundry, just at my parents house.) Here’s the thing: I HAVE a washer and dryer in my house, but I’ll admit it. I’m very afraid of our basement. It’s dark and scary and full of storage stuff. I just KNOW there are mice hiding down there. And mice are scary. It’s time I stop avoiding the little buggers and just wear football spikes down to the basement.

* Learn how to change a car tire. I don’t know why, but I have always wanted to be able to do this. I think it has something to do with the fact that I know a lot of guys who can’t do it, and need to call AAA. But how awesome would it be to pop out of the car, take off my Louboutins (which I will also buy this year), and change a tire myself? Answer: Very awesome.

* Be more spontaneous. Typically, Monday-Friday, my hours are planned out down to the minute, until 6 p.m. when I just park it on my couch and write. I have GOT to stop doing that. “Pharon, do you want to go to a movie that doesn’t START until 9:30 p.m.?” Old answer: No way, too late. New answer: Fine. Well, unless there’s one at 7:30? No? Okay, count me in.

* More happy hours. I can’t believe I have to actually WORK on this. I love Happy Hours, but as of late, I’ve really been slacking in the post-work drink arena. Must remedy this soon.

* No more roommates. I think I’m finally at the age where it’s getting a little weird to live in a house with 3 people to whom I’m not related. I really hope this is the year I move out of my favoritest house in the world into a small, crappy place in the ‘burbs probably, because I can only afford my sweet pad right now with the THREE roommates. No, I think it’s time to downsize and grow up.

* Stop watching TV marathons. Or at least limit them. I can sit and watch America’s Next Top Model marathons for 4 hours without even thinking about it. And God help me if there’s a Bridezilla or True Life marathon on. I may as well grow roots in the couch. But no, I must stop doing this.

* No. More. Clothes. From. Forever. 21. No more. They are cheap and only good for one or two wears. Unless it’s for a costume or something. Nope. I’m going to focus on QUALITY clothes over QUANTITY of clothes.

* Stop eating like a guy. I need more veggies and fruit in my diet, plain and simple.

* Keep blogging. If you guys promise to keep reading, I promise to keep blogging.

Those are my goals for 2011. What are yours? What will you change? What do you want to KEEP doing? (And HEY! If one of your resolutions is to write kick butt Cheesy Movie Storyline, don’t forget to send it to pharonsquare@gmail.com for your chance to win an authentic Pharon Square t-shirt AND your story featured on an upcoming blog!!)

Be safe out there guys. Have fun ringing in the new year, and I hope you have the night of a lifetime!! I’m sad to see 2010 go, because it was a pretty darn good year. I hope next year is as good, if not better. For me AND for you! See you all in 2011!

Sars about the video below, but it’s the only thing I could find with my favorite version of the New Year’s Song! Close your eyes and dance…

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!

Wicked! Grindahs and Cowfee? No suh!

All I wanted to eat for dinner tonight was comfort food. It’s cold, it’s dark out, it’s the perfect night for a childhood favorite: a Peanut Butter and Mayonnaise sandwich. Please try and control your gag reflexes. It’s delicious, people. I suggest you try it. Unfortunately, I opted for a healthier option without so much, uh how do I say this? Oh, FAT. But the dinner debacle left me wanting the comfort of a home-cooked peanut butter sandwich. Lamely enough, even if I WERE to go home to my parents and sit waiting for my sandwich and pint glass of milk, I’d be waiting for days. My mom is out of town. How could she LEAVE me like that?! Geez! Rude, I know. Well, she went back out East to visit some of her sisters. They grew up in Rhode Island, and so they are probably just sitting around, talking about pahking cahs and ahrange scissahs and pockabooks.

Hearing my mom tell stories about growing up in Rhode Island is both hilarious and a little sad sometimes. One of the gems my whole family loves is that my mom didn’t have a pillow until she married my dad. Zing! We think it’s funny, my mom thinks it’s totally normal. My mom has six sisters and one brother. Catholics…. They all talk the same, laugh the same, and are like 8 mini clones of each other. They’re all still pretty tight, which is impressive. Every year, they have a Christmas Ornament Exchange where they slap some seashells and glitter on stuff and hand them out to each other to hang on their respective trees. Usually, the East Coasters have to mail a box of ornaments to my mom, but this year my mom brought HER party to THE party. So that’s where my mom is. THAT’S why I shall have no PB&M tonight.

Like I was saying, though, my mom has some awesome childhood stories. She always prefaces stories with, “Now, you have to remember it was a different time.” And then we’ll be watching a random movie, and she’ll sigh and say something like “I had a dresser like that growing up. My sisters and I all shared it. We each had our very own drawer.” Then my siblings and I will laugh and laugh. And she has her very own version of “Walking to school in 3-foot snow, uphill both ways.” When I complain about only having 3 pairs of red strappy sandals, she’ll say “I only had one pair of shoes growing up. Then I’d hand them down to Caroline when they got too small.” I know it’s supposed to make me be less materialistic, but instead it reminds me that I need a good pair of walkin’ shoes.

So her East coast side of the family comes to visit us here every once in awhile. And growing up, my whole family used to drive cross-country to their beach house in Rhode Island. All day every day, one aunt or another would come buzzing into the beach house with huge ideas of fashion shows and carnivals to entertain us kids. They’d dress up like Big Bird and Cookie Monster. They’d sing songs and tell us stories while we dug through boxes of costume jewels having a mosaic-making contest. They created these alternate universes for us to get lost in. They’re all fabulous and fun and awesome. And my grandmaman had this wicked old-school convertible that she’d drive us around in it to get Awful Awfuls. (They’re delicious delicious.)

Lest you forget, though, my mom is totally awesome. And now that everyone is aware that my mom and her siblings are high-functioning, well-adjusted, and responsible members of society, I won’t feel so bad about telling you for a treat, my mom would eat bread with butter that was slapped into a sugar bowl, or that in the Catholic school my mom attended, they tried to force my mom to be right-handed - apparently the devil himself is left handed. Or the fact that all around the neighborhood, kids would graffiti “FOT” in huge letters. It meant Fart. Who tags a wall with “FART?!” And misspells it?! Rhode Islanders, that’s who.

And despite all that, or maybe BECAUSE of all that, my mom still went back to Rhode Island to see her family. I’m sure my kids are going to think I was living in destitution as a child because I didn’t have a cell phone until high school. Or that I prefer eating PB&Ms instead of sushi or macaroni in a pill or whatever. Crappy kids…

Well, enjoy the weekend everyone! Hope all yoh cayahs disappeah…

Biological Snooze Button

Newsflash! Kids can be horrible! I don’t know what’s happening these days, but I’ve really gotten fed up with how rude children can be. Lately, whatever biological clock that may exist in me has had the Snooze button pressed. Seriously. Kids are brutal these days, and I can’t handle it yet.

I was at my parent’s house last night, hanging with two of my perfect nieces, Annabelle and Eve. I love them desperately and feel very protective of them. So, Annabelle is 5 and in pre-school. She is, quite possibly, the girliest girls ever to wear a tutu to the grocery store. Her favorite color may as well be Glitter. And that Girly Girlness is a great trait on her. It suits her. Anyway, she came home from school and told my mom this story. Apparently, some snot-nosed punk of a kid told Annabelle that she “was a boy, because she had a boys backpack”. Eksqueeze me? That definitely touched a nerve with me. I too was called a boy by a bunch of bullies. The kicker? I WAS a tomboy, and it SHOULDN’T have even BEEN an insult, but it was. Anyway, so this girl sneers that Annabelle is a boy. Who does this girl think she is? Annabelle knows the difference between a Kate Spade bag and “regular” bag. Suck on THAT, random-person’s-daughter-who-I-don’t-know.

So, I heard this story and was heartbroken over it. I asked Annabelle what her backpack looked like. Instead of her usual pink-and-purple-feather backpack, she had used a different backpack for a day that was “red with black writing on it”. She explained this to me while standing on a chair to be eye-to-eye with me. I told her, “Annabelle, when I was little I LOVED the colors red and black and white. I wanted to splatter-paint my room those colors. My favorite sweater was red, black, and white, and I wore it for 3 years.” Then that adorable little girl cupped my cheek and half-whispered, “Do you think that your sweater will fit me??” I have been googling “Black, red, white scottie dog sweater” all day to no avail. I would SEW that sweater for that girl if it meant that she didn’t have to take some other kid’s crap about a backpack.

I asked Annabelle what she said back to the girl, and she said, “I just tried to tell her it WAS NOT a boy backpack!” I couldn’t believe how furious I was about that girl. It also doesn’t help that I live down the block from an elementary school where kids frequently scream at each other “SHUT UP! YOH A BASTUUHD!” They can’t even say their “R”s but they can call each other bastards? Where are they LEARNING this?! Are kids not disciplined anymore? If I had EVER said something like that when I was young, you can bet I’d be holed up in the bathroom digging Dial Soap out of my teeth. That’s how it should work, people.

Okay, back to my point. Annabelle seems, as of now, pretty unfazed by this after hearing about my awesome sweater. But geez, it’s not long until she’ll be in middle or high school and dealing with those kinds of bullies that constantly harass and terrorize other kids. Is this bratty little pre-schooler, like, Bully Zero? Is that where it starts?

See? That’s my point. I’m waaaaay too, um, volatile to raise another human being right now. I’d freak out and be like “Oh yeah? She doesn’t like your backpack? Tell her that her disgusting split ends are giving you a headache and then smack her.” Yeah. I just don’t understand how to correctly deal with child politics. I don’t get how one human can totally insult another to her face and not have to deal with any consequences. I don’t walk up to a stranger and tell them they need a nose job or something and then bounce on out to recess worry-free. If I did say something like that, I’d run away screaming, afraid she’d come after me with a rusty knife or something.

Well, call me crazy, but I think kids should be nice to each other. I think they should be kind and lovely and innocent. And if they are rude and condescending to each other? Bar of soap. In the mouth. Case closed.

An Immaculate Concept

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

Today I cleaned my room.

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Wednesday Winner

My initial plan for the Wednesday Winner was to profess my love for all famous chicks who are (close to) my age, and talk about how awesome they all are, and how wonderfully similar I am to them. But: Beyonce and Lily Allen got themselves knocked up, or “in the family way” as some creepy old dude put it today. Kim Kardashian’s been divorced, and is now making more money than ever before. Britney’s been married twice, divorced twice, gone to rehab, and had two kids. So, I thought about all this. I thought about other chicks my age who are out there, being parents, or wives, or rich. Then I decided my Wednesday Winner is going to be:



This bottle of wine!! You know why? ‘Cause pregnant chicks can’t drink it, uber-ambitious workaholic chicks wouldn’t DARE touch it on a Wednesday night, and married chicks probably have to go do stuff for/with their husband. Take THAT age-appropriate-lifestyle-livers! I invite you to kick back and have a glass, if you can, of your favorite (or most readily-accessible) wine tonight. You deserve it, I'm sure!

Despite the push and pull of age-norms all around me this week, I keep coming back to the same thought, though. "Okay, so what's the big deal?" Because between the knowledge that my mom had like 3 kids by the time she was my age, and the ginormous lifestyle gaps between me and my 22 year-old roommates, I feel like I'm in No Man's Land. In the wise words of Miss Britney Spears, "I'm not a girl, not yet a woman."

Additionally, I'm starting to think that all these so-called mile markers in life are a total farce to begin with. You know, "go to college when you're 18, start a career at 23, get married by 28, have kids at 31, slit wrists at 35". It seems so archaic, right?! We aren't in the age when the average life expectancy depends on whether or not you get the flu. We have a lot more time than our ancestors had. What's the rush, people?!

So, I drink the wine. The wine represents an appreciation for age...for maturation. Okay, sure, the wine pictured was literally $5 at Trader Joe's and has been aged all of 2 weeks, but the principle stands. You can't rush the process. You just enjoy it when it's ready.

Also, I honor Wine tonight because I can. I was talking to my pregnant sister Prinna today, and I said how badly I wanted a drink after work. And she got jealous. My SISTER got jealous of ME! It's pretty much the only thing I can do that Prinna can't. So WHAT if she's growing a life inside her body? I get to DRINK! w00000t!

Finally, Wine wins this week because at the end of the day, this old(ish) bag o' bones is tired! My feet hurt from my ridiculously painful, but AWESOMELY HOT, shoes, my back hurts from carrying my too-big purse, and I think I'm getting arthritis or carpel tunnel in my hands from tweeting all day. So tonight, I came home and opened a bottle of wine. Geo and another roommate feasted on pizza and mac n' cheese, but I paired my wine with an awesome dinner of salad and vinaigrette, and some pasta lightly tossed with tomatoes, garlic, and olive oil. How sophisticated!

See? This $5 bottle of wine embodies all that I have been this week. Sure it's cheap, but put it in a nice glass and most people can't tell the difference. No one cares what year it was made, or how long it's been maturing, the point is It's Wine. And It's Good. And I am now going to enjoy a couple glasses of my metaphor. Congratulations, WINE! Looooove you! Cheers, y'all!

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…

P.A.R.T.WHY? Because I'm old.

I’d like to start off by telling you that yesterday, I washed my Randy Moss jersey for the first time in, well, awhile. I washed it and the Vikings won today. Coincidence? I think not. I washed off the bad juju! You’re welcome, Vikings.

Anyway, between naps, football games, and movies this weekend, I managed to make it out to an Ultimate Frisbee party (yeah, it’s a sport. It’s got the basic premise and contact level of soccer, but with a Frisbee. And no goalie. And also, you don’t kick anything. And it’s not written in stone that every player needs to be wearing matching jerseys. Also, there are no referees). Geo plays and their season is over, so they celebrated by throwing a party. It was really fun. And I was reminded how much I love going to parties. Especially when they are at other people’s houses. I opened a beer, and casually tossed the cap on the counter, and when it fell on the ground, I looked at it and then just walked in the other room. Yay! Rebellion! I was the party-goer that I typically hate. When we have parties at our house, I always think to myself “God! What kind of person just tosses their beer caps on the floor?” Answer: People who don’t have to pick up the next day.

So we haven’t had a party here in a few months. For the past several Sunday mornings, the house looks pretty much the same as it did on Thursday morning. No sticky floors, no beer cans shoved in the book cases, no strangers on the couch, no random sock under the coffee table (this has happened like a half dozen times. Who takes off one sock and leaves it somewhere? Crazy…). It’s been nice. So, that’s why I’ve decided to export my birthday party to the exotic bars in downtown Minneapolis.

While Kim and I were watching the Iowa football game on Saturday, we were talking about what to do for my birthday party in a couple weekends. We were considering the possibility of just hosting a little get-together at my house, because we just have “that house” that has the parties. But the blur of noise violations, broken glasses, and hours of clean up kept clouding my thoughts. We decided it best, for my sake and sanity, to NOT have a party here. And I’m now officially excited to celebrate getting older AND not have to clean up after. Everybody wins!

Okay, so now that we’ve got that settled, I can just focus on keeping the depression about getting old at bay. Birthdays are fun...

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!

I'd Prefer Vodka-springa

Oh. My. Gah. I’ve been waiting for WEEKS for this book to come in to the library. Well, it finally came in. I picked it up during my lunch break today and, 100 pages later, I’m having a very difficult time putting it down to write this blog. It’s called Rumspringa: To Be or Not To Be Amish. And it is juicy!

Okay, so I’ve been completely obsessed with learning about Rumspringa for a while now. Basically, when an Amish child turns sixteen, they can start experimenting with the outside world. They do drugs, drink, fraternize with the opposite sex, wear regular clothes, and so much more. Then, at some point, they make a decision about whether they want to stay in the outside world, leaving their family behind, or return to their family and get baptized and stay Amish forever. Drama!

They get cell phones, drive cars, go shopping, snort cocktails of drugs, and act “English” like their mainstream new friends. The book starts with a few girls quietly whispering in a bedroom on a farm. They light a candle in the window, and that’s the sign that these chicks are ready for action. Up the long unpaved driveway comes an old truck, filled with ne’er-do-well boys. Then they stop at a gas station, buy beer, change into jeans and skanky shirts, and head off to an open field to party with “thousands” of other teens also on Rumspringa. Kids do all sorts of illegal things. And not just “illegal” in the Amish sense, but straight up ILLEGAL. Heroin, cocaine, drinking, smoking. These little 16 year-olds do it all. Meanwhile, their God-fearing parents snooze away, knowing that their kids are up to no good, but praying for their adolescent souls.

Then, come Monday, the kids are back at home honoring their parents, farming the cows (or whatever farmers do), and reading the bible in High German. At that point in the book, I was all “Lame! Who’d choose to be Amish?”

Then the author, Tom Shachtman, really throws a wrench in the system. He goes on to explain that a lot of Amish people find happiness in a life strictly lived to serve their family and faith. And when most of these kids go out in the real world, they are confronted with emotions like temptation, guilt, disappointment, fear, instability, and addiction. At this point in the book, I was all “Lame! Who’d want to live that kind of life?!” Well, color me conflicted. Okay, Mr. Shachtman, you’ve piqued my interest. Before I thought it was all hilarious and circus-like that these kids do all these crazy things (sorry, Amish people, but it’s funny. Not like you’re reading this anyway). Now I feel, like, horrible for these kids. What 17 year-old is capable of making such a huge decision?

Okay, so I’m at the point in this book where I’m just as torn as these kids. They seriously have to choose between finding and making their own life, and staying committed to their faith and family. I couldn’t make that decision, and I’m like a decade older than these kids. So, something like 80-90% of these kids return to their families, get married, and have like 20 kids, only to watch their kids go through the same thing in 16 years.

Amish Fun fact: Amos and Anne Bieler, of Aunt Anne’s Pretzels notoriety (not to be confused with Famous Amos), are both Amish. They left the church, got married, and were all “Oh crap. We don’t know anything about ourselves, or how to deal with emotions.” Then they were all “How do the non-Amish people deal with this stuff?” So, they went to therapy. And started a pretzel chain. The American Dream: fulfilled.

Learning more about this has proven to be more way more profound that I anticipated. Sure it's still a little hilarious (the kids can't take Science classes in school, but still find ways to make their own crank), but it's provoking and intriguing as well. My main question remains: HOW IS THIS NOT A REALITY SHOW?! Hello? TLC? Get on this! I'll sign on as Executive Producer. Now if only we could do it without technology...hmm. Okay, I'll get to work on that.

Mama I'm Comin' Home

This weekend shall be bittersweet. The sweet? I’m going to Iowa City again for Homecoming. The bitter? I have a huge blister on my chin that is, well, unsightly. So all the pictures, if I allow any, will consist of me doing some random hand gestures that will strategically, yet not subtly, cover up said face-eating virus. So, yeah. I’m excited to go and see my friends again and hang out with a bunch of other aging college grads. I just hope they don’t cower in fear upon seeing my mangled face.

I haven’t been back for a Homecoming game since I graduated. There’s the whole parade thing and all kinds of events that college students participate in. Or so I’m told. After my freshman year, I literally did nothing special on Homecoming. But my freshman year, when I was in my sorority, we built a float for the parade, went to the pep fests, won a spirit award, and all kinds of stuff, so I know these things exist. I remember wondering if and when there would be the Homecoming Dance. We had them in high school, and I loved those. But, alas, there would be no dance. There would be awkward conversations and getting beer spilled all over me in the huge crowds at the bar, just waiting for someone to come talk to me.

I love the idea of Homecoming. They should have these in real life, like outside of schools. Imagine it: Homecoming for your favorite shoe store. For one weekend, you go in, hang out with other regulars, reminisce in the boot section about the days you came in for Birkenstocks and espadrilles. Oh, the memories! Or Homecoming at work. All the people who quit or were fired would come back, have a glass of wine, and after the awkwardness dissipated in a haze of alcohol, people would stand, arm in arm, and sing Piano Man together. Aww…everyone loves Homecoming.

Also, why aren’t I involved in more parades? I love parades. If it were at all possible, I’d put streamers, balloons, and a novelty horn in my car and drive real slowly around the city. Throwing candy out of the window. Fabulous!

But this Homecoming weekend, I’ll miss out on all that because it’s happening as we speak. By the time I get there, the streets will be littered with wet streamers and popped balloons. It’ll be like the city already has the hangover I’ll have on Sunday morning. However, the Homecoming football game (that I’m not GOING to, but simply tailgating for) is a night game. Since it doesn’t start until 7:05 p.m. I will actually have a chance to go in to downtown and shop on Saturday morning. It’s the little things, I guess…

So okay, maybe I won’t be wearing a sick body-hugging black velvet dress with a fur trim at the bust (yup, that’s the bombest dress ever that I wore to my high school senior year Homecoming dance), and I’ll miss all the crazy floats and old men playing bagpipes at the parade, but I’ll be with some of my dearest friends visiting my old stomping grounds again. If that’s not a great Homecoming, I don’t know what is. Plus, I can just buy my own 2 year-old stale butterscotch candies and I’ll just throw them around to my friends all day. I’m guessing they’ll love it. And it’ll take the attention away from my gnarly face.

Have a great weekend, everyone!

I Wanna be a Toys R Us Kid

Can I ask you a dumb question? Where’s the line between growing up and getting old? I’m at a crossroads here, people. On the one hand, the thought of having a child/buying a house/”settling down” is still preeeeeetty terrifying. On the other hand, I’m starting to wonder what’s wrong with ‘kids these days’. One hand has a beer in it; the other hand is curling into finger-wagging position. I’m torn. I don’t know which end is up. I’m scared. Hold me.

Now, I like fun as much as the next guy. But lately, everything is just….louder. And more obnoxious. I caught myself thinking the phrase “infernal racket” at one point today. I get cranky when I’m hungry, and I keep wanting to yell at random strangers “PULL YOUR PANTS UP!” or “GET A JOB, HIPPIE!” Give me a pipe, sweater vest, and floppity toupee and I’m an old man.

However, I’m still kind of attached to MTV, and I’m sticking pretty hard to my devil-may-care attitude about bill paying. I still firmly believe that the only bad Happy Hour is the one not attended. I see no point in being serious in many (most) situations. When I babysit for my nieces, I stuff them full of Twizzlers, suckers, and Fun Dip then head home for a night of doing whatever I want. Currently, I have blue fingernail polish on, and I’ve got some Silly Bands on my nightstand.

Today, I was thinking about this conundrum as I was planning my upcoming weekend. My roommate is having a party at our house (for her 24th b-day), and it will be chock full of other early 20-somethings. And I can’t stop worrying about the glasses that will be broken, the smell of rancid beer on the floors, and the inhumanely loud noise level that will seep out of our windows. So, part of me wants to check out and go hang at a friend’s house and avoid the stress altogether. But the other part of me is like “Uh, there is a PARTY. And it’s at YOUR HOUSE. If you leave, you may as well finish up that AARP application and start carrying butterscotch candy and a Kleenex in the band of your watch.”

So, where’s the line? Is there a line at all? One day will I just wake up, pay all my bills, buy some sensible shoes, and start visiting websites that do NOT focus on Hollywood gossip? Well, that just scares me. But how far away is that from my current state? I mean, I’ve started really listening to wrinkle cream commercials. And I’ve seriously considered galoshes.

Ugh. I don’t know. I’m scared. I can actually see why someone would want to take on all the problems and permanency of home ownership, when you can actually paint the walls without asking permission first. I’m flummoxed by people who didn’t grow up to the words “This week, on a very special Blossom…”. So what happens next? When does the floor drop out from under me and I start wearing a slip and pantyhose? When does dying my hair for a little change turn into covering gray?

That seals it. I’m going to put on my best hoop earrings and American Apparel outfit, Twitter my brains out, and do my very best keg stand this weekend. I will NOT grow up. I will NOT! I might just need a couple naps, though. And I’ve got to make some time to catch up on the vacuuming, and let me just quick pick up the house before we have guests. Oh, and don’t let me forget to take my multi-vitamin. This rain is really taking its toll on my sinuses and joints. But THEN! THEN it’ll be crazy fun! YEAH!

Happy Weekend, everyone!

The Totally Outrageous Party-Filled Weekend…or not

I’m not entirely stoked to go back to work tomorrow. It’s been a great weekend, with fantastic weather, and hours upon hours of free time and I‘m pretty sad to see it go. My big project this weekend, though, was planning my niece Annabelle’s 5th Birthday party. It was sort of a surprise party, because Prinna gave me the theme and Annabelle knew there was a party. But, for a 5 year old, walking into a house fully decorated and full of people is as surprised as you want to get. I thought there was a 50% chance she’d freak out when we all yelled “SURPRISE!” and start crying. Luckily that didn’t happen.

I love planning parties. I love decorating, buying supplies, adding little touches that no one notices but really pull everything together. Give me a budget, or better yet no budget at all, and I can plan the crap out of a party. For Annabelle’s, the theme was Fancy Nancy. It’s a children’s picture book about a little girl who likes everything to be sparkly, feathery, and well, Fancy. So, natch my mom and I bombarded Prinna’s house with feathers, glitter, balloons, and bright colors. My other niece Rachel and I made 2 gigantic banners that said “OOH LA LA” and “HAPPY BIRTHDAY FANCY ANNABELLE”! We dressed Annabelle up in a sparkly tutu, glitter make up, a tiara, and beads. She looked hilarious. I mean, adorable.







Now I’m just totally wiped out though. All that sugar, all that activity, and all those people just wore me out. I feel like I’m 100 years old and just got back from performing at a circus. Plus, kids parties are not good ideas for someone watching her girlish figure. Oh well, it was totally worth it.

Between the party planning with my mom, I spent my weekend doing nothing. I accomplished painting my nails, but then took a nap while they were still a bit wet and now have sheet marks on them. Accomplishment Fail. I slept on the couch one night because the house was empty and I was scared to be upstairs in a desolate house. Grown-Up Fail. I picked up my dirty purse from the dry cleaners. Pilgrim Cleaners Fail. And I had big plans of throwing a September-themed party at my house on Sunday night, but instead watched Star Wars while Geo slept on the couch next to me. Social Life Fail. Adding these all up would lead some people to think that this weekend was a failure. But sleeping late, enjoying my coffee on the porch during the beautiful mornings, catching up on DVR’d TV, and planning an adorably fun party are major successes in my book.

Labor Day: thanks for memories, pal. You were a welcome break that I shall remember fondly until Thanksgiving. My determination to spend this weekend not laboring was a beautiful success, and if I weren’t so exhausted from eating cupcakes, I’d pat myself on the back. And now, back to our regularly scheduled work week…

COLLEGE

Another week, another trip to Target. Seriously, I have a problem. But I noticed a whole lot of college freshman doing some school/dorm shopping with their parents. It was quite cute, actually. A lot of exhausted parents were strolling through the aisles with single-cup coffee makers, new bedding, and plastic little bookshelves. I heard one girl tell her defeated dad, “But dad, I NEED a blender! I can make my own smoothies in the morning!” Okay, honey. Judging by the space-saving materials your poor dad has bought for your inevitably lofted bed, there’s not going to be room for a blender. Priorities, Honey. Priorities.

I remember getting all the fun new stuff for college. I loved shopping at the Union Bookstore in Iowa City for my giant textbooks, my color-coordinated folders, and several thousand highlighters. I had a whole new basket of toiletries for my shower caboodle thing, new shower shoes, towels, everything. I brought all my new stuff to my new school and set up shop.

Cue: worst experience ever. I applied late to U of Iowa (people will tell you that I thought I was applying to Iowa STATE, not University of Iowa, but those people are jerks. Maybe they were right, but they’re jerks) and therefore was assigned to Temporary Housing. Temp Housing is just a room that is technically a shared lounge for the whole floor. They cram some people in it, and as other unfortunate freshman drop out, or don’t show up, members of Temp Housing are reassigned to the abandoned rooms. I walked into the 4th Floor Lounge in Burge Hall. It looked like an insane asylum. There were 6 bunk beds with plastic mattresses on them, 6 dressers, and mini-kitchenette off to the side. There were 4 desks lined up against a wall with dividers in between them. It was…sterile. It was small. And it was empty otherwise. Because I was rushing sororities, I was a week earlier than the rest of the students.

My parents set up my cot, we chose my dresser, taped up some pictures of friends from home, and then it was time for them to take off in the empty conversion van. I realize this sounds pathetic, but I cried like a giant baby. I begged my parents not to leave me alone there. I said I would clean my room every day if they took me home. I wasn’t ready for college. I would return all my new stuff if they would let me get back in the van. “Don’t leave me here alone!” I sobbed.

During this infantile breakdown, the first roommate, Kristen, showed up with her mom. She was going through Rush as well. After they set up her stuff, they hugged and off her mother went. Then Kristen bounced off to go shopping downtown. I was like “UM! YOUR MOTHER JUST ABANDONED YOU!”

It was bad. Then, Rush started. I stopped calling home and crying every night because I was too busy hanging out with my Rush group, and staying up late eating Mac and Cheese out of a hot pot debating which house had better GPAs and parties. I would guess it took about 2 weeks for me to forget my family altogether. Pictures of home were replaced by pictures of my new “sisters”, all my books and folders were tossed onto the floor as we converted the desks into make-up stations, and the only crying I did was when a roommate would be reassigned to another dorm. I discovered Hawkeye football. And tailgating. Oh yeah, there were some classes in there too…

I only lived in the dorms for a year (most people at Iowa only live in for a year, two tops). It was a great year. Hallways full of open doors, people walking in and out of everyone‘s room, guys and girls chatting outside the showers (co-ed floors=very Ally McBeal-ish bathroom situation). I loved it. Moving into my first apartment after that was never quite as much fun. Bills? What?

So anyway, back in Target, this girl and her poor dad were debating the blender for a good 5 minutes before compromising on a Magic Bullet. The dad tossed it in the cart, and she was going on and on about what kind of contact paper to get for her drawers. I wondered if she’d be like me or Kristen when she was left alone at college. Judging by her obvious “first time away from home” priorities, I’m guessing she’ll be a wreck like I was. Lucky girl…