I woke up in the middle of the night last night, shivering my tootsies off. My room was a blistering 62 degrees and I woke up with a nose so cold that I was afraid it would snap off. Anyhoodle, I woke up angry, cold and a little delirious. I have this bad/hilarious habit of waking up mid-REM cycle, convinced I have come up with several GENIUS blog topics. I jot them down on my Notes app on my phone and then go back to sleep to try and get back to being on stage with Guns n' Roses at my house, which isn't REALLY my house but kind of more like my college dorm, while Ryan Gosling ties my shoes and tells me how happy he is that I don't have cankles.
The next day, I wake up with only a fuzzy memory of what I put in my app and assume it was genius. Then, on nights like tonight, I click back into the app for some great ideas and inspiration.
I'm never NOT disappointed. I'm an idiot at 4 a.m. I am not creative, funny or interesting in the middle of the night. And yet, I still convince myself that I have come up with some absolute blogging GOLD.
So tonight, I go to my list because today was uneventful, but I felt like blogging and needed some blogging gold. Instead, I found a list of sleepy topics that, on their own, are straight garbage. But as a group, they "work."
Here we go. Here is the list of "great blog ideas" I had, written exactly as they appear in my phone:
* Am I old now that I put hand lotion on before bed? Like on TV shows, aren't moms and grandmas like always putting lotion on while yelling at their husbands about their kids or whatever?
* Pretty sure Subway sandwiches are not actually 6 inches long. [Editor's note: I wrote this BEFORE some dude in Chicago filed a lawsuit against Subway for screwing customers out of that crucial 12th inch on their footlong subs. Read that full story HERE.]
* GENIUS IDEA: Magazine for after weddings? Too depressed!
* Could I still play a song on the flute? Can you forget how to play music? Like, what the notes look like?
* I feel like turtles' bodies would feel disgusting without a shell
* Food. Patina. DSW. Urban? [Editor's note: Turns out, this was just a list of places I wanted to shop the next day, I think.]
* Try to give up using a fork or a knife for a week.
* How does one sock ALWAYS come off in the middle of the night while I'm sleeping? Beds=Dryers???
* I should start saying "Second that emotion" more often, other funny phrases from songs as words
* Pants made out of blanket? Pankets! (MAKE THESE)
What?! These are so amazingly bad that I question the quality of topics I actually DO write about. I'll admit, I've pulled a few posts from this Notes app list in the past, so I shudder to think what people think about them in the light of day. Oh well, I can't be amazing all the time.
Oh, also? I'm pretty sure that Pankets idea is genius.
Thursday, January 31, 2013
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
Weight Debate
I know you'll all be shocked to learn that this girl [points to self] likes to stay informed by reading the news online. That's right. I'm not all Entertainment Weekly and cereal boxes. I am an ENGLISH MAJOR, after all. Anyway, I read an article today on the Huffington Post (I said I READ, I didn't say I was Einstein.) It was kind of interesting and struck a particularly vulnerable cord with me.
To read the full article, click here. It's called "Mixed Weight Relationships: No One Prepared Us For The Biggest Conflict In Our Marriage" and it's all about a chick who is totally normal and her also-normal husband. Like many normal women, the chick struggles with gaining weight. Like many normal men, the dude does not have the same struggle and can't understand why his neurotic wife won't stop obsessing about food and her weight. It's an eye-opener and I found myself nodding in agreement with much of the article.
See, Geo and I have very opposite body types. I am almost a foot shorter than him. His limbs are all long and lanky while mine are short and compact. Not once, in all the years that we've been dating, has Geo lost or gained any noticeable amount of weight. I, on the other hand, swing wildly from weight class to weight class, depending on the season and whatever pant style is on trend. Geo eats more macaroni and cheese in one week than I eat in 2 years. He drinks Coke - not diet Coke - on a very regular basis. He skips breakfast. But he also enjoys working out, so somehow that cruel equation adds up no weight gained, no weight lost.
I, on the other hand, have to drastically change diet and workout routines whenever I want to lose one or two lbs. Did I put my jeans in the dryer last time I washed them? Better get off carbs for a year and train for a marathon before I can wear them again...
It's made me resentful, to be honest. I've gotten mad at Geo before when he's like "Where should we eat?" And I'm all "I don't know." And he's like "How 'bout pizza?" And I'm all "I can't eat pizza." And he's all "Do they have any salads that look good?"
YEAH, WELL, NOT AS GOOD AS THAT PIZZA. IF YOU ORDER THAT PIZZA, IT WILL BE TORTURE.
So apparently, this dynamic can end up driving couples crazy. One constantly wants to lose weight while the other simply cannot understand why it seems to be so difficult. It has nothing to do with support - Geo supports me implicitly - it has more to do with understanding. There is no way I'll ever be able to understand how he can eat McDonald's for lunch and have cookie dough for dinner without gaining so much as water weight. He, on the other hand, cannot understand why I don't just go for a quick run before inhaling a full pizza and call it even. That'd be like me suggesting he do a few bicep curls before bed so he can wake up looking like the Hulk.
It's an unfortunate dynamic, to be sure. It's also just super unfair, too. With all the pressure that women have on us to look hot, be thin, eat like a man and never gain an ounce, it's no wonder some of us carry around that extra weight.
Anyway, I've been particularly sensitive about this topic lately because of how much work I'm putting in to looking my best come August. Because Geo doesn't have this same giant obstacle to overcome by then, I get a little touchy and impatient. Also, I'm just very hungry for carbs...
To read the full article, click here. It's called "Mixed Weight Relationships: No One Prepared Us For The Biggest Conflict In Our Marriage" and it's all about a chick who is totally normal and her also-normal husband. Like many normal women, the chick struggles with gaining weight. Like many normal men, the dude does not have the same struggle and can't understand why his neurotic wife won't stop obsessing about food and her weight. It's an eye-opener and I found myself nodding in agreement with much of the article.
See, Geo and I have very opposite body types. I am almost a foot shorter than him. His limbs are all long and lanky while mine are short and compact. Not once, in all the years that we've been dating, has Geo lost or gained any noticeable amount of weight. I, on the other hand, swing wildly from weight class to weight class, depending on the season and whatever pant style is on trend. Geo eats more macaroni and cheese in one week than I eat in 2 years. He drinks Coke - not diet Coke - on a very regular basis. He skips breakfast. But he also enjoys working out, so somehow that cruel equation adds up no weight gained, no weight lost.
I, on the other hand, have to drastically change diet and workout routines whenever I want to lose one or two lbs. Did I put my jeans in the dryer last time I washed them? Better get off carbs for a year and train for a marathon before I can wear them again...
It's made me resentful, to be honest. I've gotten mad at Geo before when he's like "Where should we eat?" And I'm all "I don't know." And he's like "How 'bout pizza?" And I'm all "I can't eat pizza." And he's all "Do they have any salads that look good?"
YEAH, WELL, NOT AS GOOD AS THAT PIZZA. IF YOU ORDER THAT PIZZA, IT WILL BE TORTURE.
So apparently, this dynamic can end up driving couples crazy. One constantly wants to lose weight while the other simply cannot understand why it seems to be so difficult. It has nothing to do with support - Geo supports me implicitly - it has more to do with understanding. There is no way I'll ever be able to understand how he can eat McDonald's for lunch and have cookie dough for dinner without gaining so much as water weight. He, on the other hand, cannot understand why I don't just go for a quick run before inhaling a full pizza and call it even. That'd be like me suggesting he do a few bicep curls before bed so he can wake up looking like the Hulk.
It's an unfortunate dynamic, to be sure. It's also just super unfair, too. With all the pressure that women have on us to look hot, be thin, eat like a man and never gain an ounce, it's no wonder some of us carry around that extra weight.
Anyway, I've been particularly sensitive about this topic lately because of how much work I'm putting in to looking my best come August. Because Geo doesn't have this same giant obstacle to overcome by then, I get a little touchy and impatient. Also, I'm just very hungry for carbs...
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
Falling Hard
As my Facebook friends will confirm, I fell today. Hard. On ice. I immediately picked myself up, dusted myself off and posted the non-event to Facebook as any self-centered person would do. See, it's ICY up in this piece. I placed one snow-boot-wearing foot on the sidewalk and BAM! Pharon Eats Pavement. I only now just got home and took my tights off to get a good look at the carnage. Hmm...all the damage must be subcutaneous (what?) because given the amount of pain I felt and the number of swear words I yelled at 7 a.m., the bruising should be way more life-ruining.
I started thinking about how clumsy I am. And yeah, I'm extremely clumsy. If there's a patch of ice, I'll find it. If there is uneven pavement, I'll trip over it in my Rollerblades. If there is a stairwell, I will slip and fall down it on my shins. These are all very real things that have already happened to me.
Probably the worst day of my life in terms of falling in public came when I worked at a Mexican restaurant in college. There was a bartender there that every girl just drooled over. Everyone wanted to impress him. I ran in to the restaurant on my day off to talk to my pal Taylor. I blah blah'd with her for a few minutes before The Bartender came in. I got nervous, talked really fast and then was all "Well, I better go!" So I started running out of the restaurant (so much for playing it cool, Pharon). As soon as I hit the tiling in the entry way, my feet decided to get in a serious fight with the ground and they broke up. I fell, ass-over-tea-kettle, while Bartender and Taylor looked on. As Taylor described it, "You were there, and then, you just weren't!" Luckily (?) I had fallen behind a half-wall, so I army-crawled out of the restaurant and limped all the way home.
So Cool.
Later that year, I slipped on some ice in the Ped Mall and fell (again!) in front of a captive audience. Somehow, I gracefully managed to land with my butt straight up in the air and my elbows placed directly into the icy cement.
Even later that year, I found myself in a pub with stairs. I was so busy yelling at someone over my shoulder that I failed to notice the staircase in front of me. I accidentally took one giant step down 8 stairs and managed to recover by simply skidding down the 50 steps on my shins. No one noticed a thing, but the next day, my shins looked like Rihanna's face. (Too soon? Whatever, she doesn't take it seriously, so neither will I.)
I don't know what's wrong with me. Maybe I have a depth perception problem or balance issues. I simply can't stand on two feet for very long. During the last rain-then-freeze weather, I was happily walking in my rain boots before I tripped over a twig and nearly chipped my teeth on the sidewalk. Last year, I was running down the stairs too fast in my last apartment and fell so hard that I had to ice my ankle for days. Running for the bus a couple months ago, I hit an errant pebble and my heel collapsed underneath me as a I crumbled to the ground. I fell once while walking in my own bedroom and skinned my whole face up. I tripped while playing soccer in high school and managed to sell it hard enough to earn me a free kick. I FALL. A. LOT.
So I don't know why I was so surprised this morning when I re-met my old friend Pavement. It's like "my thing." Some people eat healthy, I eat cement. That cold, hard smack of humility hit me hard and honestly (and sadly), it just felt right.
I started thinking about how clumsy I am. And yeah, I'm extremely clumsy. If there's a patch of ice, I'll find it. If there is uneven pavement, I'll trip over it in my Rollerblades. If there is a stairwell, I will slip and fall down it on my shins. These are all very real things that have already happened to me.
Probably the worst day of my life in terms of falling in public came when I worked at a Mexican restaurant in college. There was a bartender there that every girl just drooled over. Everyone wanted to impress him. I ran in to the restaurant on my day off to talk to my pal Taylor. I blah blah'd with her for a few minutes before The Bartender came in. I got nervous, talked really fast and then was all "Well, I better go!" So I started running out of the restaurant (so much for playing it cool, Pharon). As soon as I hit the tiling in the entry way, my feet decided to get in a serious fight with the ground and they broke up. I fell, ass-over-tea-kettle, while Bartender and Taylor looked on. As Taylor described it, "You were there, and then, you just weren't!" Luckily (?) I had fallen behind a half-wall, so I army-crawled out of the restaurant and limped all the way home.
So Cool.
Later that year, I slipped on some ice in the Ped Mall and fell (again!) in front of a captive audience. Somehow, I gracefully managed to land with my butt straight up in the air and my elbows placed directly into the icy cement.
Even later that year, I found myself in a pub with stairs. I was so busy yelling at someone over my shoulder that I failed to notice the staircase in front of me. I accidentally took one giant step down 8 stairs and managed to recover by simply skidding down the 50 steps on my shins. No one noticed a thing, but the next day, my shins looked like Rihanna's face. (Too soon? Whatever, she doesn't take it seriously, so neither will I.)
I don't know what's wrong with me. Maybe I have a depth perception problem or balance issues. I simply can't stand on two feet for very long. During the last rain-then-freeze weather, I was happily walking in my rain boots before I tripped over a twig and nearly chipped my teeth on the sidewalk. Last year, I was running down the stairs too fast in my last apartment and fell so hard that I had to ice my ankle for days. Running for the bus a couple months ago, I hit an errant pebble and my heel collapsed underneath me as a I crumbled to the ground. I fell once while walking in my own bedroom and skinned my whole face up. I tripped while playing soccer in high school and managed to sell it hard enough to earn me a free kick. I FALL. A. LOT.
So I don't know why I was so surprised this morning when I re-met my old friend Pavement. It's like "my thing." Some people eat healthy, I eat cement. That cold, hard smack of humility hit me hard and honestly (and sadly), it just felt right.
Sunday, January 27, 2013
Bad Move
I used to think there was nothing worse than helping someone move. You have to lug around big, heavy boxes which may or may not contain fragile things and carry around these unfamiliar things and put them in unfamiliar rooms. There are multiple trips to and from places that aren't yours and at the end of it all, the only thing you have to show for it is a sore back. At least the other person has a spankin' new pad to enjoy. Sure moving sucks, but moving for SOMEONE ELSE is even worse. And I thought there was nothing more hateful than helping someone with THEIR sucky job.
But there is something worse than helping someone move: Helping someone move when you really don't want that person to move in the first place.
This weekend, I reluctantly agreed to help Claire move out of her house, which is like 10 blocks away from me. She's lived there for years and then just like a couple weeks ago, she's all "Hey, got a new job offer. I'm moving." And I was like "To where? St. Paul? Some other Minneapolis suburb that will make it only slightly less convenient for me to come and watch Revenge with you?"
She's like "No, South Carolina."
.............um.............
Exsqueeze me? Now I'm no geography whiz, but I do believe South Carolina is an entirely different state that is no where near Minneapolis. Or even the suburbs. I have been reeling since Claire's far too-casual announcement. Claire and I have been friends for more than 20 years. We lived next door to each other growing up, last year I lived WITH her, and after that, I could only manage to move 10 blocks away. Needless to say, we have been very close. And what, now she's leaving to South Carolina? What the frock?!
To add insult to my emotional injury, Claire asked me to HELP her move some stuff out of her house and into her mother's house a whole month before she goes all Sweet Tea and Nascar on me. I hesitated. I didn't want to enable this move. In fact, I was still completely in denial that it was even happening. If I didn't see her moving out of her house, it wouldn't happen.
But I knew it was my job, as a BFF, to help her move. I was like "Fine, I'll come over. Maybe we can just move Christmas decoration boxes or something." When I walked into her house, I nearly reached over and punched Claire in the face for such a brutal reality check. There were boxes packed up EVERYWHERE. Her closets? Empty. All the pictures on the wall? Packed up. Even the refrigerator magnets we made out of beer bottle caps were gone. It was terrible. She's renting out her house while she's gone and they are moving in this week, so a lot of the furniture is still there, but all the "Claire" was wrapped in newspaper and packed away. IT SUCKED.
This is a tough move for her, too, obvs. But really it's mostly tough on ME. Who will I hang out with on Saturday nights when I don't feel like showering? Who will I go to Michael's with in search of crafting ideas on a Sunday, or use for cable? MYSELF?! It's the worst, you guys! THE WORST!
But being the great human that I am, I spent a few hours with her moving her boxes, packing her clothes and Tetris-ing her Christmas decoration boxes into my car. And while I considered secretly moving boxes back INTO her house when she wasn't looking, Claire was being very grown up about the thing, so I decided to try that too. We moved a bunch of stuff and I didn't even cry until I got in my car to go home.
I mean, I guess the good news is that I still have a key to the place. Maybe the new people moving in will be cool with me coming over and letting myself in to watch Sons of Anarchy and dig through their closets for a cute dress to borrow. If not? Well, I may have to see if there are any places to rent 10 blocks away from her in South Carolina...
But there is something worse than helping someone move: Helping someone move when you really don't want that person to move in the first place.
This weekend, I reluctantly agreed to help Claire move out of her house, which is like 10 blocks away from me. She's lived there for years and then just like a couple weeks ago, she's all "Hey, got a new job offer. I'm moving." And I was like "To where? St. Paul? Some other Minneapolis suburb that will make it only slightly less convenient for me to come and watch Revenge with you?"
She's like "No, South Carolina."
.............um.............
Exsqueeze me? Now I'm no geography whiz, but I do believe South Carolina is an entirely different state that is no where near Minneapolis. Or even the suburbs. I have been reeling since Claire's far too-casual announcement. Claire and I have been friends for more than 20 years. We lived next door to each other growing up, last year I lived WITH her, and after that, I could only manage to move 10 blocks away. Needless to say, we have been very close. And what, now she's leaving to South Carolina? What the frock?!
To add insult to my emotional injury, Claire asked me to HELP her move some stuff out of her house and into her mother's house a whole month before she goes all Sweet Tea and Nascar on me. I hesitated. I didn't want to enable this move. In fact, I was still completely in denial that it was even happening. If I didn't see her moving out of her house, it wouldn't happen.
But I knew it was my job, as a BFF, to help her move. I was like "Fine, I'll come over. Maybe we can just move Christmas decoration boxes or something." When I walked into her house, I nearly reached over and punched Claire in the face for such a brutal reality check. There were boxes packed up EVERYWHERE. Her closets? Empty. All the pictures on the wall? Packed up. Even the refrigerator magnets we made out of beer bottle caps were gone. It was terrible. She's renting out her house while she's gone and they are moving in this week, so a lot of the furniture is still there, but all the "Claire" was wrapped in newspaper and packed away. IT SUCKED.
This is a tough move for her, too, obvs. But really it's mostly tough on ME. Who will I hang out with on Saturday nights when I don't feel like showering? Who will I go to Michael's with in search of crafting ideas on a Sunday, or use for cable? MYSELF?! It's the worst, you guys! THE WORST!
But being the great human that I am, I spent a few hours with her moving her boxes, packing her clothes and Tetris-ing her Christmas decoration boxes into my car. And while I considered secretly moving boxes back INTO her house when she wasn't looking, Claire was being very grown up about the thing, so I decided to try that too. We moved a bunch of stuff and I didn't even cry until I got in my car to go home.
I mean, I guess the good news is that I still have a key to the place. Maybe the new people moving in will be cool with me coming over and letting myself in to watch Sons of Anarchy and dig through their closets for a cute dress to borrow. If not? Well, I may have to see if there are any places to rent 10 blocks away from her in South Carolina...
Thursday, January 24, 2013
Cold Hearted
Hey dummies! So, I had a really difficult First World Problem moment when I woke up in my 63 degree apartment today. I was like "I know I'm working from home today, but it feels so UNPROFESSIONAL to work in a Snuggie. What's a girl to do?" So I opted for two pairs of sweatpants and nice, crisp button-down sweatshirt as a compromise. But I sat in my tiny 6th floor apartment thinking "I'm no Albert Einstone, but I'm fairly certain that science dictates that heat should rise."
So what gives, Science?!
I worked today with my crazy mad bomber hat and gloves on. Not because I didn't have any options to head to the office or even the coffee shop across the street, but because I like to make sure I make myself as miserable as possible so that I can justify my inevitable complaining.
Apparently, my apartment building is heated with "gentle heat". Really? Yes, because Minnesota winters are so gentle. I fell into a snowbank/glacier this morning and hurt my knee bone while carrying a giant box to my car because all concrete turns into sheer ice in January here. GENTLY. Listen, I don't KNOW what "gentle heat" is, but I'm assuming that it actually just means "Someone will come by once in awhile and blow hot breath into your apartment," because my apartment is about as warm as my freezer and it smells like garlic and curry. Puke.
Anyway, part of the reasoning behind me choosing an apartment on the 6th floor was that, although it'd be an armpit in the summer, an apartment higher up with big huge windows should stay super cozy in the winter. Which, BTW, lasts for like 100 months here. I was all "I'm so smart and planning ahead!" (Bonus: NO MICE.)
So riddle me this, nerds. How is it that I have the COLDEST APARTMENT IN THE WORLD?! If heat rises and I'm up high, what happened to the heat?
I'll tell you what happened to the heat. Those a-holes on the first floor have captured it in bottles and empty yogurt cups as a power play against us Higher Ups. Typical.
In an attempt to heat up my apartment without heating up my bills, I have spent the last 2 hours listening to my shower on full blast HOT while the hot water constantly runs in the sink in my kitchen. Yeah, I don't pay for water, obvs. So far, it's just getting very humid up in here. But I'm almost certain I can start to consider taking off my second pair of fleece socks. From my hands. UGH.
So what gives, Science?!
I worked today with my crazy mad bomber hat and gloves on. Not because I didn't have any options to head to the office or even the coffee shop across the street, but because I like to make sure I make myself as miserable as possible so that I can justify my inevitable complaining.
Apparently, my apartment building is heated with "gentle heat". Really? Yes, because Minnesota winters are so gentle. I fell into a snowbank/glacier this morning and hurt my knee bone while carrying a giant box to my car because all concrete turns into sheer ice in January here. GENTLY. Listen, I don't KNOW what "gentle heat" is, but I'm assuming that it actually just means "Someone will come by once in awhile and blow hot breath into your apartment," because my apartment is about as warm as my freezer and it smells like garlic and curry. Puke.
Anyway, part of the reasoning behind me choosing an apartment on the 6th floor was that, although it'd be an armpit in the summer, an apartment higher up with big huge windows should stay super cozy in the winter. Which, BTW, lasts for like 100 months here. I was all "I'm so smart and planning ahead!" (Bonus: NO MICE.)
So riddle me this, nerds. How is it that I have the COLDEST APARTMENT IN THE WORLD?! If heat rises and I'm up high, what happened to the heat?
I'll tell you what happened to the heat. Those a-holes on the first floor have captured it in bottles and empty yogurt cups as a power play against us Higher Ups. Typical.
In an attempt to heat up my apartment without heating up my bills, I have spent the last 2 hours listening to my shower on full blast HOT while the hot water constantly runs in the sink in my kitchen. Yeah, I don't pay for water, obvs. So far, it's just getting very humid up in here. But I'm almost certain I can start to consider taking off my second pair of fleece socks. From my hands. UGH.
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
Pharon the Boy
I am a man about town. Writing that makes it sound like I am some dude who loves the nightlife, but the meaning implies that I am a man who knows what's what. This is weird, mostly, because I am not a man. But I do know what's what.
But I'm having this horrific flashback to 6th grade when I walked into ConnecTime (which was a 20 minute period of time in the school day dedicated to nothing more than having a "class" that did not assign homework, but encouraged socialization). I walked into the room and was bombarded with Microsoft Paint pictures of a haphazardly drawn boy and the words "PHARON THE BOY" written (poorly) across each page. There were hundreds of copies of this craptastic picture, and I got the point.
The kids in my class thought I was more like a boy than a girl.
(Oddly enough, one of the boys who spearheaded this smear campaign was the boy I would end up dating for like a billion years in high school.)
Anyhooz, people thought I was a boy because I didn't take crap from no one and I probably still had a bowl cut. At first, I was mortified. I was all "I'm NOT a boy! I'm a GIRL!" But my ConnecTime teacher, who was also my band director (word up, Mr. Holm!) peeped me in on a fun fact. Girls could be silly and stupid at that age, but maybe I was not. So to my middle school brethren, I may as well be a boy.
I've lived with those images of PHARON THE BOY for my entire life. I have always felt more comfortable in a room of dudes than a room of ladies. I burp and tell off-color jokes. I forget to put on makeup 9 days out of 10 and know how to buy jock straps because I worked at a sporting goods store in high school. I guess I may as well have been born a boy.
But I'm not a boy. (Spoiler!) I'm a girl who just so happens to be super capable in a lot of weird ways. When I was little, my dad taught me to fend for myself. He taught me how shake someone's hand, how to do my own taxes and to stop acting like I didn't know how to fix something when I could TOTALLY figure out how to fix something. He was all "Come on, Pharon. Don't be silly." And despite his best efforts, I turned out totally silly, but with the wherewithal to know when to use it to my advantage.
Tonight, I hung out with my pal Liz looking for some much-needed support in this endless nightmare that is Planning a Wedding. First, she showed me how to decorate tables in a beautimous, girlish way and then she asked me for help changing a light bulb in her apartment. My friend Claire has asked me to help her move stuff. My parents have asked me to come over and help them build a secretary table. I'm generally known in my circle for being stronger, build-ier and more logical than I look. Like I said, I am a man about town.
However, this is proving to be a disadvantage sometimes. I mean, I know I CAN do things for myself, but I don't WANT to do things for myself all the time. I recently heard what I thought was a bird in my apartment and I cried until the (male) property manager came over and checked out the sitch for me. Did I want to go rooting around in the vents to look for a sparrow nest?! NO THANK YOU. COULD I have checked it out myself? DUH. YES!
My point is that I've been doing a lot of girlie things lately, like figuring out decor and flowers and hairstyles and all that stuff. It's been seriously exhausting. All that girlie stuff has worn. me. out. So when Liz was all "Hey, can you climb this ladder and help me with this light bulb?" I was all "Let me find my tool belt and low-hanging pants and I'll be on my way!"
Reminder: Register for a tool belt.
But I'm having this horrific flashback to 6th grade when I walked into ConnecTime (which was a 20 minute period of time in the school day dedicated to nothing more than having a "class" that did not assign homework, but encouraged socialization). I walked into the room and was bombarded with Microsoft Paint pictures of a haphazardly drawn boy and the words "PHARON THE BOY" written (poorly) across each page. There were hundreds of copies of this craptastic picture, and I got the point.
The kids in my class thought I was more like a boy than a girl.
(Oddly enough, one of the boys who spearheaded this smear campaign was the boy I would end up dating for like a billion years in high school.)
Anyhooz, people thought I was a boy because I didn't take crap from no one and I probably still had a bowl cut. At first, I was mortified. I was all "I'm NOT a boy! I'm a GIRL!" But my ConnecTime teacher, who was also my band director (word up, Mr. Holm!) peeped me in on a fun fact. Girls could be silly and stupid at that age, but maybe I was not. So to my middle school brethren, I may as well be a boy.
I've lived with those images of PHARON THE BOY for my entire life. I have always felt more comfortable in a room of dudes than a room of ladies. I burp and tell off-color jokes. I forget to put on makeup 9 days out of 10 and know how to buy jock straps because I worked at a sporting goods store in high school. I guess I may as well have been born a boy.
But I'm not a boy. (Spoiler!) I'm a girl who just so happens to be super capable in a lot of weird ways. When I was little, my dad taught me to fend for myself. He taught me how shake someone's hand, how to do my own taxes and to stop acting like I didn't know how to fix something when I could TOTALLY figure out how to fix something. He was all "Come on, Pharon. Don't be silly." And despite his best efforts, I turned out totally silly, but with the wherewithal to know when to use it to my advantage.
Tonight, I hung out with my pal Liz looking for some much-needed support in this endless nightmare that is Planning a Wedding. First, she showed me how to decorate tables in a beautimous, girlish way and then she asked me for help changing a light bulb in her apartment. My friend Claire has asked me to help her move stuff. My parents have asked me to come over and help them build a secretary table. I'm generally known in my circle for being stronger, build-ier and more logical than I look. Like I said, I am a man about town.
However, this is proving to be a disadvantage sometimes. I mean, I know I CAN do things for myself, but I don't WANT to do things for myself all the time. I recently heard what I thought was a bird in my apartment and I cried until the (male) property manager came over and checked out the sitch for me. Did I want to go rooting around in the vents to look for a sparrow nest?! NO THANK YOU. COULD I have checked it out myself? DUH. YES!
My point is that I've been doing a lot of girlie things lately, like figuring out decor and flowers and hairstyles and all that stuff. It's been seriously exhausting. All that girlie stuff has worn. me. out. So when Liz was all "Hey, can you climb this ladder and help me with this light bulb?" I was all "Let me find my tool belt and low-hanging pants and I'll be on my way!"
Reminder: Register for a tool belt.
Monday, January 21, 2013
Probably why weddings are usually on Saturday nights
So, I had a lot of free time this weekend. Not only was today a company holiday which meant the day off, but I have found myself with much more time on my hands now that I'm not constantly eating bagels. Mmmm...delicious bagels...
Anyhooz, I had a conversation with my parents today about wedding stuff, and like what to do the night BEFORE the wedding, and my mom was all "I'm sure you and your friends are all used to staying up late and partying. But not all people do that."
I was all "Mom, I'm not 25 anymore. I don't do that."
She argued, "Oh, please. How many times have you been out this weekend? Two times? Four?"
I wanted to lie and agree with her, because the reality was so much less cool. I spent Saturday night at home reading a book I couldn't put down, while chatting with my friends Kelly and Madeline in Iowa and Illinois respectively via text. Sunday was my friend Lana's baby shower, which was super fun (but grownup) and afterwards should have made the perfect time for a fab Sunday Funday because of the Monday holiday, but instead? I spent another night reading (and FINISHING!) the book. Today, I cleaned, took care of wedding stuff, make something in a Crock Pot, did laundry and then yelled at the neighborhood kids to get off my lawn or else I'd make them fetch me a switch. Okay, not the last thing. But you get the idea.
So no, MOM, I am not a party animal. Sigh. But man, I WISH I was a party animal. I wish I had woken up on Sunday with crazy stories about what happened at 3 a.m. that very morning when so-and-so ran into that pole after leaving some awesome bar before getting late night pizza from Luce. Instead, I woke up on Sunday and thought, "I miss bagels." And then, "I could do some crafting today. I wonder if Michael's is open yet?"
Then I realized something. Weddings at this age are like Saturday nights were in college. Weddings are for people to get together, dress up, snap pictures all night and dance until the place closes down while drinking many different kinds of alcohol. In college? Pretty much what a Saturday night (or Tuesday afternoon) looked like. We'd get all gussied up, try and get free drinks and take crazy pics all night. The only thing different was instead of filet mignon, dinner consisted of mac n' cheese.
And yeah, there are vows in both cases, too. There are wedding vows that say "I do," while in college, the vows were more like "I won't," followed by "leave you alone" or "drink tequila" or "eat more than one grilled cheese in the ped mall."
So while I can understand my parent's frustration that I keep wanting to turn this wedding into a "party at a club," I feel like it's only natural. People don't go out gettin' crazy like (or as much as) we used to. (At least I don't. See above nights-spent-at-home-reading scenarios.) Now, people NEED weddings so they have a reason to change out of their work suits and sweatpants, let their hair down and not worry about deadlines and bosses.
My point is that, unless I want to keep throwing weddings every year, I think I need to start going out more.
Anyhooz, I had a conversation with my parents today about wedding stuff, and like what to do the night BEFORE the wedding, and my mom was all "I'm sure you and your friends are all used to staying up late and partying. But not all people do that."
I was all "Mom, I'm not 25 anymore. I don't do that."
She argued, "Oh, please. How many times have you been out this weekend? Two times? Four?"
I wanted to lie and agree with her, because the reality was so much less cool. I spent Saturday night at home reading a book I couldn't put down, while chatting with my friends Kelly and Madeline in Iowa and Illinois respectively via text. Sunday was my friend Lana's baby shower, which was super fun (but grownup) and afterwards should have made the perfect time for a fab Sunday Funday because of the Monday holiday, but instead? I spent another night reading (and FINISHING!) the book. Today, I cleaned, took care of wedding stuff, make something in a Crock Pot, did laundry and then yelled at the neighborhood kids to get off my lawn or else I'd make them fetch me a switch. Okay, not the last thing. But you get the idea.
So no, MOM, I am not a party animal. Sigh. But man, I WISH I was a party animal. I wish I had woken up on Sunday with crazy stories about what happened at 3 a.m. that very morning when so-and-so ran into that pole after leaving some awesome bar before getting late night pizza from Luce. Instead, I woke up on Sunday and thought, "I miss bagels." And then, "I could do some crafting today. I wonder if Michael's is open yet?"
Then I realized something. Weddings at this age are like Saturday nights were in college. Weddings are for people to get together, dress up, snap pictures all night and dance until the place closes down while drinking many different kinds of alcohol. In college? Pretty much what a Saturday night (or Tuesday afternoon) looked like. We'd get all gussied up, try and get free drinks and take crazy pics all night. The only thing different was instead of filet mignon, dinner consisted of mac n' cheese.
And yeah, there are vows in both cases, too. There are wedding vows that say "I do," while in college, the vows were more like "I won't," followed by "leave you alone" or "drink tequila" or "eat more than one grilled cheese in the ped mall."
So while I can understand my parent's frustration that I keep wanting to turn this wedding into a "party at a club," I feel like it's only natural. People don't go out gettin' crazy like (or as much as) we used to. (At least I don't. See above nights-spent-at-home-reading scenarios.) Now, people NEED weddings so they have a reason to change out of their work suits and sweatpants, let their hair down and not worry about deadlines and bosses.
My point is that, unless I want to keep throwing weddings every year, I think I need to start going out more.
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