Today, I have taken a personal day from work to participate in the first day of classes for my internship. This internship is my very last requirement for my Bachelor's degree. In this, I have been selected to participate in a pilot project at the local university (that has international reach) that invites high school students to participate in 4-week courses for both high school and college credit. The course they choose is paired with a reading comprehension course because the purpose of this program is to improve the reading level of college students -- not to get too involved. This is really the reader's digest version. Anyway...
Currently, I am sitting in on an Intro. to Psychology class. My purpose is to observe students and feel out their reactions to class. There are 7 bright-eyed, young things who appear quite alarmed already, 10 minutes into class. Each are sitting stiffly, as if they are too cool for school, and, of course, they are segregated into boys versus girls. So far, I, for one, feel very superior. The professor, on the other hand, is probably my age or younger, and is somewhat unconvincing. I'm trying to build him up with reassuring nods from my spot on the back row.
Seeing these students really takes me back to my first year of college. Boy, was a I a different person then. I can't even begin to describe myself without saying that I was deeply involved in a very unhealthy relationship with a beast. He was terrible. Suffice it to say, this "situation" added a great deal of stress to my life every single day. Let me paint you a picture...
Raaah. Raaaaah. Raaaaah. My alarm clock would go off at 6 AM Monday through Friday. I got up, maybe took a shower, changed into some possibly-clean sweatpants and a t-shirt and rolled out. Yeah, I was that gross. Rest easy knowing that I have raised my personal hygiene standards since then. Anyway, I then picked up the Boyfriend at his dorm so I could drive us both to the top of the hill and get some prime parking. We were in the parking lot by 7 AM, and class didn't start until 8. I vividly remember listening to alot of Bob & Sheri In The Morning during the waiting period...that, and arguing alot. This entire song and dance was necessary to avoid a bottom-of-the-hill parking space and the sweaty trek up to class. To be quite honest, I'm feeling a little red-faced even admitting all this. What a dork.
After this, I bee-bopped over to class, head down. The Boyfriend did not like it when I made eye contact or spoke to other guys. He considered it flirting. Some kind of argument usually ensued during this time. Eventually, I made it into class. I felt comfortable there. I always feel comfortable in class, actually. I can be successful in those situations. I think for a long time, I retreated into academics when I was feeling out of control. It's like my own, twisted version of bulimia. It was also important for me to absorb all of the knowledge my professors had to offer because I was responsible for making sure the both of us (the boyfriend and myself) earned acceptable grades. Again, I'm embaressed. I was a dummy.
After class, we would usually walk down the hill, or maybe drive, to Boyfriend's dorm. A large part of this and the following year of my life were spent sleeping. I was nearly narcoleptic. If I had as little as an extra 20 minutes, I would spend it napping. During this particular semester, I recall having at least 2 designated nap times per day. This was one of them. Boyfriend and I would take a long nap in his dorm before waking up for the next class. You bet I looked nice after all this mid-day sleeping. So then, we went to another class or two (usually -- this is prior to my becoming a Professional [and proud] Skipper), and took a nap until it was time to go to work. Unfortunately, we worked together too. Oh, and the green-eyed monster probably made another appearance somewhere in there. What a tangled web we weave. I have no (zero) warm memories during this time of my life. Sorry to bring you down with this post. I'm really leaving out a multitude of horrendous details.
On to the fun stuff... From there, Boyfriend & I often parted ways. I would come up with some creativity-lacking lie, like I was going to work on homework, and then I would meet up with friends instead. That year, the girls I worked with met up at an apartment to talk and drink and maybe play cards a few times a week. We usually went out for margaritas at a local Mexican restaurant, too. In high school, I didn't drink at all, so there are alot of interesting stories about me from this time. (Nothing too bad, just embaressing) These are some of my best memories of college, and, definitely the best of that year. Some of my closest friends -- Ally, AJ, & Jennifer -- were made that year.
I look around at these apprehensive high school students, and I'm undeniably excited for them. They have so many great times and experiences ahead.
6.15.2009
6.14.2009
Yard Sale-ing - Not to be Confused with Yard Sailing, Of Course
Yesterday morning, the joke was on my bodyclock. I had to push myself out of bed at 5 AM, a time I wasn't even sure registered on my alarm clock, all in the name of a yard sale. A week ago, I convinced my parents to have a yard sale before they move. My dad's original plan was just to give away all of their belongings that they wouldn't be able to fit into the new place. He had been offering everything he could think of, large and small, to anyone he came in contact with, and I thought he could make a profit instead. (He can thank himself for that aspect of my personality.) So, when I said I would help, he gave in. What had I gotten myself into? The things we do for our families...
I bumbled blindly through a shower and headed to the big event. It was 6:30 AM when I arrived at the spectacle. My dad and his mother were sitting on the front lawn amidst what appeared to be my childhood home's vomit. Seriously, I think there were a few photographs of me for sale in that mess. The mess was, however, arranged neatly on tables, the ground, and across makeshift clotheslines. The meager boxes I had donated to the cause the night before were minuscule in the mounds of things my dad decided to sell. I mean, I guess I can't blame him, though. What, exactly, were they going to do with 3 leafblowers, 2 decorative, wall-hanging brooms, 7 coolers, about 10 broken fishing poles, my grandmother's abandoned sconces (Look it up if you're not sure what these are. We had at least a dozen if you're a fan of medieval-style, so I'm sorry if you missed the boat on that one.), and a plethora of gaudy gold, Home Interior items? Many of the things for sale, I hadn't even seen since I was a child. They had spent recent years hiding in my parents' basement.
Our yard sale progressed quite merrily, with the three of us doing our respective parts. My grandmother nitpicked about prices, floor displays, and which items were too ridiculous to sell. I, of course, ignored her and tried to coach my dad into pushing the prices up. My dad, in turn, just gave things away as usual. As in, you bought a teddy bear for twenty-five cents? Great, take this working VCR as a complimentary gift! All in all, he made a good profit, though. I still wouldn't say I had a blast. Perhaps, I have not acclimated to the culture of yard sale-ing. Either way, I have compiled my second top ten list, a tribute to all things despicable:
9. Putting a price on old memories is impossible. Too low, and I feel like I'm selling my soul. Too high, and I'm stuck storing that old memory in a plastic tub until the next go-round.
8. I don't like the social pressure of haggling over prices. If I ask you what you'll give me for something, it's just because it's unacceptable to discuss money in our culture.
7. It is unacceptable to wear a bikini to a yard sale, thus I always end up with less-than-sexy farmer's tans.
6. People who insist on personal demonstrations of items for sale. I expect a tip if I have to drag out an extension cord and run through my yard amongst my other customers, proving that the leaf blower actually works.
5. People who mutter under their breath about the cost or quality of the items for sale. This is not a department store. I do not run blue-light specials like the local Wally World. Therefore, I am not interested in hearing one more old lady say "Oh that's nice, but eveything's TOO HIGH here."
4. The way neighbors, young and old, feel the need to mosey over, buy my stuff and relocate it 30 feet from me. If I want to get rid of it, I probably am not hoping to look at it on your front porch for the next year.
3. Drive-by's. This is the serious but picky, yard sale-er who rolls by slowly in his/her pick-up truck or rusted out, child-molester van, snarls her nose, and proceeds to speed away. THIS yard sale is not up to her standards.
2. Clean up. I didn't want all this crappy stuff in the first place. I certainly am not going to enjoy loading the leftovers up and dropping them off at the local Goodwill in the summer heat. Perhaps I could start throwing all remaining items in free with the last purchase of the day...
1. Other yard sales. I prefer to run a monopoly in the thriving yard sale-ing field. Please don't place your signs on top of mine, or in brighter colors. Don't put your announcements on my street's corner when that territory is clearly taken, and DON'T, by any means, bee-bop over to "visit" and comment "Wow. You have alot of clothes. Our yard sale is more tools and furniture."
This is NOT, I repeat NOT, a profession. Who cares if you've accumulated more stuff?!?
I bumbled blindly through a shower and headed to the big event. It was 6:30 AM when I arrived at the spectacle. My dad and his mother were sitting on the front lawn amidst what appeared to be my childhood home's vomit. Seriously, I think there were a few photographs of me for sale in that mess. The mess was, however, arranged neatly on tables, the ground, and across makeshift clotheslines. The meager boxes I had donated to the cause the night before were minuscule in the mounds of things my dad decided to sell. I mean, I guess I can't blame him, though. What, exactly, were they going to do with 3 leafblowers, 2 decorative, wall-hanging brooms, 7 coolers, about 10 broken fishing poles, my grandmother's abandoned sconces (Look it up if you're not sure what these are. We had at least a dozen if you're a fan of medieval-style, so I'm sorry if you missed the boat on that one.), and a plethora of gaudy gold, Home Interior items? Many of the things for sale, I hadn't even seen since I was a child. They had spent recent years hiding in my parents' basement.
Our yard sale progressed quite merrily, with the three of us doing our respective parts. My grandmother nitpicked about prices, floor displays, and which items were too ridiculous to sell. I, of course, ignored her and tried to coach my dad into pushing the prices up. My dad, in turn, just gave things away as usual. As in, you bought a teddy bear for twenty-five cents? Great, take this working VCR as a complimentary gift! All in all, he made a good profit, though. I still wouldn't say I had a blast. Perhaps, I have not acclimated to the culture of yard sale-ing. Either way, I have compiled my second top ten list, a tribute to all things despicable:
Top 10 Reasons I Dislike A Good Yard Sale
10. If I'm trying to interest you in purchasing my old junk, that is not an indication I'm looking for new friends. Keep movin', buddy.9. Putting a price on old memories is impossible. Too low, and I feel like I'm selling my soul. Too high, and I'm stuck storing that old memory in a plastic tub until the next go-round.
8. I don't like the social pressure of haggling over prices. If I ask you what you'll give me for something, it's just because it's unacceptable to discuss money in our culture.
7. It is unacceptable to wear a bikini to a yard sale, thus I always end up with less-than-sexy farmer's tans.
6. People who insist on personal demonstrations of items for sale. I expect a tip if I have to drag out an extension cord and run through my yard amongst my other customers, proving that the leaf blower actually works.
5. People who mutter under their breath about the cost or quality of the items for sale. This is not a department store. I do not run blue-light specials like the local Wally World. Therefore, I am not interested in hearing one more old lady say "Oh that's nice, but eveything's TOO HIGH here."
4. The way neighbors, young and old, feel the need to mosey over, buy my stuff and relocate it 30 feet from me. If I want to get rid of it, I probably am not hoping to look at it on your front porch for the next year.
3. Drive-by's. This is the serious but picky, yard sale-er who rolls by slowly in his/her pick-up truck or rusted out, child-molester van, snarls her nose, and proceeds to speed away. THIS yard sale is not up to her standards.
2. Clean up. I didn't want all this crappy stuff in the first place. I certainly am not going to enjoy loading the leftovers up and dropping them off at the local Goodwill in the summer heat. Perhaps I could start throwing all remaining items in free with the last purchase of the day...
1. Other yard sales. I prefer to run a monopoly in the thriving yard sale-ing field. Please don't place your signs on top of mine, or in brighter colors. Don't put your announcements on my street's corner when that territory is clearly taken, and DON'T, by any means, bee-bop over to "visit" and comment "Wow. You have alot of clothes. Our yard sale is more tools and furniture."
This is NOT, I repeat NOT, a profession. Who cares if you've accumulated more stuff?!?
6.12.2009
Top Ten Reasons I Won't Be Sending My Future Children to My Camps
I thought I might spice up the bloggie blog a bit with some Top Ten Lists. Here's the first one:
10. It might hurt their feelings when all the camp staff get printed t-shirts, but the girls have to make their own.
9. They won't be able to utilize the frequent smoke breaks, as I won't be supplying them with cigs.
8. I would prefer no one ever call my son a "Pixie."
7. Their musical tastes probably will not include early 90's Reba, thus they would be ridiculed.
6. Swimming with shoes on is not a good look.
5. Seductive dance is reserved for afterschool activities only.
4. I am fresh out of space for kitschy crafts.
3. There are enough creepy old men at the mall for our taste, thank you very much.
2. Porter johns are acceptable for state fairs and construction sites, but not for week-long, children's events.
1. I will be taking sweet revenge on Ranger Rulebook by sending 2 less kids into his brainwashing realm.
Of course, this is all in good fun. I have wonderful volunteers whom I would most certainly trust with my children. These are just some infractions that have been caught in the past.
10. It might hurt their feelings when all the camp staff get printed t-shirts, but the girls have to make their own.
9. They won't be able to utilize the frequent smoke breaks, as I won't be supplying them with cigs.
8. I would prefer no one ever call my son a "Pixie."
7. Their musical tastes probably will not include early 90's Reba, thus they would be ridiculed.
6. Swimming with shoes on is not a good look.
5. Seductive dance is reserved for afterschool activities only.
4. I am fresh out of space for kitschy crafts.
3. There are enough creepy old men at the mall for our taste, thank you very much.
2. Porter johns are acceptable for state fairs and construction sites, but not for week-long, children's events.
1. I will be taking sweet revenge on Ranger Rulebook by sending 2 less kids into his brainwashing realm.
Of course, this is all in good fun. I have wonderful volunteers whom I would most certainly trust with my children. These are just some infractions that have been caught in the past.
Thunder Thunder, Crash Crash
Last night, there was a hugh-mungo storm in South Central Kentucky. Our local weatherman (if you can call him that) was at his post, cutting into our regular programming, warning us of strong storms, frequent & deadly lighting, possible hail (which never really happens, except for that one time it did), and, of course, tornadoes! I don't typically get too riled up about Mother Nature, and last night was no exception. Muscles, however, does. Muscles has been known to jump out of bed and run through the house at the sound of a little strong wind. He religiously checks the weather on his handy iPhone, and informs those around him of the percentage chance of rain on a bi-daily basis. He also sometimes musters up his courage and tries to watch the storm from the front porch, until lightening sends him running inside. My mother is also like this, so I'm used to it. I have lots of memories of my mom and I huddled in bathtubs and interior closest with pillows, blankets, and flashlights during thunderstorms. We are a safe bunch.
Anyway, as I mentioned in an earlier post, this is day camp week at my job. This particular night, of all nights, was the final night of camp, culminating in a sleepover. So, I have two camps full of kiddos huddled in lodges, and their designated adults are making important decisions. I decide to call and check in on both camps. The first camp, let's call it "Camp Legit" cause they know what they're doing for the most part, does not answer. Camp Reba (refer to earlier post) does answer, and informs me that they have no power, but all is well. The girls are singing merrily around a makeshift campfire, otherwise known as a lantern. It's not a dreamboat, but it works. The girls have had a blast there this week.
Repeatedly, I try calling Camp Legit. I can't get through. Suddenly, a light bulb goes off above my head. Duh, Rooster. Camp Legit's lodge has a working telephone, a land line. Now, just to find the number. I, instead find the number of Ranger Rulebook, the site maintenance and order-keeper for Camp Legit. I call him up.
"Hi, Ranger Rulebook. I apologize for calling so late, but I need the number to Camp Legit."
"THIS is NOT the number to Camp. You have the wrong number," he growls, misunderstanding.
"No, no!" I exclaim, "This is Rooster Roo from the Girl Scouts Office. I need the number to camp, please."
"What is your concern?" Rulebook inquires.
Oh, well since it's not obvious, I was concerned about the pollen count in the middle of the night, while a tornado is tearing through the area, I think sarcastically. Good thing I think before I speak most of the time. I explain instead that my camp director is new, and I want to check on them in this monsoon.
Ranger Rulebook, always knowing best as it is, begins a 20-minute long diatribe about the qualifications of the volunteers at camp, and how I do not need to call them. Again, I ask politely for the number, just in case, and again, Rulebook recites his speech about why I do not need the number. Clearly, Rulebook does not understand that I am the all-important, young CEO of this outfit. (Of course, I'm not, but it's a better title than my real job.) We talk in circle for another 20 minutes until, suddenly, SHHHHHHHHHHH. Click.
That was the sound of Ranger Rulebook hanging up on me. Or losing cell phone service. I am not sure. Either way, I call back to get repeatedly rejected. At this point, I was sitting in my own darkened house with no electricity, fuming. Since Rulebook refused to pick up from then on out, there's no feel-good ending to this. I just sat there, stewing, until I fell asleep. I woke up this morning with a new vengeance, though. Ranger Rulebook must be stopped.
Anyway, as I mentioned in an earlier post, this is day camp week at my job. This particular night, of all nights, was the final night of camp, culminating in a sleepover. So, I have two camps full of kiddos huddled in lodges, and their designated adults are making important decisions. I decide to call and check in on both camps. The first camp, let's call it "Camp Legit" cause they know what they're doing for the most part, does not answer. Camp Reba (refer to earlier post) does answer, and informs me that they have no power, but all is well. The girls are singing merrily around a makeshift campfire, otherwise known as a lantern. It's not a dreamboat, but it works. The girls have had a blast there this week.
Repeatedly, I try calling Camp Legit. I can't get through. Suddenly, a light bulb goes off above my head. Duh, Rooster. Camp Legit's lodge has a working telephone, a land line. Now, just to find the number. I, instead find the number of Ranger Rulebook, the site maintenance and order-keeper for Camp Legit. I call him up.
"Hi, Ranger Rulebook. I apologize for calling so late, but I need the number to Camp Legit."
"THIS is NOT the number to Camp. You have the wrong number," he growls, misunderstanding.
"No, no!" I exclaim, "This is Rooster Roo from the Girl Scouts Office. I need the number to camp, please."
"What is your concern?" Rulebook inquires.
Oh, well since it's not obvious, I was concerned about the pollen count in the middle of the night, while a tornado is tearing through the area, I think sarcastically. Good thing I think before I speak most of the time. I explain instead that my camp director is new, and I want to check on them in this monsoon.
Ranger Rulebook, always knowing best as it is, begins a 20-minute long diatribe about the qualifications of the volunteers at camp, and how I do not need to call them. Again, I ask politely for the number, just in case, and again, Rulebook recites his speech about why I do not need the number. Clearly, Rulebook does not understand that I am the all-important, young CEO of this outfit. (Of course, I'm not, but it's a better title than my real job.) We talk in circle for another 20 minutes until, suddenly, SHHHHHHHHHHH. Click.
That was the sound of Ranger Rulebook hanging up on me. Or losing cell phone service. I am not sure. Either way, I call back to get repeatedly rejected. At this point, I was sitting in my own darkened house with no electricity, fuming. Since Rulebook refused to pick up from then on out, there's no feel-good ending to this. I just sat there, stewing, until I fell asleep. I woke up this morning with a new vengeance, though. Ranger Rulebook must be stopped.
6.11.2009
How to Get Pregnant in a Lifetime or Less
And so, the road to our unborn child involves a great deal of waiting.
This morning, at the ungodly hour of 5 AM, I woke up and headed to our fertility center, a hour's drive away from our house, to have a required, preliminary test done. This test is called an HSG. Basically, a doctor blew up my uterus with a pear-shaped balloon, squirted some sort of dye in it, and then took x-rays to see if the dye was going where it is supposed to. This all is done while lying on an x-ray table, with a small team of medical personnel standing by, and my legs in something one might describe as super-stirrups. The nurse was, in fact, so interested in helping me through this procedure that she literally cupped my face in her hands during the "difficult" part. That brings me to another point. One of my best friends prepared me for this fun event by telling me how very painful this all would be. Thanks, dear. Luckily, pain was not an issue for me. I came through like a trooper. The pain and discomfort I experienced actually came several hours later. So anyway... We're one step closer to making something magical happen. Before I get too Disney-movie, I'll move on... Jonathan has a test scheduled for next week. The following week, we will meet with Doc to make a decision on a course of action. We are SO excited.
This morning, at the ungodly hour of 5 AM, I woke up and headed to our fertility center, a hour's drive away from our house, to have a required, preliminary test done. This test is called an HSG. Basically, a doctor blew up my uterus with a pear-shaped balloon, squirted some sort of dye in it, and then took x-rays to see if the dye was going where it is supposed to. This all is done while lying on an x-ray table, with a small team of medical personnel standing by, and my legs in something one might describe as super-stirrups. The nurse was, in fact, so interested in helping me through this procedure that she literally cupped my face in her hands during the "difficult" part. That brings me to another point. One of my best friends prepared me for this fun event by telling me how very painful this all would be. Thanks, dear. Luckily, pain was not an issue for me. I came through like a trooper. The pain and discomfort I experienced actually came several hours later. So anyway... We're one step closer to making something magical happen. Before I get too Disney-movie, I'll move on... Jonathan has a test scheduled for next week. The following week, we will meet with Doc to make a decision on a course of action. We are SO excited.
A Tribute to Reba
So, this particular week of my life, I have been participating in a new form of ridiculousness: summer camp. In my position with the organization I work for, I am the liaison to all things camp in the area we cover. This equates to alot of unnecessary paperwork and my traipsing through day camps with a mental checklist of possible wrong-doings. One particular camp, in a rural area (of Kentucky, I know, right.), is spear-headed by a couple of bumbling volunteers with ill-intentions towards The Man (or The Woman, in this case). A co-worker, whom one might refer to as Strong Sierra for fun, and I planned a surprise visit yesterday afternoon to this particular camp. In theory, we would arrive unexpectedly and "catch" them in any number of violations that they would correct before a scheduled visit from us. After the hour-long drive through no-where, USA, we arrive to find a shockingly, comfortingly normal camp. I mean, it's not top dollar, but it's working. The girls are having a blast and experiencing lots of new, "campy" things. We check out the waterfront, since it has alot of potential for possible safety hazards, only to find almost everything going as planned (Minus a nest of baby mice. Ick.). We then hike about 13 miles uphill back to the lodge (Not really, but it felt like it.) and share some snackies with the kiddos. I pick up on a couple of new faces in the crowd -- mostly because they were grown men amongst gaggles of young girls. I verify their background information and sit back to observe. I notice a little mild flirting between an adult female unit leader and one of these men, whom we'll call William because that was his name and I have no reason to protect his identity. Both, I'm quite sure are married. Nonetheless, the girls just thought it was funny and innocent. Their problem then, not mine. As I'm observing this, Bumbling Director Numero Uno saunters up to us to inform us that there is a must-see skit coming up in a few minutes. Great. We are obligated to sweat through thirty more minutes of sweltering humidity to watch girls hug and talk about friendship... Or so I thought.
Three of the oldest girls at camp are in charge of this jewel of a skit. They gather all of the younger girls around and have them sit in an appropriate area for the audience. Let me warn you, that is the last use of the word "appropriate" in this post. The three girls whip out a boombox and send William to stage left (in the woods, behind some trees). I clearly hear the girls tell him his instructions are to walk into the center of the circle and stand there when the music begins. Williams begs why, with no response. He obliges. Also, I'd like to break in with a special announcement now: Of course, he gets doused with buckets of water at the end of the skit. Yes, it's hilarious, but that's not the good part. Read on. One member of this clever older girl trio presses play on the boombox. A country song begins playing, and here comes William. The great fireball, Reba McEntire, begins belting out a song from the early 90's about a no-good, cheating man whom she's kicking to the curb. Greeeaaat.
The trio waste no time in forming a circle around William and dancing first angrily and then seductively. He stands there laughing. The young girls in the audience cheer as the trio push him around, take off his hat, and verbally spar for his affections. One extra-special highlight of the show was when the trio each fell to the ground in come-hither poses. This continued for the entire 3 and 1/2 minutes of Reba, and, of course, ended with William soaking wet. The crowd roared.
Haha. Funny, right? Cute? NO. Without climbing onto my soapbox for this, suffice it to say that this is NOT the positive, empowering message we were hoping to send out to girls. On the bright side, I'm sure Reba is dancin' in her boots, waiting on the royalties from that performance.
Three of the oldest girls at camp are in charge of this jewel of a skit. They gather all of the younger girls around and have them sit in an appropriate area for the audience. Let me warn you, that is the last use of the word "appropriate" in this post. The three girls whip out a boombox and send William to stage left (in the woods, behind some trees). I clearly hear the girls tell him his instructions are to walk into the center of the circle and stand there when the music begins. Williams begs why, with no response. He obliges. Also, I'd like to break in with a special announcement now: Of course, he gets doused with buckets of water at the end of the skit. Yes, it's hilarious, but that's not the good part. Read on. One member of this clever older girl trio presses play on the boombox. A country song begins playing, and here comes William. The great fireball, Reba McEntire, begins belting out a song from the early 90's about a no-good, cheating man whom she's kicking to the curb. Greeeaaat.
The trio waste no time in forming a circle around William and dancing first angrily and then seductively. He stands there laughing. The young girls in the audience cheer as the trio push him around, take off his hat, and verbally spar for his affections. One extra-special highlight of the show was when the trio each fell to the ground in come-hither poses. This continued for the entire 3 and 1/2 minutes of Reba, and, of course, ended with William soaking wet. The crowd roared.
Haha. Funny, right? Cute? NO. Without climbing onto my soapbox for this, suffice it to say that this is NOT the positive, empowering message we were hoping to send out to girls. On the bright side, I'm sure Reba is dancin' in her boots, waiting on the royalties from that performance.
6.10.2009
Deconstructed Birthday Cheeseburger
I'm feeling quite insightful and creative this morning, so why not go for Bloggie Blog Post #2?
This past weekend, I re-invented the art of a birthday celebration. D
on't throw yourself into a frenzy. I am still a quarter of a century old. It wasn't my birthday. It was a very close friend of mine's, the age-before-you-might-be-considered-old's birthday. She invited her closest girlfriends, including myself, out for the three big D's: dinner and drinks and debauchery.
We began dinner at a local restaurant on their outdoor deck. (Actually, we finished dinner there too. Betcha didn't catch that grammatical error. Anyway..) I was in a feisty mood, as were most of the other ladies, so we ordered a round of Lemon Drop Martinis, Margaritas, Wine, & the like. Our first round became our second and after our second, we found ourselves ordering drinks that begin with phrases like "Bottle of..." and/or "Pitcher of..." Needless to say, we had a little too much fun, but that's bound to happen when great women like ourselves get a chance to get out together.
After dinner, we hopped in the car with our sober driver and pumped up the 90's on 9 channel, my personal favorite. We participated in a rousing, high-school style sing-a-long en route to downtown PlaceWhereIComeFrom, the haven for yet more libations. We arrived at a local bar in uplifted spirits, only to find a front row parking place. Sweet!
I need to take a moment to back up. I'm always terrible at leaving out essential threads of a story and thus making the ending predictable. Anyway, I drove myself to the restaurant earlier in the night. After an unexpected amount of drinky, I made the always-responsible decision to ride with someone I had just met. (Good thing she's one of Birthday girl - Amazon Ally's dear friends.) All of this was done with the assurance from Muscles that he would pick me up when I became ready to leave.
Anyway, we continued to have a blasty-blast, with the exception of the appearance of PsychoBitch. (Refer to Amazon for backstory -- Not mine to tell.) This particular bar that we were avid patrons of closes at midnight, a full hour and a half prior to the surrounding bars. When Amazon had had enough, she decided we would leave when this bar closed. Coincidentally, a couple of mine and Muscles' (mostly his) close guy friends showed up downtown around that time. I said hello cordially but shooed them away, not wanting them to rain on the all-female party we were having. I make the admittedly hazy decision that I will pop over to say hello when the birthday girl leaves and THEN call Muscles to hop in the Batmobile and swing through to get me. What can I say? I'm a social butterfly on occasion and I wanted to say hello to some friends I rarely see.
So... This all goes according to plan. I tell AA happy birthday and then head over. This is the kind of night downtown that I used to love. It seems like EVERYONE is out. I talked to everyone for maybe, 15-20 minutes, and then decided I missed my Muscles and was ready to leave. I went outside, plopped down on a park bench, and gave him a ring. Nothing. I called again. Nothing. (Nothing equals voicemail, Bee Tee Dubya) I called approximately 75 more times. Not really. In reality, I called about 15 more times, which is still a great deal. My Lemon Drop Brain was starting to think I was stranded downtown. Uh-Oh!
I called up my BFF. He's not really my BFF. He's Muscles' BFF, but it's fun to call him that considering we had what one might call a "rough patch" in the beginning of our friendship. Anyway, I ask him if he's talked to Muscles tonight.
"Yeah, about an hour ago, why?" BFF asks.
I tell him the story. He LAUGHS. What's wrong with him? What's wrong with men? (Refer to previous post for additional evidence.) I ask BFF to call Muscles because maybe my calls are not going through. He refuses and laughs some more. I might add that this situation is most often reversed, and I am equally unforgiving. Comin' back to bite me now, BIG time.
I end the convo somewhere around this time.
I then head back inside to ask the two afore mentioned friends if they can take me home. (One of them lives less than 3 miles from me, and I live FAR out.) He says sure, he'll take me as far as my road. Again, WHAT IS WRONG WITH HIS MALE BRAIN? That would be about a 3 mile hike for me home, in the dark, with the coyotes, in a skirt. No!
I head back outside to call Muscles because his (not ours, anymore) friends are big jerks. Fifteen or more calls later, I get through. Muscles claims he had no service. He was sounding a bit groggy. I was unimpressed, but I was too happy that I wasn't abandoned to care. He was en route in the batmobile. YES!
As I waited the 20 or so minutes for him to arrive, the intelligent, responsible people came out of the woodwork. Friends and acquaintances waited with me and offered to pay for cab rides home. Of course, I didn't need help anymore, but I was grateful. I also chose to use this time to cheerfully call all of my best friends for a leisurely chat. Guess how many answered at 1 AM? It was dismal.
Twenty minutes later, Muscles swooped me up in the Batmobile and we headed home. I insisted on a cheeseburger before bed, so he even obliged stopping somewhere along the way to get me one. We got back to our house in one piece, Muscles still groggy and myself savoring the thoughts of that cheeseburger. Somewhere along this time, the Lemon Drop Brain hit me. OH to tha NO. I sent Muscles to sleepytime, and I decided to stay on the couch until I sobered up a bit. Afterall, I hadn't behaved like this is quite some time, and I was concerned about the after effects in the morning. I think I sleepwalked after this. I can't be sure. I know I was falling asleep on the couch and then...
I woke up at 6:45 AM (You guessed it.) in my own bed. I looked at peaceful, snoring Muscles and shook my head around a little to check for a headache. Nothing. I looked down. I was also wearing something quite different from what I went gallivanting around in last night. Hm. How did that happen? I nudged Muscles and asked, "Did you come get me from the couch last night?"
"No. I've been sleepin'. I'm still sleepin'. I love you." he mumbles.
I was so confused. I felt as if I had been body snatched. Okay... So I decide I need to hydrate myself in order to continue to feel alive. I walk down the stairs slowly and focus my sleepy eyes on our coffee table as I put together the pieces of what I'm looking at.
There, on our antique trunk of a makeshift coffee table, is a row of items. First, is the top of my bun from my cheeseburger the night before, half eaten, of course. Next, is a small, neat stack of pickles. After the pickle tower, is a small pile of bacon. Next to that is the actual cheeseburger. And after that, is the other partially eaten half of the bun. Neatly. In a row. Like I was playing a game with them at 2 AM. Hm...
I got my glass of water, and climbed back up the stairs to snuggle back in with my husband. Happy Birthday, dear Ally. We had a blast. :)
This past weekend, I re-invented the art of a birthday celebration. D
on't throw yourself into a frenzy. I am still a quarter of a century old. It wasn't my birthday. It was a very close friend of mine's, the age-before-you-might-be-considered-old's birthday. She invited her closest girlfriends, including myself, out for the three big D's: dinner and drinks and debauchery.We began dinner at a local restaurant on their outdoor deck. (Actually, we finished dinner there too. Betcha didn't catch that grammatical error. Anyway..) I was in a feisty mood, as were most of the other ladies, so we ordered a round of Lemon Drop Martinis, Margaritas, Wine, & the like. Our first round became our second and after our second, we found ourselves ordering drinks that begin with phrases like "Bottle of..." and/or "Pitcher of..." Needless to say, we had a little too much fun, but that's bound to happen when great women like ourselves get a chance to get out together.
After dinner, we hopped in the car with our sober driver and pumped up the 90's on 9 channel, my personal favorite. We participated in a rousing, high-school style sing-a-long en route to downtown PlaceWhereIComeFrom, the haven for yet more libations. We arrived at a local bar in uplifted spirits, only to find a front row parking place. Sweet!
I need to take a moment to back up. I'm always terrible at leaving out essential threads of a story and thus making the ending predictable. Anyway, I drove myself to the restaurant earlier in the night. After an unexpected amount of drinky, I made the always-responsible decision to ride with someone I had just met. (Good thing she's one of Birthday girl - Amazon Ally's dear friends.) All of this was done with the assurance from Muscles that he would pick me up when I became ready to leave.
Anyway, we continued to have a blasty-blast, with the exception of the appearance of PsychoBitch. (Refer to Amazon for backstory -- Not mine to tell.) This particular bar that we were avid patrons of closes at midnight, a full hour and a half prior to the surrounding bars. When Amazon had had enough, she decided we would leave when this bar closed. Coincidentally, a couple of mine and Muscles' (mostly his) close guy friends showed up downtown around that time. I said hello cordially but shooed them away, not wanting them to rain on the all-female party we were having. I make the admittedly hazy decision that I will pop over to say hello when the birthday girl leaves and THEN call Muscles to hop in the Batmobile and swing through to get me. What can I say? I'm a social butterfly on occasion and I wanted to say hello to some friends I rarely see.
So... This all goes according to plan. I tell AA happy birthday and then head over. This is the kind of night downtown that I used to love. It seems like EVERYONE is out. I talked to everyone for maybe, 15-20 minutes, and then decided I missed my Muscles and was ready to leave. I went outside, plopped down on a park bench, and gave him a ring. Nothing. I called again. Nothing. (Nothing equals voicemail, Bee Tee Dubya) I called approximately 75 more times. Not really. In reality, I called about 15 more times, which is still a great deal. My Lemon Drop Brain was starting to think I was stranded downtown. Uh-Oh!
I called up my BFF. He's not really my BFF. He's Muscles' BFF, but it's fun to call him that considering we had what one might call a "rough patch" in the beginning of our friendship. Anyway, I ask him if he's talked to Muscles tonight.
"Yeah, about an hour ago, why?" BFF asks.
I tell him the story. He LAUGHS. What's wrong with him? What's wrong with men? (Refer to previous post for additional evidence.) I ask BFF to call Muscles because maybe my calls are not going through. He refuses and laughs some more. I might add that this situation is most often reversed, and I am equally unforgiving. Comin' back to bite me now, BIG time.
I end the convo somewhere around this time.
I then head back inside to ask the two afore mentioned friends if they can take me home. (One of them lives less than 3 miles from me, and I live FAR out.) He says sure, he'll take me as far as my road. Again, WHAT IS WRONG WITH HIS MALE BRAIN? That would be about a 3 mile hike for me home, in the dark, with the coyotes, in a skirt. No!
I head back outside to call Muscles because his (not ours, anymore) friends are big jerks. Fifteen or more calls later, I get through. Muscles claims he had no service. He was sounding a bit groggy. I was unimpressed, but I was too happy that I wasn't abandoned to care. He was en route in the batmobile. YES!
As I waited the 20 or so minutes for him to arrive, the intelligent, responsible people came out of the woodwork. Friends and acquaintances waited with me and offered to pay for cab rides home. Of course, I didn't need help anymore, but I was grateful. I also chose to use this time to cheerfully call all of my best friends for a leisurely chat. Guess how many answered at 1 AM? It was dismal.
Twenty minutes later, Muscles swooped me up in the Batmobile and we headed home. I insisted on a cheeseburger before bed, so he even obliged stopping somewhere along the way to get me one. We got back to our house in one piece, Muscles still groggy and myself savoring the thoughts of that cheeseburger. Somewhere along this time, the Lemon Drop Brain hit me. OH to tha NO. I sent Muscles to sleepytime, and I decided to stay on the couch until I sobered up a bit. Afterall, I hadn't behaved like this is quite some time, and I was concerned about the after effects in the morning. I think I sleepwalked after this. I can't be sure. I know I was falling asleep on the couch and then...
I woke up at 6:45 AM (You guessed it.) in my own bed. I looked at peaceful, snoring Muscles and shook my head around a little to check for a headache. Nothing. I looked down. I was also wearing something quite different from what I went gallivanting around in last night. Hm. How did that happen? I nudged Muscles and asked, "Did you come get me from the couch last night?"
"No. I've been sleepin'. I'm still sleepin'. I love you." he mumbles.
I was so confused. I felt as if I had been body snatched. Okay... So I decide I need to hydrate myself in order to continue to feel alive. I walk down the stairs slowly and focus my sleepy eyes on our coffee table as I put together the pieces of what I'm looking at.
There, on our antique trunk of a makeshift coffee table, is a row of items. First, is the top of my bun from my cheeseburger the night before, half eaten, of course. Next, is a small, neat stack of pickles. After the pickle tower, is a small pile of bacon. Next to that is the actual cheeseburger. And after that, is the other partially eaten half of the bun. Neatly. In a row. Like I was playing a game with them at 2 AM. Hm...
I got my glass of water, and climbed back up the stairs to snuggle back in with my husband. Happy Birthday, dear Ally. We had a blast. :)
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