This doesn't have anything to do with Halloween, but this video contains a whole bunch of CILKARAMO.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Thursday, October 28, 2010
...Well THAT's a Mouthful.
A large part of my job involves looking at lots and lots of donor records, which means reading lots and lots of names.
Sarah and I trade emails containing the more unfortunate names we've come across on a daily basis, which is pretty much what gets us through the day. (That and our benefits package. And our coworkers. And all the free ice cream.) But what gets me more than the Wagtendonks, Swerdfegers, and Krapfs is this situation:
Dr. and Mrs. John L. Smith, Jr., MD, PhD, OBGYN, DDS, MSD, BS, DC, CCEP, BET, VH1, MTV, Esq
Goooooood gravy, mister! I mean doctor! You must be really rich and smart!
I wish there was some way people could tell all my good qualities just by looking at my name...
Mrs. Emily Gray, MA, DC, MGP (Mildly Attractive, Decent Cook, Makes Good Playlists)
Mrs. Emily Gray, HSDR, DFCBSGMBISRS (High School Diploma Recipient, Didn't Finish College Because She Got Married But Is Still Really Smart)
Mrs. Emily Gray, BS15:) (Once Got to Level Fifteen on Bubble Spinner)
Mrs. Emily Gray, R-E-S-P-E-C-T (Find Out What It Means To Me)
That's all I've got.
Sarah and I trade emails containing the more unfortunate names we've come across on a daily basis, which is pretty much what gets us through the day. (That and our benefits package. And our coworkers. And all the free ice cream.) But what gets me more than the Wagtendonks, Swerdfegers, and Krapfs is this situation:
Dr. and Mrs. John L. Smith, Jr., MD, PhD, OBGYN, DDS, MSD, BS, DC, CCEP, BET, VH1, MTV, Esq
Goooooood gravy, mister! I mean doctor! You must be really rich and smart!
I wish there was some way people could tell all my good qualities just by looking at my name...
Mrs. Emily Gray, MA, DC, MGP (Mildly Attractive, Decent Cook, Makes Good Playlists)
Mrs. Emily Gray, HSDR, DFCBSGMBISRS (High School Diploma Recipient, Didn't Finish College Because She Got Married But Is Still Really Smart)
Mrs. Emily Gray, BS15:) (Once Got to Level Fifteen on Bubble Spinner)
Mrs. Emily Gray, R-E-S-P-E-C-T (Find Out What It Means To Me)
That's all I've got.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Here Lies Frankie, Beloved Friend and Brother
Last night I received some disturbing news.
Frankie is dead.
And by that I mean Frankie's has cancelled Tuesday night karaoke.
We've been frequenting Frankie's for a solid three months now, and excluding the last three weeks, we never missed a Tuesday night. Leah, Sarah and I emailed excitedly all day about our highly anticipated return to glory. We even left a little earlier than usual to be sure to get a good table.
I don't think any of us were prepared for what we would find when we arrived.
Something felt wrong from the moment I opened the door. It was too bright in there...didn't they usually dim the lights? And where was everybody? The place was dead. (I suppose I should have recognized the obvious foreshadowing there.)
That's when I saw Angie (our regular waitress) speaking in a soothing voice to Levi and Leah. Something about the way she had her hand on Leah's shoulder told me that something had gone terribly, terribly wrong.
Sarah and I approached with caution, and that's when they broke the news: it was over. Forever.
It was like showing up for a wedding only to be informed that the bride and groom had split up.
It was like showing up for Grandpa's 90th birthday party only to find that Grandpa had died, but not before he cut you out of his will.
It was like that time you were leaving Easter mass and said to your mom, "There's no such thing as the Easter bunny, is there?" with a feeling of mature enlightenment, only to have her reply, "Yeah, it's kinda like Santa Claus," and then falling into a downward spiral of tears, doubt and despair because you hadn't quite made that particular connection yet. But maybe that was just me.
I know we've all been away a while; we got busy with work or school, we went to Texas, we were tired after returning from Texas...but we always took for granted that Frankie's would be there waiting for us when we were ready to come back. It's so hard to believe he's just...gone.
What are we supposed to do on Tuesday nights now? We can't keep going to Frankie's, because without karaoke, it would just be a bunch of us sitting around drinking on a Tuesday night, which somehow feels far sadder than a bunch of us sitting around drinking and watching strangers make complete fools of themselves on a Tuesday night.
Where else can I get up and rap in front of a full house without facing ridicule and a probable beating? Where is Leah going to take her Cher impersonation act? Where in the name of Pete are we going to get that drink that tastes exactly like Dubble Bubble Bubblegum?!?!?
We didn't even get to say goodbye.
I'd like to take some time to do that now.
Goodbye, Angie. You are the best waitress we've ever had anywhere. You always remembered our drinks and made us feel at home. You were like a mom-away-from-mom for many of us - someone to bring us food and drinks and clean up after us - and we love you for it.
Goodbye, Weird UCCS Theatre Kids. We won't really miss you and your insistence upon singing songs from The Rocky Horror Picture Show. You guys were kinda vulgar and we secretly used to show up early in hopes of getting out of there before you arrived.
Goodbye, Red. Everyone knows that wasn't your real name because your hair is blonde, but if using a fake name gave you the confidence you needed to get up there several times a week and sing terribly, then you go, girl. You. Go.
Goodbye, Dottie. You were the worst singer we've ever heard, and your trashy 70's country song choices were enough to make me want to punch an old lady. Namely, you.
Goodbye, Guy With the Crazy Mustache and All the Hats. We thought you were really awesome when you sang "I've Got A Lovely Bunch of Coconuts" while wearing that awesome safari hat. It was a real crowd pleaser, and it made us feel included. Unfortunately our opinion of you tanked when you changed the lyrics of "Cocomo" by the Beach Boys into something I'm not willing to repeat. Not even on the internet.
Goodbye, David. You loved you some Journey songs. We always kinda thought you worked there, but were too afraid to ask. Or maybe we just didn't really care.
And finally, goodbye, Jordan. You're the only one on this list who might actually ever read this because we're friends on Facebook, if not in real life. You're the bomb. I don't know if there's anyone else in the world capable of performing Led Zeppelin and Outkast with your level of accuracy and flair. You're the best KJ we've ever known. Also your hair is good.
Rest in peace, Frankie. You ruined our lives.
Frankie is dead.
And by that I mean Frankie's has cancelled Tuesday night karaoke.
We've been frequenting Frankie's for a solid three months now, and excluding the last three weeks, we never missed a Tuesday night. Leah, Sarah and I emailed excitedly all day about our highly anticipated return to glory. We even left a little earlier than usual to be sure to get a good table.
I don't think any of us were prepared for what we would find when we arrived.
Something felt wrong from the moment I opened the door. It was too bright in there...didn't they usually dim the lights? And where was everybody? The place was dead. (I suppose I should have recognized the obvious foreshadowing there.)
That's when I saw Angie (our regular waitress) speaking in a soothing voice to Levi and Leah. Something about the way she had her hand on Leah's shoulder told me that something had gone terribly, terribly wrong.
Sarah and I approached with caution, and that's when they broke the news: it was over. Forever.
It was like showing up for a wedding only to be informed that the bride and groom had split up.
It was like showing up for Grandpa's 90th birthday party only to find that Grandpa had died, but not before he cut you out of his will.
It was like that time you were leaving Easter mass and said to your mom, "There's no such thing as the Easter bunny, is there?" with a feeling of mature enlightenment, only to have her reply, "Yeah, it's kinda like Santa Claus," and then falling into a downward spiral of tears, doubt and despair because you hadn't quite made that particular connection yet. But maybe that was just me.
I know we've all been away a while; we got busy with work or school, we went to Texas, we were tired after returning from Texas...but we always took for granted that Frankie's would be there waiting for us when we were ready to come back. It's so hard to believe he's just...gone.
What are we supposed to do on Tuesday nights now? We can't keep going to Frankie's, because without karaoke, it would just be a bunch of us sitting around drinking on a Tuesday night, which somehow feels far sadder than a bunch of us sitting around drinking and watching strangers make complete fools of themselves on a Tuesday night.
Where else can I get up and rap in front of a full house without facing ridicule and a probable beating? Where is Leah going to take her Cher impersonation act? Where in the name of Pete are we going to get that drink that tastes exactly like Dubble Bubble Bubblegum?!?!?
We didn't even get to say goodbye.
I'd like to take some time to do that now.
Goodbye, Angie. You are the best waitress we've ever had anywhere. You always remembered our drinks and made us feel at home. You were like a mom-away-from-mom for many of us - someone to bring us food and drinks and clean up after us - and we love you for it.
Goodbye, Weird UCCS Theatre Kids. We won't really miss you and your insistence upon singing songs from The Rocky Horror Picture Show. You guys were kinda vulgar and we secretly used to show up early in hopes of getting out of there before you arrived.
Goodbye, Red. Everyone knows that wasn't your real name because your hair is blonde, but if using a fake name gave you the confidence you needed to get up there several times a week and sing terribly, then you go, girl. You. Go.
Goodbye, Dottie. You were the worst singer we've ever heard, and your trashy 70's country song choices were enough to make me want to punch an old lady. Namely, you.
Goodbye, Guy With the Crazy Mustache and All the Hats. We thought you were really awesome when you sang "I've Got A Lovely Bunch of Coconuts" while wearing that awesome safari hat. It was a real crowd pleaser, and it made us feel included. Unfortunately our opinion of you tanked when you changed the lyrics of "Cocomo" by the Beach Boys into something I'm not willing to repeat. Not even on the internet.
Goodbye, David. You loved you some Journey songs. We always kinda thought you worked there, but were too afraid to ask. Or maybe we just didn't really care.
And finally, goodbye, Jordan. You're the only one on this list who might actually ever read this because we're friends on Facebook, if not in real life. You're the bomb. I don't know if there's anyone else in the world capable of performing Led Zeppelin and Outkast with your level of accuracy and flair. You're the best KJ we've ever known. Also your hair is good.
Rest in peace, Frankie. You ruined our lives.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Tempted
While I was in Texas, I got my hair cut for the first time in over a year.
I told myself I hadn't gotten it cut because I was trying to grow it out...but the truth is I just haven't learned to trust a stylist since Joanna Ballentine broke my heart. She gave me the best haircut of my life and then up and moved to Alabama a month later to get married and live an adorable life and have an adorable blog. Not that I took it personally or anything.
I figured I might as well take care of it while I was home and had access to a salon I knew and loved. There's just something about sitting in in a room full of gossipy southern women that I find oddly comforting.
I asked my stylist to put some layers in and trim up the ends a little, and of course she threw in some complimentary hints regarding which of my fellow Wylie High School graduates are now in jail, divorced, pregnant with illegitimate children, etc.
As I watched the last remnants of my blonde highlights fall to the floor like so much broom food, I made a feeble attempt to console my aching heart.
Don't worry, you're better off without it! Think of all the money you're saving! Your hair's still kinda blonde...okay, who are you kidding. It's brown. But a very, very light brown!
Hold on, that guy got three different girls pregnant? He was in the FFA...and he was shorter than me. I don't get it.
At this point, my thoughts were interrupted by the lady cutting my hair.
Sassy Southern Stylist: "Girl, I cannot beeLEEVE you haven't hah-lahted this yet!"
Me: "Yeah...I'm trying to quit."
Sassy Southern Stylist: "It is jest the perfect color for it! You oughta let me hah-laht it."
Me: Don't do it! Don't give in! She's gonna try to do that dark brown underneath, platinum on top thing you hate!
"Yeah...I would...I just..."
...don't want my hair to look like a bad wig...have gotten used to my hair not falling out at an alarming rate...
"...haven't really found anyone up in Colorado I can trust to touch it up when the time comes."
Sassy Southern Stylist: "Oh, chahld, don't Ah know it! It can be so hard to fand someone you lahk!"
She whiled away the rest of our time together by wondering aloud how much plastic surgery Olivia Newton-John's had. "She's sixty? Look at this magazine; that don't look like no sixty year old woman to me. Ah mean look at me, Ah'm only fifty and Ah don't look nothin' like that, but that's just me, Ah'm just not into all that artifishull stuff. Ah do wish you'd let me hah-laht that pritty little head o' yers though..."
I composed a letter once I got home to express my gratitude, but I couldn't find the address of the salon, so I'll just post it here and hope it finds its way to her someday.
I told myself I hadn't gotten it cut because I was trying to grow it out...but the truth is I just haven't learned to trust a stylist since Joanna Ballentine broke my heart. She gave me the best haircut of my life and then up and moved to Alabama a month later to get married and live an adorable life and have an adorable blog. Not that I took it personally or anything.
I figured I might as well take care of it while I was home and had access to a salon I knew and loved. There's just something about sitting in in a room full of gossipy southern women that I find oddly comforting.
I asked my stylist to put some layers in and trim up the ends a little, and of course she threw in some complimentary hints regarding which of my fellow Wylie High School graduates are now in jail, divorced, pregnant with illegitimate children, etc.
As I watched the last remnants of my blonde highlights fall to the floor like so much broom food, I made a feeble attempt to console my aching heart.
Don't worry, you're better off without it! Think of all the money you're saving! Your hair's still kinda blonde...okay, who are you kidding. It's brown. But a very, very light brown!
Hold on, that guy got three different girls pregnant? He was in the FFA...and he was shorter than me. I don't get it.
At this point, my thoughts were interrupted by the lady cutting my hair.
Sassy Southern Stylist: "Girl, I cannot beeLEEVE you haven't hah-lahted this yet!"
Me: "Yeah...I'm trying to quit."
Sassy Southern Stylist: "It is jest the perfect color for it! You oughta let me hah-laht it."
Me: Don't do it! Don't give in! She's gonna try to do that dark brown underneath, platinum on top thing you hate!
"Yeah...I would...I just..."
...don't want my hair to look like a bad wig...have gotten used to my hair not falling out at an alarming rate...
"...haven't really found anyone up in Colorado I can trust to touch it up when the time comes."
Sassy Southern Stylist: "Oh, chahld, don't Ah know it! It can be so hard to fand someone you lahk!"
She whiled away the rest of our time together by wondering aloud how much plastic surgery Olivia Newton-John's had. "She's sixty? Look at this magazine; that don't look like no sixty year old woman to me. Ah mean look at me, Ah'm only fifty and Ah don't look nothin' like that, but that's just me, Ah'm just not into all that artifishull stuff. Ah do wish you'd let me hah-laht that pritty little head o' yers though..."
I composed a letter once I got home to express my gratitude, but I couldn't find the address of the salon, so I'll just post it here and hope it finds its way to her someday.
Dear Sassy Southern Stylist,
You stay classy, ol' gal. You have no idea how close I came to caving in and letting you bleach the crap out of my hair.
Your accent is like a drug to me and I find your boundless stores of gossip almost impossible to resist...not to mention the endearingly ironic fact that you don't seem to consider hot pink acrylic nails, a fake tan, or bleached out hair to be "artifishull."
You are what makes Wylie great. (Well, you...and Taco Delite. And Shoemaker & Hardt. Oh and my mom.)
Love always,
The Girl Who Couldn't Remember Your Name to Save Her Life
Monday, October 25, 2010
What I Did This Weekend...Because You're All DYING to Know
Friday night I cheered the Texas Rangers on to a 6-1 win against the Yankees and a ticket to the World Series for the first time in Rangers history. (It would have been 6-0 if A-Rod hadn't scored a dirty run. I'm just saying...the Yankees are cheaters.)
I'm not gonna pretend I'm some huge baseball fanatic and that I've watched every Rangers game ever played, but there was a time - back when Will Clark was at 1st base, Pudge Rodriguez was catching, Juan Gonzalez and Rusty Greer were in the outfield, and Mickey Tettleton was holding his bat funny - that I entertained dreams of becoming the first female player in major league baseball.
My plan was to replace Pudge. It all seemed to gel perfectly: I had a stumpy 12 year old body, a tomboyish obsession with baseball, Pudge was my hero, and I figured if my calculations were correct, he'd be good and ready to retire by the time I was old enough to play. (As it turns out, 12 looong years later, he's still puttering around the bases.)
What happened to those dreams, you ask? Let's see...I'm pretty sure I tossed them up into the top of my closet sometime during the 7th grade, right after I discovered boys liked me a lot more without the backwards baseball cap. (Both the dreams and the hat can still be found in my old room at my parents' house, gathering dust.)
Anyway, that's enough reminiscing. On to the next!
Saturday, I did a little pumpkin carving with eleven of my closest friends.
Here's mine:
...because I figured nothing says "I love you" like carving your husband's face into the side of a pumpkin.
I spent most of Sunday constructing our family's Halloween costumes. I can't tell you what they are because I'm really important and you might try to steal my idea.
JUST KIDDING! We're gonna be Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and it is going to be awesome...even if there are only three of us...and the shells I made happen to strongly resemble chair cushions.
Now, having put your minds to rest on the subject of what I did this weekend, you may all return to your regularly scheduled Mondays.
I'm not gonna pretend I'm some huge baseball fanatic and that I've watched every Rangers game ever played, but there was a time - back when Will Clark was at 1st base, Pudge Rodriguez was catching, Juan Gonzalez and Rusty Greer were in the outfield, and Mickey Tettleton was holding his bat funny - that I entertained dreams of becoming the first female player in major league baseball.
My plan was to replace Pudge. It all seemed to gel perfectly: I had a stumpy 12 year old body, a tomboyish obsession with baseball, Pudge was my hero, and I figured if my calculations were correct, he'd be good and ready to retire by the time I was old enough to play. (As it turns out, 12 looong years later, he's still puttering around the bases.)
What happened to those dreams, you ask? Let's see...I'm pretty sure I tossed them up into the top of my closet sometime during the 7th grade, right after I discovered boys liked me a lot more without the backwards baseball cap. (Both the dreams and the hat can still be found in my old room at my parents' house, gathering dust.)
Anyway, that's enough reminiscing. On to the next!
Saturday, I did a little pumpkin carving with eleven of my closest friends.
Here's mine:
...because I figured nothing says "I love you" like carving your husband's face into the side of a pumpkin.
I spent most of Sunday constructing our family's Halloween costumes. I can't tell you what they are because I'm really important and you might try to steal my idea.
JUST KIDDING! We're gonna be Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and it is going to be awesome...even if there are only three of us...and the shells I made happen to strongly resemble chair cushions.
Now, having put your minds to rest on the subject of what I did this weekend, you may all return to your regularly scheduled Mondays.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Thursday, October 21, 2010
How I Almost Died
All I wanted to do was watch How I Met Your Mother.
That's all I've ever wanted.
I was sitting on Sarah's couch watching the show, rolling sushi (shout out to E. Bailey Sterling for teaching me the ways of the homemade california roll) and generally having myself a good ol' time when I was suddenly overcome by the sensation that my insides were being kneaded vigorously by a particuarly large bodybuilder who seemed to be in dire need of some stress relief.
I'll spare you the gory details and just say that one thing was clear: my stomach wanted out of my body. What wasn't clear was which way it wanted to go.
I just kept thinking, "Why, body, WHY are you rebelling against me?"
And that's when I heard a tiny voice...
Tiny Voice: I'll tell you why...
Me: Who is this?
Tiny Voice: It's your body.
Me: If you're really my body, why don't you sound like me?
Tiny Voice: Well, the truth is you're probably hallucinating due to pain, which would explain why I sound more like a leprechaun than your actual voice.
Me: Why are you doing this to me?
Tiny Voice: Well, Emily, let's think about that. What reason could I possibly have for wishing you terrible, excruciating pain?
Me: ...this isn't about last week, is it?
Tiny Voice: Oh! So you DO remember! Why, yes, Emily, it is about last week. Tell me, can you remember anything you might have done to me last week to make me a tad angry with you?
Me: I...no.
Tiny Voice: Really? Really. Really?
Me: Okay! Of course I remember, jeez.
Tiny Voice: Go on...
Me: I stuffed you full of soda and Little Debbies.
Tiny Voice: And...?
Me: And I ate at every fast food restaurant in sight.
Tiny Voice: And how do you think that made me feel?
Me: (Rolling my mind's eye) It made you feel like traaaashhhhh.
Tiny Voice: Don't patronize me! I don't think you're fully considering how much power I hold over you!
Me: I'm sorry! I'm sorry. Please, just make it stop.
Tiny Voice: I'm not sure you deserve that.
Me: But I've changed my ways, Body! I've been putting healthy food in you for three days!
Tiny Voice: Well just consider this a warning then. I'm going to continue your punishment for two full hours, after which I will loosen my iron grip and allow you to sleep.
Me: Thanks, Body. You're the best.
Tiny Voice: Now you're just being a suck up.
Me: Sorry.
And that is the story of how I almost died.
Theeeee Ennnnnnnd
That's all I've ever wanted.
I was sitting on Sarah's couch watching the show, rolling sushi (shout out to E. Bailey Sterling for teaching me the ways of the homemade california roll) and generally having myself a good ol' time when I was suddenly overcome by the sensation that my insides were being kneaded vigorously by a particuarly large bodybuilder who seemed to be in dire need of some stress relief.
I'll spare you the gory details and just say that one thing was clear: my stomach wanted out of my body. What wasn't clear was which way it wanted to go.
I just kept thinking, "Why, body, WHY are you rebelling against me?"
And that's when I heard a tiny voice...
Tiny Voice: I'll tell you why...
Me: Who is this?
Tiny Voice: It's your body.
Me: If you're really my body, why don't you sound like me?
Tiny Voice: Well, the truth is you're probably hallucinating due to pain, which would explain why I sound more like a leprechaun than your actual voice.
Me: Why are you doing this to me?
Tiny Voice: Well, Emily, let's think about that. What reason could I possibly have for wishing you terrible, excruciating pain?
Me: ...this isn't about last week, is it?
Tiny Voice: Oh! So you DO remember! Why, yes, Emily, it is about last week. Tell me, can you remember anything you might have done to me last week to make me a tad angry with you?
Me: I...no.
Tiny Voice: Really? Really. Really?
Me: Okay! Of course I remember, jeez.
Tiny Voice: Go on...
Me: I stuffed you full of soda and Little Debbies.
Tiny Voice: And...?
Me: And I ate at every fast food restaurant in sight.
Tiny Voice: And how do you think that made me feel?
Me: (Rolling my mind's eye) It made you feel like traaaashhhhh.
Tiny Voice: Don't patronize me! I don't think you're fully considering how much power I hold over you!
Me: I'm sorry! I'm sorry. Please, just make it stop.
Tiny Voice: I'm not sure you deserve that.
Me: But I've changed my ways, Body! I've been putting healthy food in you for three days!
Tiny Voice: Well just consider this a warning then. I'm going to continue your punishment for two full hours, after which I will loosen my iron grip and allow you to sleep.
Me: Thanks, Body. You're the best.
Tiny Voice: Now you're just being a suck up.
Me: Sorry.
And that is the story of how I almost died.
Theeeee Ennnnnnnd
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
...Come Again?
Apparently, Gary's time while I was away was a little more eventful than he let on.
Every time I spoke to him on the phone, I'd ask him how his day was, what was going on, etc., and every time he'd say, "Oh, things are good...nothing's really going on except that I miss you so much I'm not sure I'm gonna survive until you get home." (I may have taken a little artistic license there.)
As it turns out, quite a bit happened that he failed to mention, like, I don't know...the fact that our house almost burned down, then it almost got blown up, and a house full of my friends almost died.
I'm only really exaggerating in one of these cases, and that's the one concerning our house almost burning to the ground. Gary nonchalantly mentioned last night that, "Oh hey, did you know if you leave the burner on the stove on all night it shuts itself off?"
The other two things were actually serious.
First, Sarah's roommates found out they had carbon monoxide leaking into their house. They all survived because Jesus loves them. Also I love them. (That doesn't have anything to do with why they survived; I just thought it was worth mentioning.)
Gary totally knew about this, and he totally did not tell me. (I'm guessing because he knew I'd suggest that the four girls come stay in our two bedroom house with him and Brutus...which surely would have been awkward and uncomfortable for all. Whatever, four girls can totally fit in a queen sized bed if they sleep sideways.)
Last and most disturbing, it turns out the guy who lives four or five houses down from us turned on his gas and was threatening to blow up his house. Gary happened to take Brutus for a walk around that time, and found himself looking at several cop cars and a firetruck just down the street.
He asked the policemen if it was okay for him to be in our house, and when he showed them which one was ours they were kinda like, "Eh...you might wanna keep a little more distance than that." Hey, thanks for the warning, guys. (Just like you warned us when the house next to us went up in flames...oh wait! You didn't!)
So Gary spent most of the day hanging out with the guys on the other side of the crackhouse who, by the way, seem to spend most to all of their time outside. I don't know why they don't just move all their living room furniture out there. I'd like to see them out there around mid-winter, decked out in parkas and long johns, huddled around the tv set watching a football game like those penguins at the beginning of Beakman's World.
Anyone?
Every time I spoke to him on the phone, I'd ask him how his day was, what was going on, etc., and every time he'd say, "Oh, things are good...nothing's really going on except that I miss you so much I'm not sure I'm gonna survive until you get home." (I may have taken a little artistic license there.)
As it turns out, quite a bit happened that he failed to mention, like, I don't know...the fact that our house almost burned down, then it almost got blown up, and a house full of my friends almost died.
I'm only really exaggerating in one of these cases, and that's the one concerning our house almost burning to the ground. Gary nonchalantly mentioned last night that, "Oh hey, did you know if you leave the burner on the stove on all night it shuts itself off?"
The other two things were actually serious.
First, Sarah's roommates found out they had carbon monoxide leaking into their house. They all survived because Jesus loves them. Also I love them. (That doesn't have anything to do with why they survived; I just thought it was worth mentioning.)
Gary totally knew about this, and he totally did not tell me. (I'm guessing because he knew I'd suggest that the four girls come stay in our two bedroom house with him and Brutus...which surely would have been awkward and uncomfortable for all. Whatever, four girls can totally fit in a queen sized bed if they sleep sideways.)
Last and most disturbing, it turns out the guy who lives four or five houses down from us turned on his gas and was threatening to blow up his house. Gary happened to take Brutus for a walk around that time, and found himself looking at several cop cars and a firetruck just down the street.
He asked the policemen if it was okay for him to be in our house, and when he showed them which one was ours they were kinda like, "Eh...you might wanna keep a little more distance than that." Hey, thanks for the warning, guys. (Just like you warned us when the house next to us went up in flames...oh wait! You didn't!)
So Gary spent most of the day hanging out with the guys on the other side of the crackhouse who, by the way, seem to spend most to all of their time outside. I don't know why they don't just move all their living room furniture out there. I'd like to see them out there around mid-winter, decked out in parkas and long johns, huddled around the tv set watching a football game like those penguins at the beginning of Beakman's World.
Anyone?
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
The Airbourne Identity
This is a play about two girls on a plane ride from Dallas to Colorado Springs and the very different experiences they had.
To set up the scene, the girls knew that they had two window seats, one behind the other. The story begins with their long trek to the back of the plane, when they both notice a gangly, stringy haired kid wearing a rastafarian-style beanie that was much too large for his pimply little head, sitting in the middle seat of what was sure to be one of their rows.
Action!
Emily: Ha, what's up Rasta Pasta? Oh no...please don't let that be my row...please don't let that be my row...
Sarah: Please let it be her row...please let it be her row...
Emily: DANGGGITTTTTT. Well, maybe she'll get stuck next to a smelly guy. We shall see; there's no one sitting there yet.
(Enter Matt Damon 2.0, heading straight for Sarah's row...and yes. The seat beside her. She doesn't look up at him.)
Emily: Well well well...alright, I'm willing to take one for the team if it means Sarah can make a love connection.
(Sarah is still not looking, because she is far too cool to care that there is a gorgeous young angel seated beside her. She pulls out her Filter magazine and begins reading. Her neighbor commences reading the magazine too without her noticing, and eventually his eyes wander to her face...and stay there.)
Emily: He loves her! They're gonna get married! I wonder if their kids will look like Ben Affleck...wait, that doesn't even make any sense...and yet somehow, it does...
(Matt Damon 2.0 accidentally kicks the chair in front of him and stands up to apologize to the person seated there. He nervously glances at Sarah and says something to her that makes her laugh. He smiles.)
Emily: Finally! A nice guy! Clean cut, smiles easily...yes, he will make her a fine husband.
(Emily's thoughts are interrupted by Rasta Pasta loudly making some lame jokes to his dad about something he saw in SkyMall.)
Emily: (Slightly annoyed) It's been done, buddy. Everyone knows SkyMall is ridiculous; that's why they put them in airplanes. That didn't make sense either...but whatever. I have a wedding to plan!
(The lovers' conversation dwindles...everybody goes to sleep. One to two hours later, the plane lands.)
Emily: Yay, they're talking again! Oh, if I listen hard enough, I might be able to hear their conversation!
Matt Damon 2.0: "So what do you do for fun around here?"
Emily: Uh oh...he's got his smooth voice on. He sounds a little too much like Channing Tatum for my taste...I'm not sure I like where this is going.
Sarah: "Uhhh...nothing. I pretty much don't leave my house ever."
Matt Damon 2.0: (Something about...hangout spots.)
Emily: Oh no. Oh no. Please don't be stupid...please don't be stupid...
Sarah: (Laughs nervously) "Uhhh...yeah not really. I have like four roommates, so I kinda just hang out at the house a lot."
Mat Damon 2.0: "Do you guys ever throw any sweet huge parties?"
Emily: Ohhh...nooooo...
Sarah: "Yeah, that sounds like me..."
Matt Damon 2.0: "Does it?"
Sarah: "Um...no."
Emily: ABORT! ABORT! WE NEED TO GET OFF THIS PLANE NOW!!!
Matt Damon 2.0: "What's your name?"
Sarah: "Sarah. What's yours?"
Matt Damon 2.0: "Johnny."
(Johnny's phone rings.)
Johnny Damon -2.0: "Wassup. Where yall at?"
Emily: Where yall at??? Dreams: shattered. I was really hoping for a little less Ocean's Eleven and a little more Good Will Hunting. I hope I can get a refund on the wedding cake I just ordered...
(The awkwardness continues in this manner for several minutes, until finally they all exit the plane and Sarah is able to make her escape. All is well.)
THE END
To set up the scene, the girls knew that they had two window seats, one behind the other. The story begins with their long trek to the back of the plane, when they both notice a gangly, stringy haired kid wearing a rastafarian-style beanie that was much too large for his pimply little head, sitting in the middle seat of what was sure to be one of their rows.
Action!
Emily: Ha, what's up Rasta Pasta? Oh no...please don't let that be my row...please don't let that be my row...
Sarah: Please let it be her row...please let it be her row...
Emily: DANGGGITTTTTT. Well, maybe she'll get stuck next to a smelly guy. We shall see; there's no one sitting there yet.
(Enter Matt Damon 2.0, heading straight for Sarah's row...and yes. The seat beside her. She doesn't look up at him.)
Emily: Well well well...alright, I'm willing to take one for the team if it means Sarah can make a love connection.
(Sarah is still not looking, because she is far too cool to care that there is a gorgeous young angel seated beside her. She pulls out her Filter magazine and begins reading. Her neighbor commences reading the magazine too without her noticing, and eventually his eyes wander to her face...and stay there.)
Emily: He loves her! They're gonna get married! I wonder if their kids will look like Ben Affleck...wait, that doesn't even make any sense...and yet somehow, it does...
(Matt Damon 2.0 accidentally kicks the chair in front of him and stands up to apologize to the person seated there. He nervously glances at Sarah and says something to her that makes her laugh. He smiles.)
Emily: Finally! A nice guy! Clean cut, smiles easily...yes, he will make her a fine husband.
(Emily's thoughts are interrupted by Rasta Pasta loudly making some lame jokes to his dad about something he saw in SkyMall.)
Emily: (Slightly annoyed) It's been done, buddy. Everyone knows SkyMall is ridiculous; that's why they put them in airplanes. That didn't make sense either...but whatever. I have a wedding to plan!
(The lovers' conversation dwindles...everybody goes to sleep. One to two hours later, the plane lands.)
Emily: Yay, they're talking again! Oh, if I listen hard enough, I might be able to hear their conversation!
Matt Damon 2.0: "So what do you do for fun around here?"
Emily: Uh oh...he's got his smooth voice on. He sounds a little too much like Channing Tatum for my taste...I'm not sure I like where this is going.
Sarah: "Uhhh...nothing. I pretty much don't leave my house ever."
Matt Damon 2.0: (Something about...hangout spots.)
Emily: Oh no. Oh no. Please don't be stupid...please don't be stupid...
Sarah: (Laughs nervously) "Uhhh...yeah not really. I have like four roommates, so I kinda just hang out at the house a lot."
Mat Damon 2.0: "Do you guys ever throw any sweet huge parties?"
Emily: Ohhh...nooooo...
Sarah: "Yeah, that sounds like me..."
Matt Damon 2.0: "Does it?"
Sarah: "Um...no."
Emily: ABORT! ABORT! WE NEED TO GET OFF THIS PLANE NOW!!!
Matt Damon 2.0: "What's your name?"
Sarah: "Sarah. What's yours?"
Matt Damon 2.0: "Johnny."
(Johnny's phone rings.)
Johnny Damon -2.0: "Wassup. Where yall at?"
Emily: Where yall at??? Dreams: shattered. I was really hoping for a little less Ocean's Eleven and a little more Good Will Hunting. I hope I can get a refund on the wedding cake I just ordered...
(The awkwardness continues in this manner for several minutes, until finally they all exit the plane and Sarah is able to make her escape. All is well.)
THE END
Monday, October 18, 2010
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Brush with Death
Something happened to me during the night, and it has shaken me to my core...but this was no mouse. This was something far more sinister.
Stop laughing, this is serious.
I was having trouble falling asleep, so I started reading the book I brought with me. It is a story rife with murder plots, revenge, and visions of ghosts, so of course I was pretty well freaked out to begin with.
After about an hour, I had exhausted all the positions available for comfort while reading, so I decided to relocate to the couch on the other side of the room.
I soon found that the couch was out of reach of the lamplight by which I had been reading, so I moved the lamp onto the corner of Sarah's bed, found a comfortable spot on the couch, and resumed my reading.
After sitting about twenty minutes in this manner, just as I had come to a particularly thrilling spot in the story, I heard a clank followed by the violent shattering of glass, and was suddenly plunged into complete darkness.
"This is it," I thought to myself, "this is the culmination of all those years' suspicious noises in this very room...surely now death has come to claim me."
I picked up the pillow upon which I had been resting my book, and with it as my only shield, slowly made my way to the door. "I would be as far away from the lightswitch as is humanly possible at this moment. Curse that couch, with all its denim delights!"
I prepared in my throat a scream to be executed the moment I was seized by the cold hand I knew was creeping ever closer toward me to claim my life.
Suddenly, my finely upholstered shield was met with resistance. Could it be? Had I reached the far wall? The door? The lightswitch? It was too good, too fortunate to be true! Whilst waving the pillow wildly to fend off whatever dangers lurked behind me with my right hand, I clumsily groped along the wall with my left until finally, mercifully, my fingers found the lightswitch and hastily flipped it on.
I turned to face my would-be attacker, but found no one.
As I stood there, heart pounding, palms sweating, the door opened. I screamed. Sarah entered, wearing a foam rubber cowboy hat.
Sarah: "...it's just me."
Emily: "You frightened me."
Sarah: "What happened? I thought I heard something break."
Emily: "Someone was trying to kill me."
Sarah: "What?"
Emily: "I broke a lamp."
Sarah: "...was...the lamp? Trying to kill you?"
Emily: "Why are you wearing that hat?"
Sarah: "Kris gave it to me...don't change the subject!"
Emily: "I thought myself in the gravest of danger. I was sure my life was at its end..."
Sarah: "Why are you talking like...what were you reading?"
Emily: "The Count of Monte Cristo."
Sarah: "Emily! What did I tell you?!"
Emily: "Not to read that book after dark."
Sarah: "And why did I tell you that?"
Emily: "Because every time I read it after dark, I break a lamp."
Sarah: "And...?"
Emily: "...and I have a tendency to start speaking like a nineteenth century French aristocrat."
Sarah: "And how does that make me feel?"
Emily: "Like you want to punch me een ze sroat."
Not to worry, everybody. I should be finished with this book by the end of my flight tonight, after which point I promise to return to my regular literary diet of teen fiction and online gossip columns.
Stop laughing, this is serious.
I was having trouble falling asleep, so I started reading the book I brought with me. It is a story rife with murder plots, revenge, and visions of ghosts, so of course I was pretty well freaked out to begin with.
After about an hour, I had exhausted all the positions available for comfort while reading, so I decided to relocate to the couch on the other side of the room.
I soon found that the couch was out of reach of the lamplight by which I had been reading, so I moved the lamp onto the corner of Sarah's bed, found a comfortable spot on the couch, and resumed my reading.
After sitting about twenty minutes in this manner, just as I had come to a particularly thrilling spot in the story, I heard a clank followed by the violent shattering of glass, and was suddenly plunged into complete darkness.
"This is it," I thought to myself, "this is the culmination of all those years' suspicious noises in this very room...surely now death has come to claim me."
I picked up the pillow upon which I had been resting my book, and with it as my only shield, slowly made my way to the door. "I would be as far away from the lightswitch as is humanly possible at this moment. Curse that couch, with all its denim delights!"
I prepared in my throat a scream to be executed the moment I was seized by the cold hand I knew was creeping ever closer toward me to claim my life.
Suddenly, my finely upholstered shield was met with resistance. Could it be? Had I reached the far wall? The door? The lightswitch? It was too good, too fortunate to be true! Whilst waving the pillow wildly to fend off whatever dangers lurked behind me with my right hand, I clumsily groped along the wall with my left until finally, mercifully, my fingers found the lightswitch and hastily flipped it on.
I turned to face my would-be attacker, but found no one.
As I stood there, heart pounding, palms sweating, the door opened. I screamed. Sarah entered, wearing a foam rubber cowboy hat.
Sarah: "...it's just me."
Emily: "You frightened me."
Sarah: "What happened? I thought I heard something break."
Emily: "Someone was trying to kill me."
Sarah: "What?"
Emily: "I broke a lamp."
Sarah: "...was...the lamp? Trying to kill you?"
Emily: "Why are you wearing that hat?"
Sarah: "Kris gave it to me...don't change the subject!"
Emily: "I thought myself in the gravest of danger. I was sure my life was at its end..."
Sarah: "Why are you talking like...what were you reading?"
Emily: "The Count of Monte Cristo."
Sarah: "Emily! What did I tell you?!"
Emily: "Not to read that book after dark."
Sarah: "And why did I tell you that?"
Emily: "Because every time I read it after dark, I break a lamp."
Sarah: "And...?"
Emily: "...and I have a tendency to start speaking like a nineteenth century French aristocrat."
Sarah: "And how does that make me feel?"
Emily: "Like you want to punch me een ze sroat."
Not to worry, everybody. I should be finished with this book by the end of my flight tonight, after which point I promise to return to my regular literary diet of teen fiction and online gossip columns.
Friday, October 15, 2010
Meanwhile, Back at the Ranch...
While I've been on vacation, I bet many of you have been wondering how poor old Gary was doing back in Colorado all by his lonesome.
I'll provide you with an excerpt from our phone conversation last night and let you be the judge.
Me: "Did you ever go to the grocery store?"
Gary: "Pff. No."
Me: "...have you been eating? 'Cause the fridge was empty when I left on Friday..."
Gary: "Well, it wasn't completely empty."
Me: "What was in there? Oh no...have you still been eating that queso???*"
Gary: "Oh, no, I finished that earlier in the week. I mixed it with the left over goulash you made and it was delicious."
Me: (Pause for dramatic gagging) "...so what did you eat for dinner tonight?"
Gary: "Well, like I said, the fridge wasn't completely empty."
Me: "I'm pretty sure it was."
Gary: "No, there was still some pepperoni, some mozzarella cheese, some chopped onion...and eggs."
Me: "That doesn't add up to a meal."
Gary: "Well, just think of it as a pizza omelette."
Me: (Throws up in mouth.)
*"That queso" was made three full weeks ago and then shoved to the back of the fridge, forever to be forgotten...until Gary found it just before I left and deemed it edible on the basis that it's made of Velveeta, which isn't real food anyway, and therefore cannot go bad.
I'll provide you with an excerpt from our phone conversation last night and let you be the judge.
Me: "Did you ever go to the grocery store?"
Gary: "Pff. No."
Me: "...have you been eating? 'Cause the fridge was empty when I left on Friday..."
Gary: "Well, it wasn't completely empty."
Me: "What was in there? Oh no...have you still been eating that queso???*"
Gary: "Oh, no, I finished that earlier in the week. I mixed it with the left over goulash you made and it was delicious."
Me: (Pause for dramatic gagging) "...so what did you eat for dinner tonight?"
Gary: "Well, like I said, the fridge wasn't completely empty."
Me: "I'm pretty sure it was."
Gary: "No, there was still some pepperoni, some mozzarella cheese, some chopped onion...and eggs."
Me: "That doesn't add up to a meal."
Gary: "Well, just think of it as a pizza omelette."
Me: (Throws up in mouth.)
*"That queso" was made three full weeks ago and then shoved to the back of the fridge, forever to be forgotten...until Gary found it just before I left and deemed it edible on the basis that it's made of Velveeta, which isn't real food anyway, and therefore cannot go bad.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
El Blog de la Noche: Noche Tres!
Sorry - I had real mexican food for dinner, which sometimes makes me feel like a real Mexican. (For those of you who've never seen a photo of me, I'm not even a little bit Mexican. No matter how hard I try.)
Tonight we're going to talk about the biggest waste of money on the planet: Halloween decorations!
I'm not talking about the cute little ghosts my mom hangs in her trees, or even the little trick-or-treaters she and my dad built to put out in front of their house - that stuff? Adorbz.
I'm talking about two very specific items: inflatable lawn ornaments and gauzy fake spiderwebs.
We'll start with the less serious offenders: the spiderwebs.
Listen up, everybody. THEY NEVER LOOK GOOD. EVER. NO, NOT EVEN WHEN THEY GLOW IN THE DARK. The only thing they're good for is driving your neighbors' property value into the ground and eventually ending up in someone else's yard.
The best slash worst part is, it seems like no one ever takes that crap down.
"Eh, maybe no one will notice that it's December and we just tried to cover those glow-in-the-dark spiderwebs up with the tangled net of christmas lights we left up until July last year. They're green, and everyone knows that green = Christmas."
To be totally honest, the spiderwebs are the least of my worries.
What's at the top of my list of worries are THESE:
That's right. The top of the list. That means this takes precedence over concerns like whether or not my plane is going to go down in a blaze of explosive glory on my return trip next weekend or whether my babies are gonna turn out ugly.
So...how does this even happen? I guess you're sitting around thinking to yourself, "Gosh, self...you just have too much money floating around. How can you get rid of some of that extra cash? Wait - I know! An inflatable Halloween lawn ornament! Not only do they cost money themselves, but this will also be a nice way to beef up your electricity bill and show everyone how rich you are! Nothing spells 'classy' like a lawn ornament that is sure to deflate during the night and end up looking like a gigantic pile of used trash bags."
My advice? The next time you're sitting around trying to come up with a way to waste some money, just send it directly to me. I promise not to use it to buy a giant inflatable witch that begs to be poked with sharp objects.
Note: For the record, I find pumpkin trash bags full of leaves extremely charming. Fun, frugal, functional, AND appropriate for more than one month out of the year! WHAT MORE COULD YOU ASK FOR???
2nd Note: I also find the Christmas versions slightly ridiculous, but at least the Christmas season lasts a little longer, so it becomes slightly more worth your money. What is the life of a Halloween decoration, anyway? (Assuming you even bother to take it down once November rolls around...) Two weeks? A month, maybe? WHY AM I SO ANGRY ABOUT THIS?!?!? RRRRAAAGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-
I just figured it out. I miss my dog real bad. Also Gary. Turns out I'm prone to fits of unfounded, homesick rage.
Tonight we're going to talk about the biggest waste of money on the planet: Halloween decorations!
I'm not talking about the cute little ghosts my mom hangs in her trees, or even the little trick-or-treaters she and my dad built to put out in front of their house - that stuff? Adorbz.
I'm talking about two very specific items: inflatable lawn ornaments and gauzy fake spiderwebs.
We'll start with the less serious offenders: the spiderwebs.
Listen up, everybody. THEY NEVER LOOK GOOD. EVER. NO, NOT EVEN WHEN THEY GLOW IN THE DARK. The only thing they're good for is driving your neighbors' property value into the ground and eventually ending up in someone else's yard.
The best slash worst part is, it seems like no one ever takes that crap down.
"Eh, maybe no one will notice that it's December and we just tried to cover those glow-in-the-dark spiderwebs up with the tangled net of christmas lights we left up until July last year. They're green, and everyone knows that green = Christmas."
To be totally honest, the spiderwebs are the least of my worries.
What's at the top of my list of worries are THESE:
So...how does this even happen? I guess you're sitting around thinking to yourself, "Gosh, self...you just have too much money floating around. How can you get rid of some of that extra cash? Wait - I know! An inflatable Halloween lawn ornament! Not only do they cost money themselves, but this will also be a nice way to beef up your electricity bill and show everyone how rich you are! Nothing spells 'classy' like a lawn ornament that is sure to deflate during the night and end up looking like a gigantic pile of used trash bags."
My advice? The next time you're sitting around trying to come up with a way to waste some money, just send it directly to me. I promise not to use it to buy a giant inflatable witch that begs to be poked with sharp objects.
Note: For the record, I find pumpkin trash bags full of leaves extremely charming. Fun, frugal, functional, AND appropriate for more than one month out of the year! WHAT MORE COULD YOU ASK FOR???
2nd Note: I also find the Christmas versions slightly ridiculous, but at least the Christmas season lasts a little longer, so it becomes slightly more worth your money. What is the life of a Halloween decoration, anyway? (Assuming you even bother to take it down once November rolls around...) Two weeks? A month, maybe? WHY AM I SO ANGRY ABOUT THIS?!?!? RRRRAAAGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-
I just figured it out. I miss my dog real bad. Also Gary. Turns out I'm prone to fits of unfounded, homesick rage.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Nightblog: Night Two
Uh oh guys...I think I might be old now.
I went to Shoemaker & Hardt (home of the best lattes on earth) this morning and they were training a new girl. I couldn't help but reminisce about the days when I was first training there...and then it hit me.
That was TEN. YEARS. AGO.
Ten years ago...I remember it perfectly: my mom picked my friend Brittany and me up from Wylie Junior High School one afternoon, and as soon as we had buckled ourselves in to her aquamarine Ford Aerostar, this happened:
Brittany: Tina, is it okay if Emily comes over today?
My Mom: No, Emily has to go to work.
Me: A...wha?
And so it was that I was the only kid I knew in the 8th grade with a job. I felt like Leonardo DiCaprio with my arms spread wide on the starboard bow.* (It's hauntingly appropriate that I should reference the Titanic, because two short years later, my dream-job-boat hit an iceberg of its own. That iceberg was called "a series of extra-curricular activities that conflicted with the four-to-seven p.m. window during which the store was open and I was not at school.")
I felt cool. Suddenly, I was in charge of my own destiny. I could finally support myself. (And by "support myself," I mean "waste the $20 a week I made on cheap lip gloss and jewelry from Claire's.")
That was the year I cut my own bangs too short the day before yearbook pictures. I couldn't drive yet. I was convinced I was going to be the first white member of Destiny's Child. And all I cared about was boys.
I remember thinking I couldn't wait to be in my twenties and living on my own, because then I'd be able to do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted.
Now I'm here...and it turns out I was kinda right. Case in point: I took three naps today.
If I ever get my hands on a time machine, I think I'll swing by the year 2000 and hand deliver myself a little note. Here's what it'll say:
*Gonna fly this boat to the moon somehow.
I went to Shoemaker & Hardt (home of the best lattes on earth) this morning and they were training a new girl. I couldn't help but reminisce about the days when I was first training there...and then it hit me.
That was TEN. YEARS. AGO.
Ten years ago...I remember it perfectly: my mom picked my friend Brittany and me up from Wylie Junior High School one afternoon, and as soon as we had buckled ourselves in to her aquamarine Ford Aerostar, this happened:
Brittany: Tina, is it okay if Emily comes over today?
My Mom: No, Emily has to go to work.
Me: A...wha?
And so it was that I was the only kid I knew in the 8th grade with a job. I felt like Leonardo DiCaprio with my arms spread wide on the starboard bow.* (It's hauntingly appropriate that I should reference the Titanic, because two short years later, my dream-job-boat hit an iceberg of its own. That iceberg was called "a series of extra-curricular activities that conflicted with the four-to-seven p.m. window during which the store was open and I was not at school.")
I felt cool. Suddenly, I was in charge of my own destiny. I could finally support myself. (And by "support myself," I mean "waste the $20 a week I made on cheap lip gloss and jewelry from Claire's.")
That was the year I cut my own bangs too short the day before yearbook pictures. I couldn't drive yet. I was convinced I was going to be the first white member of Destiny's Child. And all I cared about was boys.
I remember thinking I couldn't wait to be in my twenties and living on my own, because then I'd be able to do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted.
Now I'm here...and it turns out I was kinda right. Case in point: I took three naps today.
If I ever get my hands on a time machine, I think I'll swing by the year 2000 and hand deliver myself a little note. Here's what it'll say:
Way to go, Fourteen-Year-Old Me. You are a visionary.
P.S. Don't date the kid across the street. He turns out to be a drug dealer.
Love,
Adult Me
*Gonna fly this boat to the moon somehow.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Nightblog: Night One
Man...do you ever just sit around and think about life?
Just kidding! It's not that late!
I've been in Texas for three full days. Here's what I've observed:
First of all, airport security is kinda like being strip searched. I couldn't help but pity the poor schmucks in front of me who hadn't had the presence of mind to dress for the airport. Slip on shoes are key, guys. Don't wear a belt. And never EVER assume you're going to make it through security with a blazer on over that sequined spaghetti strap tank top, because you're just not.
It's weird, 'cause one minute you're walking through the airport, avoiding everyone's gaze, and the next you're all standing in a line together, half naked and barefoot. For some reason, once we all get through the metal detectors, I always half expect to get a slap on the butt and a "hit the showers!"
The next thing I've discovered during my time here is that Lowes is better than Home Depot. How did I suddenly become an expert on this topic? Because my parents have a sick sense of humor, that's how. They must have noticed that after two years at a cushy desk job, my hands had become silky smooth and particularly vulnerable to the elements. What better time to cash in on one of the billion favors I owe them by handing me a rough-handled shovel and telling me to "dig for my dinner"? (P.S. Mom, that phrase still isn't making much sense to me.)
During mytime in the clink relaxing visit with family, I moved a lot of sand. We were redoing the brick walkway in my parents' backyard, and as with most projects, this one required much more work than any of us anticipated, including several extra trips to Lowes and Home Depot. (I'd like to take this opportunity to point out that I have three able-bodied siblings who all just happened to be out of town this weekend. I smell a conspiracy.)
We went to Lowes first. We needed ten 40 lb bags of sand. We had just loaded one bag onto our dolly when one of the employees rushed over to help us. He loaded all our bags on to the dolly, rolled them up to the counter so we could check out, and hoisted them all into the back of our truck. He was like an angel of mercy, sent from Heaven to protect us from unnecessary back strain.
Several hours later, we realized we needed more sand, as well as about a billion paving stones that they only carry at Home Depot, so that's where we went. We heaved one bag of sand onto our cart and then paused for a moment, anxiously awaiting the sounds of another strapping young man springing to action. No such sounds reached our ears. In fact, as we painstakingly loaded the rest of the bags, I noticed a couple of layabout employees just standing around instead of what they should have been doing: all the hard work so I wouldn't have to.
Lastly, it seems that each time I prepare to return home, I'm so excited about all the great food and the fact that you can get a four-pack of personal sized bottles of Lambrusco at the grocery stores here that I forget about one very important thing: bugs. The bugs here love me. My dad always used to say it was because I was so sweet...which honestly wasn't all that comforting as I surveyed the 75+ throbbing red lumps that seemed to perpetually cover my arms and legs for most of my childhood. I got a few mosquito bites over the weekend, but I threw down on some bug spray and things seemed to improve...that is, until tonight, when I'm pretty sure I was bitten by the largest and most vengeful fire ant ever to scurry over God's green earth. I remember hearing a lot of screaming and crying and thinking to myself, "Whoever that is really needs to get it together! After all, what could be worse that what's happening to me right nooOOOOOOWWWWWAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH - oh wait...that's MY agonized wailing, isn't it? I thought it sounded peculiarly melodic..."
So in short, what I've learned so far in Texas is that I'm better than everyone else in line at the airport security checkpoint, I have a blister on my thumb the size of a half dollar because my parents made me use a shovel for the first time in my life, and fire ants are the devil.
THEEEEE EEENNNNNND.
Just kidding! It's not that late!
I've been in Texas for three full days. Here's what I've observed:
First of all, airport security is kinda like being strip searched. I couldn't help but pity the poor schmucks in front of me who hadn't had the presence of mind to dress for the airport. Slip on shoes are key, guys. Don't wear a belt. And never EVER assume you're going to make it through security with a blazer on over that sequined spaghetti strap tank top, because you're just not.
It's weird, 'cause one minute you're walking through the airport, avoiding everyone's gaze, and the next you're all standing in a line together, half naked and barefoot. For some reason, once we all get through the metal detectors, I always half expect to get a slap on the butt and a "hit the showers!"
The next thing I've discovered during my time here is that Lowes is better than Home Depot. How did I suddenly become an expert on this topic? Because my parents have a sick sense of humor, that's how. They must have noticed that after two years at a cushy desk job, my hands had become silky smooth and particularly vulnerable to the elements. What better time to cash in on one of the billion favors I owe them by handing me a rough-handled shovel and telling me to "dig for my dinner"? (P.S. Mom, that phrase still isn't making much sense to me.)
During my
We went to Lowes first. We needed ten 40 lb bags of sand. We had just loaded one bag onto our dolly when one of the employees rushed over to help us. He loaded all our bags on to the dolly, rolled them up to the counter so we could check out, and hoisted them all into the back of our truck. He was like an angel of mercy, sent from Heaven to protect us from unnecessary back strain.
Several hours later, we realized we needed more sand, as well as about a billion paving stones that they only carry at Home Depot, so that's where we went. We heaved one bag of sand onto our cart and then paused for a moment, anxiously awaiting the sounds of another strapping young man springing to action. No such sounds reached our ears. In fact, as we painstakingly loaded the rest of the bags, I noticed a couple of layabout employees just standing around instead of what they should have been doing: all the hard work so I wouldn't have to.
Lastly, it seems that each time I prepare to return home, I'm so excited about all the great food and the fact that you can get a four-pack of personal sized bottles of Lambrusco at the grocery stores here that I forget about one very important thing: bugs. The bugs here love me. My dad always used to say it was because I was so sweet...which honestly wasn't all that comforting as I surveyed the 75+ throbbing red lumps that seemed to perpetually cover my arms and legs for most of my childhood. I got a few mosquito bites over the weekend, but I threw down on some bug spray and things seemed to improve...that is, until tonight, when I'm pretty sure I was bitten by the largest and most vengeful fire ant ever to scurry over God's green earth. I remember hearing a lot of screaming and crying and thinking to myself, "Whoever that is really needs to get it together! After all, what could be worse that what's happening to me right nooOOOOOOWWWWWAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH - oh wait...that's MY agonized wailing, isn't it? I thought it sounded peculiarly melodic..."
So in short, what I've learned so far in Texas is that I'm better than everyone else in line at the airport security checkpoint, I have a blister on my thumb the size of a half dollar because my parents made me use a shovel for the first time in my life, and fire ants are the devil.
THEEEEE EEENNNNNND.
Nightblog! Dun-DUNUHHHHH!
Just wanted to let you all know that since I'm on vacation, if I blog at all this week, it will probably be at night, because I'm finding that my days on vacation are far better spent napping than actually using my brain.
This is a new and exciting opportunity for all of you to explore the innermost ramblings of my mind, because I think we can all agree that typing things in the middle of the night is the best time to cultivate the most coherent and accurate representations of ourselves.
See you guys later.
Much, much later.
This is a new and exciting opportunity for all of you to explore the innermost ramblings of my mind, because I think we can all agree that typing things in the middle of the night is the best time to cultivate the most coherent and accurate representations of ourselves.
See you guys later.
Much, much later.
Friday, October 8, 2010
CILKARAMO Français!
Well it's Friday again, and I'm going to Texas again. Kinda feels like déjà vu, right? Eh? Eh?
Sounds like the perfect time to kidnap a French kid and raise her as my own!
You might also be interested to know that this is officially my 100th blog post! To celebrate, I think I'll go to Texas.
PEACE OUT!
Sounds like the perfect time to kidnap a French kid and raise her as my own!
You might also be interested to know that this is officially my 100th blog post! To celebrate, I think I'll go to Texas.
PEACE OUT!
Thursday, October 7, 2010
How To Be Me In 10 Easy Steps
So you wanna be Emily Gray?
Now you can!
Follow these steps, and in just a few short weeks, you could be me. After that, we can talk about you subbing in for me at my job when I feel like sleeping in instead of working.
1. Dye your hair a lot. When you run out of money, stop.
2. Read all the Harry Potter books, all six Jane Austen novels, and the Hunger Games. Read them again. Read them again. Read them again. Read them again.
3. Be really awkward.
4. Write a lot of blog posts that contain numbered lists.
5. Have a super awesome sister who will edit said lists for you at no charge. (She didn't have anything to do with number 5 on this list.)
6. Be afraid of slugs. Be very afraid.
7. Marry someone whose first name is just one transposition of letters away from being their last name.
8. Only wash your hair every three to four days.
9. (This one is for those of you for whom it's too late to be Emily Gray, but who haven't yet lost hope for your children) Grow up as a chubby tomboy, then slowly emerge in later years as a mildly attractive woman.
10. Brush up on your rap skills. This is the most important part of being Emily Gray.
If you call in the next 20 minutes, we'll throw in the Emily Gray Deluxe Package, which includes Emily's Secrets to Getting Everyone to Like You Through Careful Omission of Your Actual Opinion.
Now you can!
Follow these steps, and in just a few short weeks, you could be me. After that, we can talk about you subbing in for me at my job when I feel like sleeping in instead of working.
1. Dye your hair a lot. When you run out of money, stop.
2. Read all the Harry Potter books, all six Jane Austen novels, and the Hunger Games. Read them again. Read them again. Read them again. Read them again.
3. Be really awkward.
4. Write a lot of blog posts that contain numbered lists.
5. Have a super awesome sister who will edit said lists for you at no charge. (She didn't have anything to do with number 5 on this list.)
6. Be afraid of slugs. Be very afraid.
7. Marry someone whose first name is just one transposition of letters away from being their last name.
8. Only wash your hair every three to four days.
9. (This one is for those of you for whom it's too late to be Emily Gray, but who haven't yet lost hope for your children) Grow up as a chubby tomboy, then slowly emerge in later years as a mildly attractive woman.
10. Brush up on your rap skills. This is the most important part of being Emily Gray.
If you call in the next 20 minutes, we'll throw in the Emily Gray Deluxe Package, which includes Emily's Secrets to Getting Everyone to Like You Through Careful Omission of Your Actual Opinion.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Some...Thing...
Something happened last night.
I don't really want to talk about it, but for the sake of your entertainment, I'll try.
I got up in the middle of the night and went to the kitchen for a glass of water. I got out a glass, put it under the faucet, turned the knob for cold water...and that's when I saw it.
Something.
Some...thing.
It was like a small, dark shadow and it moved at lightning speed across my kitchen counter.
I don't know what it was, but I do know that it was enough to make me nearly drop my glass. I jumped, turned the faucet off, and deliberated on whether or not I wanted to investigate.
As it was about 2:30am, I decided that all I really wanted was some water in my throat, so I turned the faucet back on so I could get it over with and get back to bed. I was probably hallucinating anyway.
If only I had been.
I know now that I was not just seeing things, because the moment the water started running again, it happened a second time, and this time the whatever-it-was cleared the length of the other half of the counter in about half a second.
At that point, I was done. Dry throat be damned; I was not spending another moment in that kitchen with what I was sure was some sort of compact-but-deadly monster.
I got back in bed with as much unnecessary jostling and noise as I could muster, because although I was safely out of the kitchen, I was still the only one awake in the house, and that was just not okay with me.
Gary happened to wake up at exactly that moment (go figure!) and I informed him that I was pretty sure I saw something in the kitchen. I told him it was probably a mouse, because I figured the chances of his being willing to investigate would be better if he was expecting a mouse than if I told him I was pretty sure our kitchen had been invaded by a tiny, flesh-eating superbeast.
He got up and checked like the wonderful husband that he is, but returned empty handed. The terror had not been extinguished.
Gary went back to sleep immediately, but not only was I wide awake; suddenly my throat was on fire. It was clear I needed water, but I was frozen by a crippling fear of the horrifyingly speedy soul-snatcher I knew was lurking in my kitchen. I did what any sensible young woman would do: I woke my husband up a second time and begged him to get me a glass of water.
He obliged, presumably because he deduced that this was the quickest way for him to get back to sleep without being subjected to excessive whining.
I sipped my water until the burning in my throat had dissipated, and then somehow, miraculously drifted off into a restless sleep during which I dreamt that the monster had been captured.
This is a professional artist's rendition of the creature in my dream (definitely not something I sloppily threw together in Paint):
I awoke with a feeling of peace that the struggle was over.
Then I remembered it had all been a deceptively glorious dream.
I considered barricading Brutus into the kitchen before I left for work today so that he and the monster could duke it out, cage-match style...but I really love my dog, and I can't bear the thought of sacrificing such a sweet and affectionate member of my family just to protect my own skin.
I've asked three people for advice, and their suggestions included d-CON, mousetraps, and glue traps, but each of them assured me that the other two options were terribly inhumane, so I've decided to go with the only other option I have.
We're moving.
I don't really want to talk about it, but for the sake of your entertainment, I'll try.
I got up in the middle of the night and went to the kitchen for a glass of water. I got out a glass, put it under the faucet, turned the knob for cold water...and that's when I saw it.
Something.
Some...thing.
It was like a small, dark shadow and it moved at lightning speed across my kitchen counter.
I don't know what it was, but I do know that it was enough to make me nearly drop my glass. I jumped, turned the faucet off, and deliberated on whether or not I wanted to investigate.
As it was about 2:30am, I decided that all I really wanted was some water in my throat, so I turned the faucet back on so I could get it over with and get back to bed. I was probably hallucinating anyway.
If only I had been.
I know now that I was not just seeing things, because the moment the water started running again, it happened a second time, and this time the whatever-it-was cleared the length of the other half of the counter in about half a second.
At that point, I was done. Dry throat be damned; I was not spending another moment in that kitchen with what I was sure was some sort of compact-but-deadly monster.
I got back in bed with as much unnecessary jostling and noise as I could muster, because although I was safely out of the kitchen, I was still the only one awake in the house, and that was just not okay with me.
Gary happened to wake up at exactly that moment (go figure!) and I informed him that I was pretty sure I saw something in the kitchen. I told him it was probably a mouse, because I figured the chances of his being willing to investigate would be better if he was expecting a mouse than if I told him I was pretty sure our kitchen had been invaded by a tiny, flesh-eating superbeast.
He got up and checked like the wonderful husband that he is, but returned empty handed. The terror had not been extinguished.
Gary went back to sleep immediately, but not only was I wide awake; suddenly my throat was on fire. It was clear I needed water, but I was frozen by a crippling fear of the horrifyingly speedy soul-snatcher I knew was lurking in my kitchen. I did what any sensible young woman would do: I woke my husband up a second time and begged him to get me a glass of water.
He obliged, presumably because he deduced that this was the quickest way for him to get back to sleep without being subjected to excessive whining.
I sipped my water until the burning in my throat had dissipated, and then somehow, miraculously drifted off into a restless sleep during which I dreamt that the monster had been captured.
This is a professional artist's rendition of the creature in my dream (definitely not something I sloppily threw together in Paint):
I awoke with a feeling of peace that the struggle was over.
Then I remembered it had all been a deceptively glorious dream.
I considered barricading Brutus into the kitchen before I left for work today so that he and the monster could duke it out, cage-match style...but I really love my dog, and I can't bear the thought of sacrificing such a sweet and affectionate member of my family just to protect my own skin.
I've asked three people for advice, and their suggestions included d-CON, mousetraps, and glue traps, but each of them assured me that the other two options were terribly inhumane, so I've decided to go with the only other option I have.
We're moving.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Math Lesson
So last week, I was operating on the theory that
1. Mental Preparedness Is Not To Be Underestimated. I don't know if last week was just really busy or what, but I found myself in the car and on the way to Texas without having prepared myself for the trip whatsoever. I'll tell you this much: Twelve hours is way longer than I think it is.
2. My Mom Is A Magician. It never fails: Every time I come home, my parents' house looks completely different. New paint in several rooms, new countertops, an intricate mosaic backsplash in the kitchen, a new fruit bowl with a banana hook...that house is like a box of chocolates. (Except none of the chocolates are ever filled with pink Pepto flavored mush. They are full of artistic love and happiness.)
3. Taco Delite Is My Lifeblood. I'm always a little bit afraid I've built their food up too much in my mind and that I'll be disappointed once I get there...and I am always wrong. Eating their food is like winning the lottery, being licked on the face by a baby unicorn, and discovering that you have a natural ability to ride a unicycle, all in one glorious, sunshiny day.
4. Tennis Shoes Are A Mistake. Why do I never remember this? If you're going to be in the car for more than two hours, you're going to want to take your shoes off, and when you do, you're going to spend the next several minutes praying that you're the only one who can tell how bad your feet stink and wishing you would have disregarded the fact that you heard it might be chilly and just worn sandals like a normal person.
5. Nobody Toasts Bread Like Tim Howrey. I think my dad could teach a class on making toast, and I think it would make him a millionaire. If I wasn't convinced it would lead to an early death, I would eat nothing but my dad's toast for the rest of my life.
6. Gas Station Food Always Sounds Like A Good Idea...
You, At The Gas Station: "Well, we're already here...I know! Let's just get food here so we don't have to stop again for dinner! Beef jerky and Chex Mix?!? LET'S DO IT!"
Your Brain, Ten to Fifteen Minutes Later: "Beep...beep... beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep"
7. Rich People Make Me Uncomfortable. I'm glad they were at the wedding, because that means my friends are making BANK just for getting married, but for some reason I absolutely do not know how to act around wealthy people. Maybe it has something to do with that whatever that sturdy, shiny fabric is that they all seem to be wearing, or maybe I'm just ultrasensitive to the smell of money, but it's like I automatically start sweating profusely and completely lose control of my mouth whenever I find myself in close proximity.
Affluent Older Lady: So how do you know the bride and groom?
Me, Smelling Money: Well, I...I DON'T! YOU CAUGHT ME! I'M A WEDDING CRASHER! I'M SO SORRY! I DON'T BELONG HERE!
Prosperous Man Who's Wearing A Monacle: Excuse me, miss...
Me, Bowing Low And Avoiding Eye Contact: If you're talking to me, I must work here! What did I do with my tray of appetizers???
8. Amarillo Smells Terrible. So does Clayton. So does Texline. I don't care if you haven't eaten in a week; you can wait.
9. Babies Are Fascinating. I think this weekend was the first time I've ever seen a hot-off-the-presses, brand-newborn baby who had been out in the world for less than 48 hours. He was so tiny! And perfect! He had little baby fingers with little baby fingernails! I could have stood there and stared at him for hours, but I didn't, because I know myself, which means I know that it would only be a matter of time before I tried to figure out a way to keep him forever without his parents noticing.
10. Brushing Your Teeth With A Wisp® Is Not The Same As Using A Real Toothbrush. But when you leave your real toothbrush in Texas, sometimes it's your only option. For two days. Because instead of going to the grocery store when you got home like a real adult, you drove to Denver to eat seafood with your husband.
I'll leave you with this last piece of advice: If you're going to be taking a road trip, buy a neck pillow. It just might change your life.
Gas Mileage > Backseat SpaceNow that I'm a little older and wiser, I know that
12 Hour Road Trip(Tiny Backseat + 3 Grown Women) = Several Bruised TailbonesBUT!
Seeing 5/6 of the Fitz Fam + Attending A Sweet Wedding + Hugging My Mom = Totally Worth ItI was reminded of a few other things over the weekend as well, and now I shall relate them to you in a numbered list.
1. Mental Preparedness Is Not To Be Underestimated. I don't know if last week was just really busy or what, but I found myself in the car and on the way to Texas without having prepared myself for the trip whatsoever. I'll tell you this much: Twelve hours is way longer than I think it is.
2. My Mom Is A Magician. It never fails: Every time I come home, my parents' house looks completely different. New paint in several rooms, new countertops, an intricate mosaic backsplash in the kitchen, a new fruit bowl with a banana hook...that house is like a box of chocolates. (Except none of the chocolates are ever filled with pink Pepto flavored mush. They are full of artistic love and happiness.)
3. Taco Delite Is My Lifeblood. I'm always a little bit afraid I've built their food up too much in my mind and that I'll be disappointed once I get there...and I am always wrong. Eating their food is like winning the lottery, being licked on the face by a baby unicorn, and discovering that you have a natural ability to ride a unicycle, all in one glorious, sunshiny day.
4. Tennis Shoes Are A Mistake. Why do I never remember this? If you're going to be in the car for more than two hours, you're going to want to take your shoes off, and when you do, you're going to spend the next several minutes praying that you're the only one who can tell how bad your feet stink and wishing you would have disregarded the fact that you heard it might be chilly and just worn sandals like a normal person.
5. Nobody Toasts Bread Like Tim Howrey. I think my dad could teach a class on making toast, and I think it would make him a millionaire. If I wasn't convinced it would lead to an early death, I would eat nothing but my dad's toast for the rest of my life.
6. Gas Station Food Always Sounds Like A Good Idea...
You, At The Gas Station: "Well, we're already here...I know! Let's just get food here so we don't have to stop again for dinner! Beef jerky and Chex Mix?!? LET'S DO IT!"
Your Brain, Ten to Fifteen Minutes Later: "Beep...beep... beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep"
7. Rich People Make Me Uncomfortable. I'm glad they were at the wedding, because that means my friends are making BANK just for getting married, but for some reason I absolutely do not know how to act around wealthy people. Maybe it has something to do with that whatever that sturdy, shiny fabric is that they all seem to be wearing, or maybe I'm just ultrasensitive to the smell of money, but it's like I automatically start sweating profusely and completely lose control of my mouth whenever I find myself in close proximity.
Affluent Older Lady: So how do you know the bride and groom?
Me, Smelling Money: Well, I...I DON'T! YOU CAUGHT ME! I'M A WEDDING CRASHER! I'M SO SORRY! I DON'T BELONG HERE!
Prosperous Man Who's Wearing A Monacle: Excuse me, miss...
Me, Bowing Low And Avoiding Eye Contact: If you're talking to me, I must work here! What did I do with my tray of appetizers???
8. Amarillo Smells Terrible. So does Clayton. So does Texline. I don't care if you haven't eaten in a week; you can wait.
9. Babies Are Fascinating. I think this weekend was the first time I've ever seen a hot-off-the-presses, brand-newborn baby who had been out in the world for less than 48 hours. He was so tiny! And perfect! He had little baby fingers with little baby fingernails! I could have stood there and stared at him for hours, but I didn't, because I know myself, which means I know that it would only be a matter of time before I tried to figure out a way to keep him forever without his parents noticing.
10. Brushing Your Teeth With A Wisp® Is Not The Same As Using A Real Toothbrush. But when you leave your real toothbrush in Texas, sometimes it's your only option. For two days. Because instead of going to the grocery store when you got home like a real adult, you drove to Denver to eat seafood with your husband.
I'll leave you with this last piece of advice: If you're going to be taking a road trip, buy a neck pillow. It just might change your life.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Two!
It's our anniversary!
Here's a little highlight reel of the past two years of our life.
We got married!
We rented our first house...
...and survived living next to our neighbors.
We played in the snow!
We fell in love with a dog...
...and did our best to train him.
We dressed up like idiots.
We saw some cool places.
But mostly...we just sat around and loved each other.
Gary,
Marrying you was the easiest and best decision I've ever made.
You're my best friend and I love our life.
Also, you.
Happy anniversary!
Friday, October 1, 2010
CILKARAMO!
It's Friday, and you know what that means! Nobody's working!
Because I'm driving to Texas tonight and I can't focus on anything else, I'm introducing a new segment called Children I'd Like to Kidnap And Raise As My Own, or, CILKARAMO!
Not ok?
DON'T CARE!
Enjoy!
Because I'm driving to Texas tonight and I can't focus on anything else, I'm introducing a new segment called Children I'd Like to Kidnap And Raise As My Own, or, CILKARAMO!
Not ok?
DON'T CARE!
Enjoy!
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