Here's another old one...posted exactly a year ago. I haven't thought of anything new to say about Halloween that's particularly amusing and/or interesting. So, kids, this will have to do for now.
Smell My Feet
Halloween was not a holiday that I looked forward to as a child. Sure, I liked to dress up; that was the part I liked. My mom made a costume for me almost every year. I wanted to be a clown more times than not, and I think my mom encouraged it because it was an easy costume to put together. My first grade year, I was a ballerina. I was kinda fat that year (I suppose from residual toddler pudge), and the pink leotard I wore made me look like a pig in a tutu. Another year, I was a hobo (again..an easy costume). I found an old Japanese Kimono of my grandfather's in a box a coupla years later. I wore it with white powder/red lipstick/hair in a bun....the whole deal. Not exactly p.c., right? I always wanted to wear the supercool costumes with the plastic masks and paperthin fabric I saw at KMart, but my mom would never buy me those.
The trick-or-treating part was okay. I liked walking door to door asking for goodies. I never managed to eat the goodies I worked so hard to attain, though. I was supposedly allergic to chocolate as a youngster (my mom made me eat carob instead), so all the really good candy was passed on to my brothers. And all the nasty chewy kinds made me gag (still do). So I was shit outta luck, as they say. Emptying my plastic jack-o-lantern was always anti-climatic unless I happened to find a flimsy spider ring or a Burger King certificate for free fries.
Everything else about Halloween made me extremely uncomfortable. I was the epitome of "wuss"....unnaturally terrified of anything meant to be even remotely scary. I would work up the nerve every year to watch the Garfield Halloween special...and that felt like a huge accomplishment to me. The only thing that was actually scary about that show was the bad animation, but it was about all I could handle. I ventured into my school's haunted house in 3rd grade (eerily constructed in the Art room under the stage in the auditorium), and it took me months to recover. Any T.V. commercial that featured spooky music freaked me out. Every snippet of clip from a cheesy horror flic sent me screaming into the other room. Most kids saw Halloween as a time to be someone or something other than themselves....a time to experience the thrill of chill bumps and racing hearts. I just saw it as another opportunity for something REALLY horrible to finally do me in. It was inevitable. I just knew it. Sooner or later the BoogeyMan from the Ghostbusters cartoon would bust through my closet door, stomp his cloven feet over to my bed, and steal me away forever. Freddy Kruger would dare him to make it extra torturess. Of course, this monsterous fate could have come about at any time of the year, but it was MUCH more likely to occur on October 31st.
Funny thing is...I was also scared of Santa Claus.
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Don't Be a Creepy Guy--Part 6
When it comes to car maintenance, I’m not the most efficient nor the most proactive gal around. This is something I need to work on. Are you happy? I’ve acknowledged it with my tail between my knees.
Need an example of my car maintenance procrastination? Until last Thursday, my windshield wipers were in a state of utter desperation. Sadly, they had been in that state for quite some time. The rubber blade on my driver’s side wiper had become completely detached except for a two inch section on the far left side. That two inches was enough just to keep the blade hanging, but every time I’d turn the wipers on, it would waggle (yes, waggle) and flap around the windshield; thus doing absolutely no good in the way of clearing rain from my field of vision. The only reason I got away with waiting so long to replace the faulty blade was because I use Rain-X fairly regularly. Anyway…it was sad and irresponsible and dangerous. And, worst of all, it only added to the already-semi-ghetto appearance of my little blue Saturn.
Along with the torrential downpours that plagued the city last week came my increased awareness that I needed to get off my ass and do something about my windshield wipers. My friend Marisa and I headed to Wal-Mart to get the job done. Most people could have purchased the wipers themselves and put them on without too much effort. I, however, managed to select the appropriate replacements, but needed assistance in the execution. There was a long line in the automotive department, so I asked a salesperson about the possibility of getting the help I needed. A mechanic by the name of Walter came up and cheerily offered to assist me. Not only would he attach my wipers, free of charge, he would also replace my brake light. Well, how nice!! We were quite pleased with his helpfulness and pleasant disposition. Who says you can’t get good service anymore?
After Walter completed his work, he asked if we would take him out for a beer when he finished his shift…to show our gratitude for his help. We assumed he was kidding, so we audibly…clearly… laughed him off and said something to the effect of “Maybe some other time, Walter.” And we went our separate ways. You would think that our response would have been enough to dampen his pride for the rest of the night.
I had forgotten all about Walter in the midst of my grocery shopping, and did not think of him again until Marisa and I were loading our purchases into my trunk. Walter, still on the job in the automotive department, spotted us and called out. “Something something about getting a drink!!??” was all I could make out. I looked at him, confused. He made his way towards us and shouted again. “We goin out for a drink, or what? You buyin me a beer?”
I just so happened to have bought a six pack of Dos Equis, and…again…still assuming that Walter is a harmless, joking kind of fellow, I pick one up and hold it out towards him. “Sure, you can have a beer,” Marisa said in her typical jovial and giggling voice. He had reached my car by this time, and suddenly shot us both an offended glare.
(Voice notably raised in irritation…) “No, seriously. You ain’t gonna take me out? You ain’t even gonna buy me a 24 ounce Bud?”
“Um….no. You’re welcome to one of these, though.”
Walter, with disgust and anger brewing in his beady little eyes, was almost yelling now. “You mean to tell me that after I took you in front of all those people and helped you out, you ain’t even gonna buy me a beer?” All friendly joking was gone. He was seriously pissed off, which seriously pissed ME off.
Having already placed the beer back in its package, I slammed my trunk closed and looked down at him (Walter was a scrawny, midget son-of-a-bitch.) with the meanest look I could muster. I briefly lectured him in my most growniest grown-up voice that he was doing his job by helping me and nothing more…that I owed him nothing but a “thank you”, if that…and added that he should get back to work and have a good evening while he was at it!! (I’m never as tough as I plan to be in my fantasies.) He continued to stand there, a foot away from my car, pissy and sulking, tiny chest heaving with rage, muttering something under his breath, as I shut the door and put the car in reverse. I should have run his butt over. Loser.
Note: if an attempt to snag a couple of girls by way of some cheap beer at a skanky bar does not seem to be going in your favor, your luck probably won’t improve by trying to convince them that they somehow OWE it to you. And if you’re a Wal-Mart mechanic, you can increase the rate of your likely decline by about 68% per attempt. (If you’re under 5 foot 3, go ahead and add in another 10% incresase.)
Need an example of my car maintenance procrastination? Until last Thursday, my windshield wipers were in a state of utter desperation. Sadly, they had been in that state for quite some time. The rubber blade on my driver’s side wiper had become completely detached except for a two inch section on the far left side. That two inches was enough just to keep the blade hanging, but every time I’d turn the wipers on, it would waggle (yes, waggle) and flap around the windshield; thus doing absolutely no good in the way of clearing rain from my field of vision. The only reason I got away with waiting so long to replace the faulty blade was because I use Rain-X fairly regularly. Anyway…it was sad and irresponsible and dangerous. And, worst of all, it only added to the already-semi-ghetto appearance of my little blue Saturn.
Along with the torrential downpours that plagued the city last week came my increased awareness that I needed to get off my ass and do something about my windshield wipers. My friend Marisa and I headed to Wal-Mart to get the job done. Most people could have purchased the wipers themselves and put them on without too much effort. I, however, managed to select the appropriate replacements, but needed assistance in the execution. There was a long line in the automotive department, so I asked a salesperson about the possibility of getting the help I needed. A mechanic by the name of Walter came up and cheerily offered to assist me. Not only would he attach my wipers, free of charge, he would also replace my brake light. Well, how nice!! We were quite pleased with his helpfulness and pleasant disposition. Who says you can’t get good service anymore?
After Walter completed his work, he asked if we would take him out for a beer when he finished his shift…to show our gratitude for his help. We assumed he was kidding, so we audibly…clearly… laughed him off and said something to the effect of “Maybe some other time, Walter.” And we went our separate ways. You would think that our response would have been enough to dampen his pride for the rest of the night.
I had forgotten all about Walter in the midst of my grocery shopping, and did not think of him again until Marisa and I were loading our purchases into my trunk. Walter, still on the job in the automotive department, spotted us and called out. “Something something about getting a drink!!??” was all I could make out. I looked at him, confused. He made his way towards us and shouted again. “We goin out for a drink, or what? You buyin me a beer?”
I just so happened to have bought a six pack of Dos Equis, and…again…still assuming that Walter is a harmless, joking kind of fellow, I pick one up and hold it out towards him. “Sure, you can have a beer,” Marisa said in her typical jovial and giggling voice. He had reached my car by this time, and suddenly shot us both an offended glare.
(Voice notably raised in irritation…) “No, seriously. You ain’t gonna take me out? You ain’t even gonna buy me a 24 ounce Bud?”
“Um….no. You’re welcome to one of these, though.”
Walter, with disgust and anger brewing in his beady little eyes, was almost yelling now. “You mean to tell me that after I took you in front of all those people and helped you out, you ain’t even gonna buy me a beer?” All friendly joking was gone. He was seriously pissed off, which seriously pissed ME off.
Having already placed the beer back in its package, I slammed my trunk closed and looked down at him (Walter was a scrawny, midget son-of-a-bitch.) with the meanest look I could muster. I briefly lectured him in my most growniest grown-up voice that he was doing his job by helping me and nothing more…that I owed him nothing but a “thank you”, if that…and added that he should get back to work and have a good evening while he was at it!! (I’m never as tough as I plan to be in my fantasies.) He continued to stand there, a foot away from my car, pissy and sulking, tiny chest heaving with rage, muttering something under his breath, as I shut the door and put the car in reverse. I should have run his butt over. Loser.
Note: if an attempt to snag a couple of girls by way of some cheap beer at a skanky bar does not seem to be going in your favor, your luck probably won’t improve by trying to convince them that they somehow OWE it to you. And if you’re a Wal-Mart mechanic, you can increase the rate of your likely decline by about 68% per attempt. (If you’re under 5 foot 3, go ahead and add in another 10% incresase.)
Thursday, October 19, 2006
creativity is NOT always a good thing
Thought you couldn't eat corn in a sandwich?
Well, you were wrong. You were SO wrong.
Well, you were wrong. You were SO wrong.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
It's quite possible that I woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.
There are 3 things in particular that are bothering me this morning.
1. You know the commercial about depression…with the sad music and the grey-shaded scenes and the people who truly look as if they’ve hit rock bottom? Well, there’s this doggie in that commercial that is sitting in front of his depressed owner…and they zoom in on his little doggie face…and he cocks his head to one side as if to say “I’m confused. And sad. And worried. Why won’t you play with me? Don’t you love me anymore? And, hey! I really need to pee!” Yeah, so….every time I see that little dog, my eyes well up with tears, and I nearly loose it.
What? Which part is the part that “bothers” me? Well, all of it, really. The idea that I “nearly loose it” when watching a commercial is what is most bothersome, though, don’t ya think?
2. All of the clothes in my closet have somehow, mysteriously and suddenly, transformed into ugly, unshapely garments that nobody over the age of 16 or under the age of 40 should ever consider wearing. How did that happen?
3. K-Fed is referred to as an “artist”. Who the hell made that decision?
1. You know the commercial about depression…with the sad music and the grey-shaded scenes and the people who truly look as if they’ve hit rock bottom? Well, there’s this doggie in that commercial that is sitting in front of his depressed owner…and they zoom in on his little doggie face…and he cocks his head to one side as if to say “I’m confused. And sad. And worried. Why won’t you play with me? Don’t you love me anymore? And, hey! I really need to pee!” Yeah, so….every time I see that little dog, my eyes well up with tears, and I nearly loose it.
What? Which part is the part that “bothers” me? Well, all of it, really. The idea that I “nearly loose it” when watching a commercial is what is most bothersome, though, don’t ya think?
2. All of the clothes in my closet have somehow, mysteriously and suddenly, transformed into ugly, unshapely garments that nobody over the age of 16 or under the age of 40 should ever consider wearing. How did that happen?
3. K-Fed is referred to as an “artist”. Who the hell made that decision?
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Yet another reason why I should probably be in therapy
Me: “Yeah, so…don’t forget that David will be here this weekend. I guess we can all go to lunch or something.”
My Mother: “Well, Allison…you know I can’t eat Chinese food. All that MSG aggravates my asthma.”
The above snipit of a conversation with my mother clearly illustrates why I’m slightly nervous about the mentioned potential lunch date for this coming Saturday. David (who lives in Austin, by the way) will be meeting my parents for the first time. My nervousness stems solely from the fact that my mother and father are not the most socially graceful people you could spend an afternoon with. Lovely, they are. Sweet. Laid back. Non-threatening. But both kookier than Jerry Lewis when he’s missed his dosage.
The explanation of the snipit is as follows: David is from Singapore. While my mother believes this to be incredibly intriguing and pleasant, she is somewhat confused about how his heritage and ethnicity correlates with his personality and daily life. i.e. The assumption that, since he’s from Singapore, all he eats is Chinese food. “Chinese” food at buffet-style, American-owned restaurants, at that. “Yes, Mama. That’s all he eats. Ever.”
I’ve explained to her, in detail, more than a couple of times that David’s English is impeccable. (he’s been speaking it since infanthood, and his English is better than that of most native Louisianans, thank you very much) I keep having horrific visions of her meeting him and speaking slowly; exaggerating her syllables to make sure he understands her. Or of her asking him what he thinks of American television. Or attempting to explain to him what a microwave is.
My mother is not a complete idiot. I don’t mean to paint her as such. She’s just…well…a bit naïve. Yes, naïve. That’s a nice way to say it. She’s a classic example of someone who thinks primarily in stereotypes. These stereotypes cover the areas of race, culture, age, gender, religion, geographic origin, sexuality, profession, eating habits, and hobby preference. If you make “good money”, then you’re most likely pretentious. If you drink alcohol, then you’re most likely an alcoholic. If you’re thin, then you’re most likely suffering from an eating disorder. If you’re a black woman, then you’re almost certainly very funny and very loud. (And watch out…she’ll refer to you as her “black friend” in EVERY story she tells about you.) She’s always surprised if someone turns out to NOT match her predetermined stereotype. She’ll say things like: “Her husband is a lawyer, so they’re pretty rich. But she doesn’t seem stuck-up at all!!” or “He’s gay, but, can you believe I’ve never even seen him wear flowers!!”
Yes. So, I’m praying that she behaves herself….that she doesn’t reference her future grandkids or “jokingly” mention that she wants to have a say-so in how the mother-in-law suite is decorated. Or, …that there won’t be extended periods of awkward silence in which she just stares, giggles, and says repeatedly how cute we look together. Most people in my situation always fear the inevitable naked baby picture display. But, as you may recall, my mother has lost my baby pictures. So, at least there’s that.
My Mother: “Well, Allison…you know I can’t eat Chinese food. All that MSG aggravates my asthma.”
The above snipit of a conversation with my mother clearly illustrates why I’m slightly nervous about the mentioned potential lunch date for this coming Saturday. David (who lives in Austin, by the way) will be meeting my parents for the first time. My nervousness stems solely from the fact that my mother and father are not the most socially graceful people you could spend an afternoon with. Lovely, they are. Sweet. Laid back. Non-threatening. But both kookier than Jerry Lewis when he’s missed his dosage.
The explanation of the snipit is as follows: David is from Singapore. While my mother believes this to be incredibly intriguing and pleasant, she is somewhat confused about how his heritage and ethnicity correlates with his personality and daily life. i.e. The assumption that, since he’s from Singapore, all he eats is Chinese food. “Chinese” food at buffet-style, American-owned restaurants, at that. “Yes, Mama. That’s all he eats. Ever.”
I’ve explained to her, in detail, more than a couple of times that David’s English is impeccable. (he’s been speaking it since infanthood, and his English is better than that of most native Louisianans, thank you very much) I keep having horrific visions of her meeting him and speaking slowly; exaggerating her syllables to make sure he understands her. Or of her asking him what he thinks of American television. Or attempting to explain to him what a microwave is.
My mother is not a complete idiot. I don’t mean to paint her as such. She’s just…well…a bit naïve. Yes, naïve. That’s a nice way to say it. She’s a classic example of someone who thinks primarily in stereotypes. These stereotypes cover the areas of race, culture, age, gender, religion, geographic origin, sexuality, profession, eating habits, and hobby preference. If you make “good money”, then you’re most likely pretentious. If you drink alcohol, then you’re most likely an alcoholic. If you’re thin, then you’re most likely suffering from an eating disorder. If you’re a black woman, then you’re almost certainly very funny and very loud. (And watch out…she’ll refer to you as her “black friend” in EVERY story she tells about you.) She’s always surprised if someone turns out to NOT match her predetermined stereotype. She’ll say things like: “Her husband is a lawyer, so they’re pretty rich. But she doesn’t seem stuck-up at all!!” or “He’s gay, but, can you believe I’ve never even seen him wear flowers!!”
Yes. So, I’m praying that she behaves herself….that she doesn’t reference her future grandkids or “jokingly” mention that she wants to have a say-so in how the mother-in-law suite is decorated. Or, …that there won’t be extended periods of awkward silence in which she just stares, giggles, and says repeatedly how cute we look together. Most people in my situation always fear the inevitable naked baby picture display. But, as you may recall, my mother has lost my baby pictures. So, at least there’s that.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Those uniforms are lovely. Would you call that color "grape" or "aubergine"?
I’ve said it before and I’m sure I’ll have to say it again. Brace yourself. I don’t care about football. I don’t hate football. I don’t loathe it. I just don’t care about it. I’m completely ambivalent about it. I say it with no apology attached. It is what it is. I am what I am. And I’m not a football fan. When I’ve admitted this in the past, I’ve often been met with surprised gasps and dirty looks and sighs of disappointment. I don’t quite get why my lack of interest is so impossible to accept.
I think a common misassumption about me upon learning this shocking fact is that I’m a “girly girl”. Or maybe that I grew up with two homosexual fathers. Neither assumption is accurate.
In many respects, I AM quite girly. And thank God for that. If I wasn’t girly then I’d most likely be a lesbian. And not even a pretty lesbian. I’d be one of the butch kind. (to all you butch lesbians out there, please don’t be offended) Anyway, my girliness has never really influenced my interests a great deal. At least, I don’t think so. I have two older brothers and no sisters and, therefore, grew up in an environment that reeked primarily of maleness. I took dance lessons and had slumber parties and LOVED my Barbie dolls, but from a very young age, I really just wanted to be like my brothers. I wanted to do everything they did. I played with G.I. Joes and Matchbox cars. I adventured through the woods many times, trailing behind my oldest brother as he cut paths for us with his machete. I built forts. I always wanted to wear the boys’ hand-me-downs. I climbed trees and almost always had skinned up knees from playing outside. I watched violent, bloody action films with more enthusiasm than when I watched My Little Pony reruns. I was the ONLY girl in the 4th grade that listened to The Grateful Dead and Supertramp and knew every song from The Beatles’ White Album.
Despite all the testosterone-laden activities we partook of, however, football was never concentrated on with a lot of fervor. Sure, I remember my dad and my brothers watching football sometimes. They were (and still are) devoted Crimson Tide fans. One of my brothers even tried out for the football team at one point. But it wasn’t something that we talked about all the time. It wasn’t a force that ruled our household. It was lagniappe but not the main course (so to speak). So, maybe all of this is why I can’t make myself get excited about football.
I actually attended a football party last Saturday to watch LSU vs. Florida. I can almost always get on board with good socialization, good food, and good beer. And that’s why I accepted the invite. And, I admittedly get a kick out of watching my drunk friends scream and holler and curse and punch the air with their fists as an expression of both pleasure and rage. (I usually can’t tell which is which.) Sometimes I even play along, if I’m in a good mood. I’ll be watching the game (usually thinking about something else), and even if I don’t really understand what has happened, I’ll let out an explicative or an “Aww, yeah!” when everyone else does. Then I’ll dart my eyes around, all subtle like, to see if anyone has caught on, but nobody ever seems to notice my insincerity. I get a strange satisfaction in that. Makes me feel crafty and cool. And then I go back to reading the latest edition of “US” magazine so that I can find out why Vince Vaughn really dumped Jennifer Anniston. Yes…I actually did that very thing on Saturday.
But…I swear…I just CANNOT relate to what makes someone truly passionate about whether or not some guy in a helmet ran a certain distance with a ball to score a certain amount of points. I really just don’t get it. Where does that passion come from? Please…feel free to explain it to me. I can appreciate athletic talent and teamsmanship (made up word), but it’s not something that’s ever gonna make me refer to the referee’s mother as a “dirty, lazy, whore”. And people that get all depressed and bitchy for days on end when their favorite team looses…please find something worthy to devote your emotions to. Volunteer. Take a lover. Get a pet. Call your grandma. But spare me your pathetic complaints about how life just isn’t what you thought it was since “we lost the big game”, because I will offer you no empathy and certainly no sympathy.
All of this is one of the many, many, many reasons why I’m so in love with a certain man named David. He, too, doesn’t care all that much about football. He, too, enjoys it mostly as a socialization opportunity. He, too, would rather go for a tasty meal than watch the game. So, unlike in other relationships I’ve been in, I will never have to fake a temper tantrum over a failed attempt at a touch down just to please him. And he is, by the way, 100% heterosexual. Trust me.
I think a common misassumption about me upon learning this shocking fact is that I’m a “girly girl”. Or maybe that I grew up with two homosexual fathers. Neither assumption is accurate.
In many respects, I AM quite girly. And thank God for that. If I wasn’t girly then I’d most likely be a lesbian. And not even a pretty lesbian. I’d be one of the butch kind. (to all you butch lesbians out there, please don’t be offended) Anyway, my girliness has never really influenced my interests a great deal. At least, I don’t think so. I have two older brothers and no sisters and, therefore, grew up in an environment that reeked primarily of maleness. I took dance lessons and had slumber parties and LOVED my Barbie dolls, but from a very young age, I really just wanted to be like my brothers. I wanted to do everything they did. I played with G.I. Joes and Matchbox cars. I adventured through the woods many times, trailing behind my oldest brother as he cut paths for us with his machete. I built forts. I always wanted to wear the boys’ hand-me-downs. I climbed trees and almost always had skinned up knees from playing outside. I watched violent, bloody action films with more enthusiasm than when I watched My Little Pony reruns. I was the ONLY girl in the 4th grade that listened to The Grateful Dead and Supertramp and knew every song from The Beatles’ White Album.
Despite all the testosterone-laden activities we partook of, however, football was never concentrated on with a lot of fervor. Sure, I remember my dad and my brothers watching football sometimes. They were (and still are) devoted Crimson Tide fans. One of my brothers even tried out for the football team at one point. But it wasn’t something that we talked about all the time. It wasn’t a force that ruled our household. It was lagniappe but not the main course (so to speak). So, maybe all of this is why I can’t make myself get excited about football.
I actually attended a football party last Saturday to watch LSU vs. Florida. I can almost always get on board with good socialization, good food, and good beer. And that’s why I accepted the invite. And, I admittedly get a kick out of watching my drunk friends scream and holler and curse and punch the air with their fists as an expression of both pleasure and rage. (I usually can’t tell which is which.) Sometimes I even play along, if I’m in a good mood. I’ll be watching the game (usually thinking about something else), and even if I don’t really understand what has happened, I’ll let out an explicative or an “Aww, yeah!” when everyone else does. Then I’ll dart my eyes around, all subtle like, to see if anyone has caught on, but nobody ever seems to notice my insincerity. I get a strange satisfaction in that. Makes me feel crafty and cool. And then I go back to reading the latest edition of “US” magazine so that I can find out why Vince Vaughn really dumped Jennifer Anniston. Yes…I actually did that very thing on Saturday.
But…I swear…I just CANNOT relate to what makes someone truly passionate about whether or not some guy in a helmet ran a certain distance with a ball to score a certain amount of points. I really just don’t get it. Where does that passion come from? Please…feel free to explain it to me. I can appreciate athletic talent and teamsmanship (made up word), but it’s not something that’s ever gonna make me refer to the referee’s mother as a “dirty, lazy, whore”. And people that get all depressed and bitchy for days on end when their favorite team looses…please find something worthy to devote your emotions to. Volunteer. Take a lover. Get a pet. Call your grandma. But spare me your pathetic complaints about how life just isn’t what you thought it was since “we lost the big game”, because I will offer you no empathy and certainly no sympathy.
All of this is one of the many, many, many reasons why I’m so in love with a certain man named David. He, too, doesn’t care all that much about football. He, too, enjoys it mostly as a socialization opportunity. He, too, would rather go for a tasty meal than watch the game. So, unlike in other relationships I’ve been in, I will never have to fake a temper tantrum over a failed attempt at a touch down just to please him. And he is, by the way, 100% heterosexual. Trust me.
(I just wanted to add before you roll your eyes and make fun of me that I will not try to slip in a mention of him in EVERY blog entry I write from now on. I’ll try not to. But I can’t make any promises of such.)
An appropriate end to this is the following quote from Jenna Fischer’s article “10 Things You Don’t Know About Women”, featured in a recent edition of Esquire. In case you don’t know who Jenna Fischer is, she’s a very funny gal on the extremely funny show, The Office. If you don’t watch it, you should. Anyway, back to the quote:
“You know what's really gay? Football. Instead of watching it, just have sex with another dude once a year. Get it all out of your system at once.”
Well said, Jenna. Well said.
recycled genius
I got an email this morning from one of my most beloved friends, and she said something about the impending Fall season making her want to sit with me and drink $5 lattes. This season stirs all sorts of "wants" in me, as well. I remembered an entry I posted around this time last year...and I thought I'd re-post it. If this were Wayne's World, I'd wave my fingers through the air and make that little "dullalullalup...dullalullalup" sound; as if to suggest a coming flashback.
The Unmistakable Scent of Crayons and Pumpkin Pie
There is something immensely pleasant about old school buildings. (By “old”, I mean built in the 50’s or before.) My new job requires me to visit various elementary schools on a regular basis, and I think those visitations may just be my favorite part of the job. My own Elementary School (Simpsonville Elementary in Simpsonville, SC) had a definite venerable quality to it. And, while I don’t have an abundant amount of warm memories from that place, maybe that’s where my fondness comes from.
These buildings usually have an impressive stature…the authority of a second story, oversized entry doors, and castle-like stone bricks are the typical greeting. The dimly lit hallways are lined in ceramic tile and mismatched linoleum. The 20 foot ceilings support a skeleton of exposed piping that sings an incessant dirge of clanks and hums. Every classroom is framed by paint-chipped picture windows and olivy chalkboards. I know lots of teachers that brag about their “new” schools and the modern accommodations they provide. But those facilities just don’t have the same character; the same intimacy that older ones do.
Autumn is the best time of the year to be in a school like this. I don’t know that I can really explain why, though. There’s a quote in a movie I like about how Autumn makes you want to buy school supplies…”bouquets of sharpened pencils”. I totally get that quote. It’s partly because kids look so darn cute in sweaters and cotton tights. And I love those big metal accordion wall heaters that hiss and moan when you turn them on in cold weather. It’s partly the decorations….smiley scarecrows with their arms posed in motionless waves, paper mache’ pumpkins, leaves in velvety colors, turkeys with tissue paper tails. It’s partly the way the atmosphere suggests Holiday time….and how that suggestion seems to make everyone a tad bit jovial. It’s partly my own personal correlation between kids and Autumn. There’s something magical about that connection. Just thinking about it puts me in the mood to read the Richard Scary Bedtime collection all snuggled up in a blanket and drink cinnamon cocoa and dress up in a Halloween costume and watch “It’s The Great Pumpkin! Charlie Brown” and eat my grandmother’s stuffing and write an essay about all the things I’m thankful for (not necessarily in that order).
Now, where did I put my argyle kneesocks…..?
The Unmistakable Scent of Crayons and Pumpkin Pie
There is something immensely pleasant about old school buildings. (By “old”, I mean built in the 50’s or before.) My new job requires me to visit various elementary schools on a regular basis, and I think those visitations may just be my favorite part of the job. My own Elementary School (Simpsonville Elementary in Simpsonville, SC) had a definite venerable quality to it. And, while I don’t have an abundant amount of warm memories from that place, maybe that’s where my fondness comes from.
These buildings usually have an impressive stature…the authority of a second story, oversized entry doors, and castle-like stone bricks are the typical greeting. The dimly lit hallways are lined in ceramic tile and mismatched linoleum. The 20 foot ceilings support a skeleton of exposed piping that sings an incessant dirge of clanks and hums. Every classroom is framed by paint-chipped picture windows and olivy chalkboards. I know lots of teachers that brag about their “new” schools and the modern accommodations they provide. But those facilities just don’t have the same character; the same intimacy that older ones do.
Autumn is the best time of the year to be in a school like this. I don’t know that I can really explain why, though. There’s a quote in a movie I like about how Autumn makes you want to buy school supplies…”bouquets of sharpened pencils”. I totally get that quote. It’s partly because kids look so darn cute in sweaters and cotton tights. And I love those big metal accordion wall heaters that hiss and moan when you turn them on in cold weather. It’s partly the decorations….smiley scarecrows with their arms posed in motionless waves, paper mache’ pumpkins, leaves in velvety colors, turkeys with tissue paper tails. It’s partly the way the atmosphere suggests Holiday time….and how that suggestion seems to make everyone a tad bit jovial. It’s partly my own personal correlation between kids and Autumn. There’s something magical about that connection. Just thinking about it puts me in the mood to read the Richard Scary Bedtime collection all snuggled up in a blanket and drink cinnamon cocoa and dress up in a Halloween costume and watch “It’s The Great Pumpkin! Charlie Brown” and eat my grandmother’s stuffing and write an essay about all the things I’m thankful for (not necessarily in that order).
Now, where did I put my argyle kneesocks…..?
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
It's a wonder that Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy made it through the awkward stage
Today I saw a couple sitting on a park bench holding an umbrella above their heads. There was not a cloud in sight, by the way. Unless they were just crazy, I assume the umbrella was there to block the sun. I smirked at the 1930’s of it all…the Mickey Mouse/Minnie Mouse, Mickey Rooney/Judy Garland quality that it bestowed.
Very briefly, I thought…”Wouldn’t it be nice if romance was still like that?” And then I thought again. In my younger, less experienced, years, I would often make low-browed statements such as that. It seemed to me somehow that things were so much easier “in the olden days”. (“The olden days” can actually refer to innumerous time periods any time before now. Well, any time before 1960, anyway. The 80’s were way too complicated. Right now, I’m referring particularly to the “really olden days”, not the more modern ones.) I would spend alarming amounts of time lost in soliloquies about the simplicity and purity of love and relationships in times past.
The girls always seemed to snag the heart of a devoted man…effortlessly and with an immense amount of dignity…and I was convinced that games were NEVER played. One would catch the eye of another, and within days, a dowry was supplied by the girl’s father and all the women would begin knitting white lace. Do you KNIT lace? Is it embroidered? Sewn? Laser cut? Anyway, whatever the hell you do to make lace, they’d do it immediately. The couple would participate in quaint courting rituals like pushing each other on swings, singing about suries with fringe-lined tops, skipping through fields, and dreaming about the future in front of the fire place. They would never fight…never even disagree. What was there to fight about, after all? (“Who the **** forgot to empty the chamber pot?” “But, I milked Bessie LAST time, you lazy dolt!” “JEZEBEL! I saw you expose your ankle when you climbed into the wagon last night!”) No. Nothing to fight about. Not ever.
Of course, after I watched movies such as Pride and Prejudice, Little Women, Gone with the Wind, and Meet Me in St. Louis , (as well as countless others) I began to realize that romance back then wasn’t all that pretty. Games were ALWAYS played, at least according to the world of film and literature. Complications of class, money, fidelity, and ugly vs. handsome were just as evident then as now. More so, maybe. I’d place a fair amount of certainty on the guess that the only time and place that any couple ever broke into spontaneous and choreographed song was in musicals. Except, many…on rare occasions…in situations of extreme inebriation. And the only reason that couples sat by the fire in silence almost every night was because they didn’t have cable, all the really good bars charged exorbitant covers, and making out was a No-No. They had nothing to discuss because all they did all day every day was harvest corn, pick flowers, and whittle wood. (And when I say “whittle wood”, I don’t mean it in a dirty way.)
I’ve decided that I’m glad to live in a time where romance is…well…romantic. Romantic as defined by no “proper” definition of what is romantic…romance that takes its own shape and style as love between two people designs itself. Disagreements are okay because our opinions are what make us wonderfully unique…and the making up is so much fun. Fireplaces are nice and warm and even amorous…but better when accompanied by scary movies, wine, and some friendly wrestling. I love being able to talk for hours and hours about life and world issues and all the wonderful and horrible things that have made us who we are. I love it that I can dress sexy for my man, talk about bodily functions without being labeled as “imprudent”, and express myself without fear of chastisement. I love it that I can choose NOT to participate in game-playing. And I REALLY love it that I will never be expected to craft any type of household item out of lace. Yes, that’s the detail I’m MOST happy about.
On a significantly non-related note, in the same park that I spotted the umbrella-holding couple that inspired this entry, I often see young, glowing brides-to-be having their bridal portraits taken by the lake. They always look so smug and bridey as they prance around in their dresses. Almost every time I see one, I cross my fingers in hopes that she’ll trip over a tree root or a snoozing duck and plunge backwards into the water. It hasn’t happened yet, but I’m still holding out.
Very briefly, I thought…”Wouldn’t it be nice if romance was still like that?” And then I thought again. In my younger, less experienced, years, I would often make low-browed statements such as that. It seemed to me somehow that things were so much easier “in the olden days”. (“The olden days” can actually refer to innumerous time periods any time before now. Well, any time before 1960, anyway. The 80’s were way too complicated. Right now, I’m referring particularly to the “really olden days”, not the more modern ones.) I would spend alarming amounts of time lost in soliloquies about the simplicity and purity of love and relationships in times past.
The girls always seemed to snag the heart of a devoted man…effortlessly and with an immense amount of dignity…and I was convinced that games were NEVER played. One would catch the eye of another, and within days, a dowry was supplied by the girl’s father and all the women would begin knitting white lace. Do you KNIT lace? Is it embroidered? Sewn? Laser cut? Anyway, whatever the hell you do to make lace, they’d do it immediately. The couple would participate in quaint courting rituals like pushing each other on swings, singing about suries with fringe-lined tops, skipping through fields, and dreaming about the future in front of the fire place. They would never fight…never even disagree. What was there to fight about, after all? (“Who the **** forgot to empty the chamber pot?” “But, I milked Bessie LAST time, you lazy dolt!” “JEZEBEL! I saw you expose your ankle when you climbed into the wagon last night!”) No. Nothing to fight about. Not ever.
Of course, after I watched movies such as Pride and Prejudice, Little Women, Gone with the Wind, and Meet Me in St. Louis , (as well as countless others) I began to realize that romance back then wasn’t all that pretty. Games were ALWAYS played, at least according to the world of film and literature. Complications of class, money, fidelity, and ugly vs. handsome were just as evident then as now. More so, maybe. I’d place a fair amount of certainty on the guess that the only time and place that any couple ever broke into spontaneous and choreographed song was in musicals. Except, many…on rare occasions…in situations of extreme inebriation. And the only reason that couples sat by the fire in silence almost every night was because they didn’t have cable, all the really good bars charged exorbitant covers, and making out was a No-No. They had nothing to discuss because all they did all day every day was harvest corn, pick flowers, and whittle wood. (And when I say “whittle wood”, I don’t mean it in a dirty way.)
I’ve decided that I’m glad to live in a time where romance is…well…romantic. Romantic as defined by no “proper” definition of what is romantic…romance that takes its own shape and style as love between two people designs itself. Disagreements are okay because our opinions are what make us wonderfully unique…and the making up is so much fun. Fireplaces are nice and warm and even amorous…but better when accompanied by scary movies, wine, and some friendly wrestling. I love being able to talk for hours and hours about life and world issues and all the wonderful and horrible things that have made us who we are. I love it that I can dress sexy for my man, talk about bodily functions without being labeled as “imprudent”, and express myself without fear of chastisement. I love it that I can choose NOT to participate in game-playing. And I REALLY love it that I will never be expected to craft any type of household item out of lace. Yes, that’s the detail I’m MOST happy about.
On a significantly non-related note, in the same park that I spotted the umbrella-holding couple that inspired this entry, I often see young, glowing brides-to-be having their bridal portraits taken by the lake. They always look so smug and bridey as they prance around in their dresses. Almost every time I see one, I cross my fingers in hopes that she’ll trip over a tree root or a snoozing duck and plunge backwards into the water. It hasn’t happened yet, but I’m still holding out.
one of the ones who, hopefully, will never stop referring to me as "Aunt Al"
And just when you thought your day couldn't get any better...
Monday, October 09, 2006
And then she woke up...
You know how this goes. Every time I’ve been absent from my blog for quite some time, I always say that I’ve just been “too busy”. It’s true, too. I can honestly say that I’ve just been too busy to write blogs. But nobody wants to hear that. It sounds lame and cliché and unapologetic. What to do, what to do?? And the thing is…I HATE not having time to write. The worst part of it is (like anything else) is that the longer I stray from it, the harder it is to pick it up again. I guess that’s one of the guarantees about life that we can’t escape. Absence…nonactivity…neglect…always heeds an awkward return. We expect to be welcomed back by whatever it is we abandoned like a cheating, unfaithful whore; crawling on all fours while wailing about our intended innocence. Well, here I am again, my absolving blog. The knees of my khakis are filthy, indeed.
Other than writing (my first to-be-published work, preferably), there are SO many other things I’d be doing (either in the immediate present, or in the ongoing) if I didn’t have to spend between 8 and 14 hours working 5 days a week.
Things I Would Be Doing if I Didn’t Have to Work
Reading through the stack of novels I have at home that REALLY do look very interesting. I attempt to read them before bed quite frequently, but I usually manage to fall asleep with the lamp…and my glasses still on.
Traveling. Let’s ignore the fact that if I was, in fact, not working, I’d have absolutely no money and would, therefore, not be able to travel anywhere, ever. Actually, let’s ignore that fact for the duration of this list.
Working out with a personal trainer on a daily basis in efforts to attain and maintain a rock star body.
Learning how to use chopsticks. Apparently, I need at least 5 hours a day to devote to mastering this skill. My wonderful boyfriend pretends to not find my lack of skill pathetic even though his patient coaching hasn’t yet amounted to much improvement. (It’s humiliating to always be the white girl at the table who has to ask for a fork.)
Dancing in public.
Planting and tending to a fabulous garden. If I had somewhere to plant one, that is.
Collecting Fraggle Rock memorabilia.
Watching all the great “classics” that I’ve just never had time to watch. Wait. Scratch that. Most of the “classics” I’ve missed, I’ve never cared to watch in the first place. Which is the real reason why I haven’t. Let’s replace this one with watching the “American Pie” series. That’s more realistic.
Straightening my priorities.
Brainstorming new and more creative names for the colors of Crayola crayons. They wouldn’t even have to pay me. (i.e. indigo= “blueberry parade”, apricot= “clammy flesh”, yellow green= “acidic pee”, and dandelion= “buttery nipple”) Although, I suppose it’s not appropriate to refer to a liquor shot when naming a child’s educational tool.
Spending time with my nieces before they cease to call me “Aunt Al” and start referring to me as “that funny lady that used to be Daddy’s sister”.
Elaborately painting my toenails to represent and correspond with every national holiday.
Watching the clouds.
Flipping turn-of-the-century houses for profit.
Rescuing abandoned and orphaned children from all over the world and sending them to live with Oprah…or maybe even her friend, Gayle.
Hugging strangers.
Mastering the guitar. And then playing it for no one but the people I love. (Bridget included.)
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