So I had a moment of clarity last night. And guess what? I have decided that the South Side guy I met isn’t someone I want to continue a relationship with. Yes, he is a nice guy, and yes, I had a good time on Sunday, but the click isn’t there. And true to form, immediately after parting company I started overanalyzing the entire situation. Which is a really bad thing, I know, brought on by my own insecurity and fear. So I discussed the situation with several friends, and was told that I should just stop thinking about it and go with the flow. See what happens. Give him some time. Don’t give up on the relationship before it has even really started. And you know what? They were right.
But I still don’t think this is going to work.
Maybe I am just so NOT used to being in a relationship that every one I start is destined to fail in my mind before it moves beyond the first few dates. Maybe I am mentally sabotaging every potential relationship I encounter. Or maybe I have a fear of commitment.
Naaah. I think my only problem is that after waiting for 36 years, I don’t want to settle. And really, I don’t think I SHOULD. Your basic “nice guy” (case in point – Mr. South Side) isn’t enough for me. Physically, things were great. There was definitely an animal attraction, no doubt. But I need more than that. And THAT, my friends, is what I wasn’t getting.
Obviously I am a very opinionated, speak your mind kind of woman. So I enjoy mental stimulation as well. Which I wasn’t getting – AT ALL. Conversations were pretty much limited to “So, are you working tonight?” “Yeah.” “Well, stay out of trouble.” “Yeah. Call you tomorrow, babe.” (Yes, the ‘babe’ part was nice, but I need more.) Tell me how you feel about Iraq. Or gay marriage. Or Reality TV. Or Project Mongoose (still waiting for a new segment on that one). But TALK!!!!!! I tried on Sunday to start an intelligent conversation, but didn’t get far. And the info I DID get out of him wasn’t really scoring him any points.
So now I am at a stalemate, I haven’t told him (obviously) that it just isn’t working, I’m really bad at things like that. I may possibly go out with him once more, just to double check and make sure my instincts are right (and maybe “hang out” for a final time), but I’m not even sure about that. I’ve realized that lately rather than finding people I truly feel connected or happy with, I have been finding people I feel I SHOULD be happy with. And there is a HUGE difference between the two.
One good thing has come out of this whole thing, though (besides the obvious). I have decided it is time to actively start looking for the person who will complete me. No more sitting around waiting for fate – I’m tired of that. My requirements may cause many guys to turn tail and run, but this time I am going the route of complete honesty. What I want is important, and I know there is someone out there who is looking for me, too. And dammit, I think I deserve the whole “true love” thing too. Which does NOT include settling for Mr. Right Now instead of Mr. Right.
Let the journey begin.
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
A Kiss is Just a Kiss
This weekend, my daughter Roxy reached a milestone: she got her first kiss. And I am actually quite jealous. This is because my first kiss came from HR Pufnstuff at an amusement park in St. Louis. (For those of you who may be too young to know who Pufnstuff is, he is a Marty Kroft creation with a huge mushroom shaped head. I think he is a dragon, but I am not sure. In any case, picture a giant muppet, only not as cute because its creator was on acid.) Now let me clarify – we are talking first KISS here, not first make-out session (which I also remember, it was a guy named Fred, whom I had just met, in the back seat of his friend’s car while listening to Rainbow on the stereo – another story, another time). Your first kiss is a kiss that comes from a member of the opposite sex who is not a family friend or relative. (Yes, Pufnstuff was a male dragon. And as far as I know, he is not related to me or is a friend of my parents’.) Anyway, now that we have clarified the requirements for an official first kiss, allow me to share the story.
My mother, Roxy and I went down to the Taste of Chicago on Saturday. We were all looking forward to it, especially because ABC Daytime was hosting “Fun in the Sun,” a little tour of various soap stars. Since all three of us watch All My Children regularly, and Roxy and I also watch General Hospital, we figured it would be fun to see the stars up close and personal. Of course, we also were looking forward to the Taste itself, although I have been told that me going to the Taste is pointless. (Apparently the reason for going to the Taste is to try NEW things, and I tend to stick to what I know – like pizza. But there are lots of different pizza places there, so I’m usually fine.) Anyway, we took the “L” down, and headed off to Buckingham Fountain to look for JR, Josh and Aidan from AMC and Dillon from GH (there were also some chicks from One Life to Live there, but we don’t watch that). It was pretty crowded, and EXTREMELY hot, but we were troupers and dealt with it well. When the stars finally came out, we tried to move in to get a better look. After a brief intro on stage, some of the stars came out to mingle with the crowd. Roxy and I followed the mob to JR, and were unsuccessful in our attempts to get an autographed picture. So we moved to some guardrails at the end of the staging area in back. The three of us waited patiently, and finally saw JR again. Roxy started waving, and apparently no one is immune to the charms of a cute blonde almost ten year old who is sweating to death, because he motioned toward her to his security guard and then came our way. He handed her an autographed picture personally, signed a few more, and left. (Nope! I faked you out!! No kiss yet!!!) She was thrilled. It was around this time she decided she wanted her baseball cap signed as well.
This proved to be a more difficult task. We found several spots around the area where we managed to get a little closer than normal, but the trick was to get these guys to notice you. The funny thing is, as a fan, you start to get really irritated with these people. I mean, when you watch a show on a regular basis, you start to feel as though you KNOW these people. And with a soap star, you see them 5 times a week, and know all their life stories, and problems, etc. You root for them, you hate them, you lust after them. You feel their pain during sad storylines, and you cry at their weddings. So when you are standing in 100° heat screaming their name (or their character’s name) and they seem to be ignoring you, you get pissed off. It’s like when you run into someone you used to have a thing with and they pretend they don’t know you. (not that that has ever happened to me, of course) The only difference is that these stars really DON’T know you, and aren’t trying to be jerks. I tried to keep this in mind as Roxy and I went from one side of the staging area to the other and back again, still trying to get her damn hat signed.
Finally, we saw JR again, and she squeezed her way to the front of the crowd. His bodyguard had just told him he had to go, but he noticed my Roxy and reached for her hat with a smile, giving her the final autograph of the moment. Then he left again. (HA!! Fakeout number 2!) I really think, though, that JR liked my daughter. In a nice way, you know, like: “Hey, what a cute little girl!” Not in a perverted way or anything. Because he DID give her two autographs and smile at her. So now she has JR’s autograph on her hat, and she tells me that she still needs Aidan’s autograph. Back to our search.
Well, there we were, standing by one of the guardrails, when we see Aidan heading our way, albeit with a crowd of security. My mother was standing behind us and off to the side a little, and I was right with Roxy. She started waving her hat in his direction and calling “Aidan! Aidan!” Then it happened. (Pay attention – no more fakeouts!) Aidan came out from behind the guardrail to do some kind of promo shot (hence all the security), and when he saw Roxy, he leaned over and put his hand on top of her head and kissed her on the cheek (Roxy informed me that his watch momentarily got stuck in her hair, but he freed it pretty quick). I was floored. The hot Brit from All My Children had just given my daughter her first kiss! And I didn’t even manage to get a picture – it had happened so fast!! I DID however, get a picture of Roxy cooling her jets immediately after the fact (literally, she had a little fan thingy) and of Aidan walking by with a smirk on his face. She never got the autograph on her hat, but she got the memory of a lifetime.
SOOOOOOOOOO not fair. Me – Overgrown Muppet. Roxy – Hot British Soap Star. And you know what else? She doesn’t even appreciate it. She told me to stop telling people because it EMBARRASSES her. Oh, please!! Embarrassed of being kissed by Aidan??? You’d have to be NUTS!! Or nine, I guess. Well, I’m sure eventually she’ll realize just how lucky she is. And we all know I don’t plan on keeping my mouth shut about this – but what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her, right??
My mother, Roxy and I went down to the Taste of Chicago on Saturday. We were all looking forward to it, especially because ABC Daytime was hosting “Fun in the Sun,” a little tour of various soap stars. Since all three of us watch All My Children regularly, and Roxy and I also watch General Hospital, we figured it would be fun to see the stars up close and personal. Of course, we also were looking forward to the Taste itself, although I have been told that me going to the Taste is pointless. (Apparently the reason for going to the Taste is to try NEW things, and I tend to stick to what I know – like pizza. But there are lots of different pizza places there, so I’m usually fine.) Anyway, we took the “L” down, and headed off to Buckingham Fountain to look for JR, Josh and Aidan from AMC and Dillon from GH (there were also some chicks from One Life to Live there, but we don’t watch that). It was pretty crowded, and EXTREMELY hot, but we were troupers and dealt with it well. When the stars finally came out, we tried to move in to get a better look. After a brief intro on stage, some of the stars came out to mingle with the crowd. Roxy and I followed the mob to JR, and were unsuccessful in our attempts to get an autographed picture. So we moved to some guardrails at the end of the staging area in back. The three of us waited patiently, and finally saw JR again. Roxy started waving, and apparently no one is immune to the charms of a cute blonde almost ten year old who is sweating to death, because he motioned toward her to his security guard and then came our way. He handed her an autographed picture personally, signed a few more, and left. (Nope! I faked you out!! No kiss yet!!!) She was thrilled. It was around this time she decided she wanted her baseball cap signed as well.
This proved to be a more difficult task. We found several spots around the area where we managed to get a little closer than normal, but the trick was to get these guys to notice you. The funny thing is, as a fan, you start to get really irritated with these people. I mean, when you watch a show on a regular basis, you start to feel as though you KNOW these people. And with a soap star, you see them 5 times a week, and know all their life stories, and problems, etc. You root for them, you hate them, you lust after them. You feel their pain during sad storylines, and you cry at their weddings. So when you are standing in 100° heat screaming their name (or their character’s name) and they seem to be ignoring you, you get pissed off. It’s like when you run into someone you used to have a thing with and they pretend they don’t know you. (not that that has ever happened to me, of course) The only difference is that these stars really DON’T know you, and aren’t trying to be jerks. I tried to keep this in mind as Roxy and I went from one side of the staging area to the other and back again, still trying to get her damn hat signed.
Finally, we saw JR again, and she squeezed her way to the front of the crowd. His bodyguard had just told him he had to go, but he noticed my Roxy and reached for her hat with a smile, giving her the final autograph of the moment. Then he left again. (HA!! Fakeout number 2!) I really think, though, that JR liked my daughter. In a nice way, you know, like: “Hey, what a cute little girl!” Not in a perverted way or anything. Because he DID give her two autographs and smile at her. So now she has JR’s autograph on her hat, and she tells me that she still needs Aidan’s autograph. Back to our search.
Well, there we were, standing by one of the guardrails, when we see Aidan heading our way, albeit with a crowd of security. My mother was standing behind us and off to the side a little, and I was right with Roxy. She started waving her hat in his direction and calling “Aidan! Aidan!” Then it happened. (Pay attention – no more fakeouts!) Aidan came out from behind the guardrail to do some kind of promo shot (hence all the security), and when he saw Roxy, he leaned over and put his hand on top of her head and kissed her on the cheek (Roxy informed me that his watch momentarily got stuck in her hair, but he freed it pretty quick). I was floored. The hot Brit from All My Children had just given my daughter her first kiss! And I didn’t even manage to get a picture – it had happened so fast!! I DID however, get a picture of Roxy cooling her jets immediately after the fact (literally, she had a little fan thingy) and of Aidan walking by with a smirk on his face. She never got the autograph on her hat, but she got the memory of a lifetime.
SOOOOOOOOOO not fair. Me – Overgrown Muppet. Roxy – Hot British Soap Star. And you know what else? She doesn’t even appreciate it. She told me to stop telling people because it EMBARRASSES her. Oh, please!! Embarrassed of being kissed by Aidan??? You’d have to be NUTS!! Or nine, I guess. Well, I’m sure eventually she’ll realize just how lucky she is. And we all know I don’t plan on keeping my mouth shut about this – but what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her, right??
Friday, June 24, 2005
Roxy Girl
My sincerest apologies for not updating this yesterday. I realize that many of you live to read my words of wisdom, and the fact that this went untouched yesterday must have been difficult. Unfortunately, I broke my computer at work and am lucky that I still have a job. As it is, right now I am typing on one of the attorney's computers, because mine is still down. Supposedly the tech will be in shortly to repair it. And hopefully he will not discover that my blogging or my surfing the net is what caused my computer to crash. Because if he does - well, I really don't even want to go there right now! Anyway.
I was trying to think of something good to write about today, and actually thought maybe I should start on Part III of my miniseries, but I'm not in the mood for Kevin stories right now. Instead I thought I would write about my daughter, who decided that she would like to remain anonymous on my blog. (She informed me of this mast night, and requested that I call her "Roxy," so who am I to argue?)
So Roxy and I went to dinner last night with my father. Since we didn't see him on father's day, Roxy gave him a homemade card and a handmade gift. (I, on the other hand, knew that just being with his daughter was present enough for him. In other words, I forgot to get him anything. Whoops.) Since Roxy is now almost 10 and oh-so-cool, her card was quite simple: Bubble letters on the front that said "Happy Father's Day" and on the inside, a simple "Love ya, Roxy." And her gidt, bless her little heart, was a tile from my friend's basement (apparently she had a ton left over from remodeling) that she painted blue and silver. Grandpa did the obligatory, "Wow! This is really nice!" but you could almost hear the confusion in his voice. I mean, really, what was he supposed to DO with it? Then again, as a mother, I have learned that no matter what, you fawn and ooooh and ahhhhh over your kid's (or grandkid's) artwork like it was the Mona Lisa and make sure if you stash it somewhere you are always ready to whip it out in case your angel says "Where's the present I made for you?" (Right here, honey! Under my bed! Because then every night when I go to sleep, I dream about you and your lovely gift!) So then after the big production, Roxy decides she need to change to go to dinner, and retreats to her room.
During this time, dad and I make small talk, and finally, I go to see what is taking so long. As I approach her room, I hear her on the phone with her friend, discussing her birthday party which is still over a month away. I knock and tell her we are waiting, and with a "GOD!" and a sigh, I hear her hang up. When her bedroom door opens, I stifle a laugh. There is my kid, wearing her capris, a tank top that is too small, but she must think is cool because it shows some skin, black clogs with high heels, and her blonde hair in a ponytail sticking out from the back of a designer baseball cap. "Ok," she says, "let's go."
When my dad sees her, he says not a word. But I can't help myself. "Why are you so dressed up?" I ask her. She looks at me with tween contempt. "I'm NOT!" she says, as she grabs the disconnected cell phone I let her have (since I see no reason for a kid her age to have a working cell phone) and pretends to talk on it. Boy, am I in trouble.
As we leave the house and watch my daughter, I remember the words my mother used to say to me hundreds of times in my youth - "I hope someday you have a daughter JUST LIKE YOU!!" Word of advice - if any women out there heard that from their mothers, or if any men out there have wives who have heard this, PRAY you don't have a daughter. Because I have come to find out that the curse comes true. Tenfold. I don't remember acting 15 when I was 10, but I do have a recollection of the attitute I get from Roxy - I thought I was the only one to master it. Apparently not. For now, we still have a good relationship though, since it is just she and I (don't even ASK about the so-called father) (LOSER!!) we tend to be pretty close. But from little things like going out to dinner last night, I am starting to be afraid. Be VERY afraid. God help me, I have a 5 foot tall leggy tan blonde daughter who is only going on 10 - I don't even want to consider life in 5 years!!!
Oh, well. Roxy will hopefully remain the sweet girl I am trying my best to raise right, and I'm sure we'll manage over the bumps in the road. I hope!! It's just strange for now seeing the lines between little girl and teenager so blurred - although I don't think I am quite ready for the full teenager just yet!
I was trying to think of something good to write about today, and actually thought maybe I should start on Part III of my miniseries, but I'm not in the mood for Kevin stories right now. Instead I thought I would write about my daughter, who decided that she would like to remain anonymous on my blog. (She informed me of this mast night, and requested that I call her "Roxy," so who am I to argue?)
So Roxy and I went to dinner last night with my father. Since we didn't see him on father's day, Roxy gave him a homemade card and a handmade gift. (I, on the other hand, knew that just being with his daughter was present enough for him. In other words, I forgot to get him anything. Whoops.) Since Roxy is now almost 10 and oh-so-cool, her card was quite simple: Bubble letters on the front that said "Happy Father's Day" and on the inside, a simple "Love ya, Roxy." And her gidt, bless her little heart, was a tile from my friend's basement (apparently she had a ton left over from remodeling) that she painted blue and silver. Grandpa did the obligatory, "Wow! This is really nice!" but you could almost hear the confusion in his voice. I mean, really, what was he supposed to DO with it? Then again, as a mother, I have learned that no matter what, you fawn and ooooh and ahhhhh over your kid's (or grandkid's) artwork like it was the Mona Lisa and make sure if you stash it somewhere you are always ready to whip it out in case your angel says "Where's the present I made for you?" (Right here, honey! Under my bed! Because then every night when I go to sleep, I dream about you and your lovely gift!) So then after the big production, Roxy decides she need to change to go to dinner, and retreats to her room.
During this time, dad and I make small talk, and finally, I go to see what is taking so long. As I approach her room, I hear her on the phone with her friend, discussing her birthday party which is still over a month away. I knock and tell her we are waiting, and with a "GOD!" and a sigh, I hear her hang up. When her bedroom door opens, I stifle a laugh. There is my kid, wearing her capris, a tank top that is too small, but she must think is cool because it shows some skin, black clogs with high heels, and her blonde hair in a ponytail sticking out from the back of a designer baseball cap. "Ok," she says, "let's go."
When my dad sees her, he says not a word. But I can't help myself. "Why are you so dressed up?" I ask her. She looks at me with tween contempt. "I'm NOT!" she says, as she grabs the disconnected cell phone I let her have (since I see no reason for a kid her age to have a working cell phone) and pretends to talk on it. Boy, am I in trouble.
As we leave the house and watch my daughter, I remember the words my mother used to say to me hundreds of times in my youth - "I hope someday you have a daughter JUST LIKE YOU!!" Word of advice - if any women out there heard that from their mothers, or if any men out there have wives who have heard this, PRAY you don't have a daughter. Because I have come to find out that the curse comes true. Tenfold. I don't remember acting 15 when I was 10, but I do have a recollection of the attitute I get from Roxy - I thought I was the only one to master it. Apparently not. For now, we still have a good relationship though, since it is just she and I (don't even ASK about the so-called father) (LOSER!!) we tend to be pretty close. But from little things like going out to dinner last night, I am starting to be afraid. Be VERY afraid. God help me, I have a 5 foot tall leggy tan blonde daughter who is only going on 10 - I don't even want to consider life in 5 years!!!
Oh, well. Roxy will hopefully remain the sweet girl I am trying my best to raise right, and I'm sure we'll manage over the bumps in the road. I hope!! It's just strange for now seeing the lines between little girl and teenager so blurred - although I don't think I am quite ready for the full teenager just yet!
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
The Dating Game
As previously written in my blog, I met a new guy a couple weeks ago. Since then, he has called pretty regularly, and we went out for dinner once. As I said before, a really nice guy. We did, however, run into a somewhat problematic situation: he is EXTREMELY allergic to my cats. Which made his visit quite uncomfortable. Thankfully, he survived to tell the tale, and to my knowledge all the red bumps are gone. But this means that he won’t be able to really come out my way – I will have to trek out south to see him. Unless my current furry felines take up residency somewhere else, and we all KNOW that won’t happen. As my daughter put it, “Look, mom, we’ve had the cats for seven years, and you’ve only known him a couple weeks. And we’re NOT getting rid of my cats!” (I tend to agree on this, my boys are my babies. I suggested a “rapid-detox” type treatment, maybe putting him in a room full of cats for a week straight to build up his immunity, but he wasn’t too keen on that.)
Anyway, due to his unfortunate allergies, this weekend I am going out his way. And when I told my mother this, she went all “Dr. Phil” on me. She basically told me that I should absolutely NOT be driving out there, I should not “make it easy for him,” he should drive out here and pick me up. Which, of course, is ridiculous, since we then would be driving BACK out south. When I pointed this out, she said we should just go out to eat somewhere by my house. Ok, without going into too much detail, let’s just say that maybe we would like to (as I told mom) “hang out” afterwards. We couldn’t do that at my place, so again – we would have to head out back south. Hence my decision to just go out there myself. Apparently nice young ladies do not go to men’s houses, though, according to mom. Who, by the way, hasn’t dated since before she married my dad. Which may have been true way back when, but as I explained, I was an independent woman, and I had my own mind and made my own decisions. If I wanted to drive out there to see him, then I would. And if I got bored and wanted to drive home, well, I could do that too (although this was doubtful). Anyway, I felt mom was getting a bit too personal and judgmental, so I told her to back off. After all, I am a grown woman, and I’m pretty sure I know what I am doing here.
Well, after that conversation, mom called me back to apologize. Which really wasn’t necessary, I mean, I know she worries, and that is fine. But I’ve learned to take some of her criticism with a grain of salt. She means well, I know, but I think I know a bit more about dating in the 21st century. Or do I??
All of a sudden, I found myself thinking, “Ok, so maybe mom wasn’t completely right. But are YOU?” This dating thing is not that familiar with me any more, either. The last guy I officially “dated” was way back at the turn of the century. Have things changed? I know I have, as a person, at least. Back when I dated in high school and college, I was the pathetic doe-eyed sap who let guys walk all over her, and begged to be taken back even after being treated like shit. (I know – I really needed a good BITCH SLAPPING back then. Actually, several times over.) Finally, after having my daughter and really coming into my own as a woman (ha! Sounds impressive, doesn’t it?), I started getting more cynical, more choosy, and more self-confident. And more busy, which accounted for my lack of dates. That last guy five years ago was decent enough, until he went to Georgia on business and came back with more than jet-lag. Before he left, he told me he wanted to spend more time together, to have barbecues and talk about our future (at the barbecues??). I kind of did the old “Yeah, o-KAY. Whatever.” So I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised when he told me he had “met someone special” in Georgia and she was moving in with him. But unlike in my angst-ridden youth, this time I wasn’t devastated. Pissed off, definitely. Depressed – NOT. And once again, I was single and unattached.
Now I have a guy in my life who I don’t even know what to call. How long before you call someone a “boyfriend?” (I told my daughter at least 5 dates, but that was just to make her stop with her teasing.) What is the proper etiquette on dates? Do I offer to pay for things? Is mom right – SHOULD I make him always come to me?? At what point in a relationship do you talk about the tough questions – like kids, and the future? See, my problem is, at my age, I don’t have a lot of time to fool around – if Mr. Right is out there and I’m not with him, I need to move on and keep my options open. But at the same time, I don’t want to throw away something that MAY be perfect, but isn’t quite there yet. You know, this whole thing really sucks. It’s stressful and gives me a headache. But I have to admit, I’m looking forward to seeing him again. And “hanging out.” Don’t get to do much “hanging out” as a middle aged single mom, you know?
Anyway, I guess I’ll just have to roll with it and enjoy things as they come. Unless anyone has any advice – which I am definitely open to. But not from you, Bob, if you’re reading – as my brother you’d probably just tell me to quit dating altogether, since you haven’t much liked any of my past guys. Although you have to admit – my taste is improving over time… remember Kevin?? Or Brad?? Or Dave?? Ahhhh, the good old days! (Yeah, right!!)
Anyway, due to his unfortunate allergies, this weekend I am going out his way. And when I told my mother this, she went all “Dr. Phil” on me. She basically told me that I should absolutely NOT be driving out there, I should not “make it easy for him,” he should drive out here and pick me up. Which, of course, is ridiculous, since we then would be driving BACK out south. When I pointed this out, she said we should just go out to eat somewhere by my house. Ok, without going into too much detail, let’s just say that maybe we would like to (as I told mom) “hang out” afterwards. We couldn’t do that at my place, so again – we would have to head out back south. Hence my decision to just go out there myself. Apparently nice young ladies do not go to men’s houses, though, according to mom. Who, by the way, hasn’t dated since before she married my dad. Which may have been true way back when, but as I explained, I was an independent woman, and I had my own mind and made my own decisions. If I wanted to drive out there to see him, then I would. And if I got bored and wanted to drive home, well, I could do that too (although this was doubtful). Anyway, I felt mom was getting a bit too personal and judgmental, so I told her to back off. After all, I am a grown woman, and I’m pretty sure I know what I am doing here.
Well, after that conversation, mom called me back to apologize. Which really wasn’t necessary, I mean, I know she worries, and that is fine. But I’ve learned to take some of her criticism with a grain of salt. She means well, I know, but I think I know a bit more about dating in the 21st century. Or do I??
All of a sudden, I found myself thinking, “Ok, so maybe mom wasn’t completely right. But are YOU?” This dating thing is not that familiar with me any more, either. The last guy I officially “dated” was way back at the turn of the century. Have things changed? I know I have, as a person, at least. Back when I dated in high school and college, I was the pathetic doe-eyed sap who let guys walk all over her, and begged to be taken back even after being treated like shit. (I know – I really needed a good BITCH SLAPPING back then. Actually, several times over.) Finally, after having my daughter and really coming into my own as a woman (ha! Sounds impressive, doesn’t it?), I started getting more cynical, more choosy, and more self-confident. And more busy, which accounted for my lack of dates. That last guy five years ago was decent enough, until he went to Georgia on business and came back with more than jet-lag. Before he left, he told me he wanted to spend more time together, to have barbecues and talk about our future (at the barbecues??). I kind of did the old “Yeah, o-KAY. Whatever.” So I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised when he told me he had “met someone special” in Georgia and she was moving in with him. But unlike in my angst-ridden youth, this time I wasn’t devastated. Pissed off, definitely. Depressed – NOT. And once again, I was single and unattached.
Now I have a guy in my life who I don’t even know what to call. How long before you call someone a “boyfriend?” (I told my daughter at least 5 dates, but that was just to make her stop with her teasing.) What is the proper etiquette on dates? Do I offer to pay for things? Is mom right – SHOULD I make him always come to me?? At what point in a relationship do you talk about the tough questions – like kids, and the future? See, my problem is, at my age, I don’t have a lot of time to fool around – if Mr. Right is out there and I’m not with him, I need to move on and keep my options open. But at the same time, I don’t want to throw away something that MAY be perfect, but isn’t quite there yet. You know, this whole thing really sucks. It’s stressful and gives me a headache. But I have to admit, I’m looking forward to seeing him again. And “hanging out.” Don’t get to do much “hanging out” as a middle aged single mom, you know?
Anyway, I guess I’ll just have to roll with it and enjoy things as they come. Unless anyone has any advice – which I am definitely open to. But not from you, Bob, if you’re reading – as my brother you’d probably just tell me to quit dating altogether, since you haven’t much liked any of my past guys. Although you have to admit – my taste is improving over time… remember Kevin?? Or Brad?? Or Dave?? Ahhhh, the good old days! (Yeah, right!!)
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
Bathing Not-So-Beauties
I went out for lunch today to run some errands, and it was HOT. Like it has been for the past few days, and is supposed to be for – well, maybe FOREVER according to the weatherman. (Ok, so maybe not forever, per se, but at least through the whole 7-day forecast.) As long as I have my central air and access to my pool, I enjoy the heat. Which means summer is definitely my favorite season. And believe it or not, today is officially the first day of summer. (Yup, all this time you have been swimming and picnicking in the SPRING. Go figure.)
Anyway, since I converted to suburban-ism some four or so years ago, I have had access to a pool. Before that, the only time I swam as an adult was on the off-chance I got invited somewhere, or if I went on vacation. But NOW, oh, how I love my pool!! Every chance I get, I will be out lounging and reading, or lounging and sleeping, or lounging and talking, or sometimes just lounging. (Now that I’ve used the word “lounging” so much, it sounds weird, doesn’t it? It does to me. Lounging lounging lounging. The English language is the most screwed up language on the planet. Lounging. Very strange. But I digress…) Unlike many of the other people (especially women) my age, however, I have no problem jumping into the pool and getting my hair wet – and you’ll NEVER catch me wearing makeup or my shades in the pool. To me, the whole purpose of going to the pool is to cool off, and you can’t do that just lounging (there’s that word again!!). Sure, lounging is relaxing, and I will lounge to tan for a while, but basically a trip to the pool means SWIMMING. Getting WET. Having FUN. And there are always people there you just KNOW will never get even one manicured toenail wet.
Can you see where I am going with this? If not, let me make myself perfectly clear: I cannot STAND those bimbos who hang out at the pool simply to boost their egos. You know who I mean, the girls in the micro-bikinis who look like they just came out of a salon. Girls who are usually ALREADY more tan than most people get in their lifetime, yet “lay out” supposedly to tan some more. Give me a break. That is bullshit. They are probably just lying there thinking “Oh, I KNOW you’re looking at me. Cause I know I’m HOT. BUT YOU CAN’T HAVE ME!!” Now, for all you guys out there reading this, I’m sure you think that this is just fine and dandy. A little eye candy never hurt anyone, right? But this is supposed to be a FAMILY pool, not a strip tease club. And watching all the guys between 13 and 90 drooling over these exhibitionists is really annoying. But, believe it or not, there are those at the pool who annoy me even MORE than the Prima Donnas, and those are the Wannabe Prima Donnas.
The Wannabes are the girls who, no matter how hard they try, just aren’t Prima Donnas. They may be a bit overweight (or a LOT overweight) or maybe just a little too old to be wearing the bikini they poured into. These are the women who make me cringe every time I see them. I mean, I know for a fact I don’t look the same as I did fifteen years ago, and hell, even then I was body-conscious. Which meant I would NEVER, EVER try to wear a bathing suit that a) accentuated my body’s worst features, b) allowed fat rolls to pour over the top of the bottoms, c) rode up my ass crack even though it wasn’t a thong, d) was so small it made my body look like a sausage trying to escape its casing, or d) allowed my boobs to hang down to my belly button. Yet every summer, there are a number of these women who proudly strut into the pool area without a clue. I don’t get it. I mean, they MUST have mirrors, right? How can these women go out in public wearing what they wear??? I feel sorry for these women more on principle than anything else. Maybe they just don’t see it. Maybe they refuse to acknowledge that just because a bathing suit will go on your body, doesn’t necessarily mean it fits well. Or fits you well.
Lord knows like most of the other women out there, I tend to panic when I realize I need a new swimsuit, but at least I am realistic, for God’s sake. Yes, I tried the “tankini,” and laughed at how ridiculous it looked. I tried some of the higher cut leg styles, and the lower cut top styles (actually, the lower cut top styles weren’t too bad…), but ultimately, I opted for a respectable one-piece that may not be “hot,” but that flatters my middle aged figure and won’t fall off when I jump in the pool. So guess what? I think this year I will just try to ignore the Prima Donnas and stop snickering at the Wannabes, and be grateful I’m not as pathetic as any of them. Morons. (Look, I said “TRY,” allright? Geez!!)
Anyway, since I converted to suburban-ism some four or so years ago, I have had access to a pool. Before that, the only time I swam as an adult was on the off-chance I got invited somewhere, or if I went on vacation. But NOW, oh, how I love my pool!! Every chance I get, I will be out lounging and reading, or lounging and sleeping, or lounging and talking, or sometimes just lounging. (Now that I’ve used the word “lounging” so much, it sounds weird, doesn’t it? It does to me. Lounging lounging lounging. The English language is the most screwed up language on the planet. Lounging. Very strange. But I digress…) Unlike many of the other people (especially women) my age, however, I have no problem jumping into the pool and getting my hair wet – and you’ll NEVER catch me wearing makeup or my shades in the pool. To me, the whole purpose of going to the pool is to cool off, and you can’t do that just lounging (there’s that word again!!). Sure, lounging is relaxing, and I will lounge to tan for a while, but basically a trip to the pool means SWIMMING. Getting WET. Having FUN. And there are always people there you just KNOW will never get even one manicured toenail wet.
Can you see where I am going with this? If not, let me make myself perfectly clear: I cannot STAND those bimbos who hang out at the pool simply to boost their egos. You know who I mean, the girls in the micro-bikinis who look like they just came out of a salon. Girls who are usually ALREADY more tan than most people get in their lifetime, yet “lay out” supposedly to tan some more. Give me a break. That is bullshit. They are probably just lying there thinking “Oh, I KNOW you’re looking at me. Cause I know I’m HOT. BUT YOU CAN’T HAVE ME!!” Now, for all you guys out there reading this, I’m sure you think that this is just fine and dandy. A little eye candy never hurt anyone, right? But this is supposed to be a FAMILY pool, not a strip tease club. And watching all the guys between 13 and 90 drooling over these exhibitionists is really annoying. But, believe it or not, there are those at the pool who annoy me even MORE than the Prima Donnas, and those are the Wannabe Prima Donnas.
The Wannabes are the girls who, no matter how hard they try, just aren’t Prima Donnas. They may be a bit overweight (or a LOT overweight) or maybe just a little too old to be wearing the bikini they poured into. These are the women who make me cringe every time I see them. I mean, I know for a fact I don’t look the same as I did fifteen years ago, and hell, even then I was body-conscious. Which meant I would NEVER, EVER try to wear a bathing suit that a) accentuated my body’s worst features, b) allowed fat rolls to pour over the top of the bottoms, c) rode up my ass crack even though it wasn’t a thong, d) was so small it made my body look like a sausage trying to escape its casing, or d) allowed my boobs to hang down to my belly button. Yet every summer, there are a number of these women who proudly strut into the pool area without a clue. I don’t get it. I mean, they MUST have mirrors, right? How can these women go out in public wearing what they wear??? I feel sorry for these women more on principle than anything else. Maybe they just don’t see it. Maybe they refuse to acknowledge that just because a bathing suit will go on your body, doesn’t necessarily mean it fits well. Or fits you well.
Lord knows like most of the other women out there, I tend to panic when I realize I need a new swimsuit, but at least I am realistic, for God’s sake. Yes, I tried the “tankini,” and laughed at how ridiculous it looked. I tried some of the higher cut leg styles, and the lower cut top styles (actually, the lower cut top styles weren’t too bad…), but ultimately, I opted for a respectable one-piece that may not be “hot,” but that flatters my middle aged figure and won’t fall off when I jump in the pool. So guess what? I think this year I will just try to ignore the Prima Donnas and stop snickering at the Wannabes, and be grateful I’m not as pathetic as any of them. Morons. (Look, I said “TRY,” allright? Geez!!)
Monday, June 20, 2005
You're So Vain
The other day, while driving to work, I found myself behind some jerk in a Jaguar who had license plates that read MICKJGR. I'm sure he thought he was pretty funny, but I thought it was stupid. Not only stupid, but obnoxious. Especially since the driver was a greasy-looking paunchy middle-aged guy with one arm out his window and the other hand (complete with gold nugget pinkie ring) perched on top of the steering wheel.
This morning when I dropped my daughter off at camp, one of the other mothers was yelling "AJ! Don't forget I'll pick you up late today!" I signed in my daughter, and left the building in time to see this woman take off in a car with the license plate AJRULS. What?? What kind of moron gets a vanity plate that gives their child bragging rights like that? Don't we, as parents, spend enough time trying to convince our children that WE rule, not them?? And yet, there it was, pressed forever into the regulation Illinois plate: AJRULS. I can only imagine what their home life is like.
Every time I see one of those stupid plates, I cringe. Because 90% of the time, the owners are either arrogant, obnoxious or just plain idiots. (I say 90% of the time, because I am sure there are a few people reading this who either have a vanity plate themselves, or know someone who does. Myself included: my grandfather has one that says POPPOPS, but it was a gift, and he is 91 years old and can do things like that.) Think about it - when you see a shiny red sports car with a bleached blonde bimbo in the driver's seat and the plate says QTPIE, don't you want to PUKE?? Or do you think "Oh, a cutie pie! Gee, I bet she's a great gal!" What about the moron in the old beater that has a plate that says 2HOT4U? He probably spent more on the plate than he did on the car. And true to moron style, probably thinks women will see his license plate and want to meet him.
WHY??? What is it about having a vanity plate that people find attractive? I mean, really - a vanity plate is like a tattoo: once you get it, it's there forever, and you usually get sick of it after a while. What seemed funny and cute when you got your license application is now annoying. What one guy thought would get women is now getting him shot down and laughed at. For the most part, I think they are pointless. And the kicker -
people actually pay MORE to have a vanity plate!! This kills me! People PAYING EXTRA to look like jerks!
Whatever. I guess the lesson here is "to each his own." But pardon me while I gag as my neighbor Mrs. Dentist gets into her E N ME car (which I used to think was for "enemy," and that would've been appropriate, but is actually for her daughter "E" and "me." Hurl.) I'll keep my random letters and numbers, thank you very much.
This morning when I dropped my daughter off at camp, one of the other mothers was yelling "AJ! Don't forget I'll pick you up late today!" I signed in my daughter, and left the building in time to see this woman take off in a car with the license plate AJRULS. What?? What kind of moron gets a vanity plate that gives their child bragging rights like that? Don't we, as parents, spend enough time trying to convince our children that WE rule, not them?? And yet, there it was, pressed forever into the regulation Illinois plate: AJRULS. I can only imagine what their home life is like.
Every time I see one of those stupid plates, I cringe. Because 90% of the time, the owners are either arrogant, obnoxious or just plain idiots. (I say 90% of the time, because I am sure there are a few people reading this who either have a vanity plate themselves, or know someone who does. Myself included: my grandfather has one that says POPPOPS, but it was a gift, and he is 91 years old and can do things like that.) Think about it - when you see a shiny red sports car with a bleached blonde bimbo in the driver's seat and the plate says QTPIE, don't you want to PUKE?? Or do you think "Oh, a cutie pie! Gee, I bet she's a great gal!" What about the moron in the old beater that has a plate that says 2HOT4U? He probably spent more on the plate than he did on the car. And true to moron style, probably thinks women will see his license plate and want to meet him.
WHY??? What is it about having a vanity plate that people find attractive? I mean, really - a vanity plate is like a tattoo: once you get it, it's there forever, and you usually get sick of it after a while. What seemed funny and cute when you got your license application is now annoying. What one guy thought would get women is now getting him shot down and laughed at. For the most part, I think they are pointless. And the kicker -
people actually pay MORE to have a vanity plate!! This kills me! People PAYING EXTRA to look like jerks!
Whatever. I guess the lesson here is "to each his own." But pardon me while I gag as my neighbor Mrs. Dentist gets into her E N ME car (which I used to think was for "enemy," and that would've been appropriate, but is actually for her daughter "E" and "me." Hurl.) I'll keep my random letters and numbers, thank you very much.
Saturday, June 18, 2005
Friends Forever
Since this is my blog, and I can pretty much do whatever I want, I thing I am going to skip Part II for the time being and write about what is on my mind at this precise moment. The reason being is that I am sitting in my friend's house in Geneva right now, and although I have every intention of eventually telling you what happened at O'Brien's after that initial night, there are much more interesting things going on in my head right now.
Just to give you a little bit of background - when I was in high school I hung around with a bunch of people I worked with at the hospital. (Don't worry - we worked in the kitchen, not saving lives or anything like that.) Anyway, one of my best friends back in the day was this girl Julie. She was really fun and really nice, and had two cute older brothers to boot. At the time, I was dating one of the other guys we worked with, Dave, who actually was my first REAL boyfriend. Long story short, eventually, Dave was stolen away by another so-called friend of mine at the time, Julie and I eventually lost touch due to my indescretions over the years, and finally found our way back to each other.
Another friend of mine during this time was Dave's best friend, Jerry. Jerry was the type of friend who was a boy and a friend, but never a "boyfriend." At times I thought I WANTED him to be, but really, I didn't. He was more like a big brother than anything. My parents especially loved him, because he was really a good guy. For example, I remember one particular time on his 21st birthday (when I was only 18) I got REALLY drunk on Southern Comfort and even though he just dropped me off at the front door, because he called my parents to apologize and explained that it was his 21st and he was VERY irresponsible and hoped I was ok, they thought he was just the BEST guy in the world. ANYWAY.
So, I have these two friends, who have both known each other forever, but who have not really seen each other for a long time. Jerry (whose first wife I had fixed him up with - another story for another time) had been divorced for a while, and Julie was still waiting for her divorce to be final. It happened to be my birthday, and I convinced Julie to come out for a few drinks. Jerry, good friend that he is, had already planned on being there. But when the two of them crossed paths after Lord knows how many years of not seeing each other... well, I guess that's where you'd say Karma stepped in.
Apparently in the twenty-odd years of knowing each other neither of them had ever explored the mutual attraction. And it seemed the perfect opportunity just happened to be at my birthday outing. Never mind that my first matchmaking attempt had resulted in disaster (well, not totally, he DID have two great daughters), or that the ink on Julie's divorce papers weren't even dry - there was a spark that was undeniable. Long story short, they are in love, they are happy, and they are getting married.
Happy, happy... joy, joy. Watching them today with their combined daughters was nothing short of incredible. Yes, there is some stress and tension, which is to be expected with any combined family (look at the Brady's - those stupid pets TOTALLY ruined the cake!!) but all in all, they looked SO HAPPY. And I have to admit I am extremely jealous. Granted, I have a man in my life (as you know), but at this moment, things are still pretty fresh and new... and who really knows where things will lead? But from what I can tell, Julie and Jerry have followed the "happy family" recipe to a T - and will manage over the lumps and bumps and still have each other to turn to at night before they go to sleep, and still have loving eyes to look into every day.
I'm really hoping that for once my matchmaking skills won't backfire on me - but I really don't think they will. They are both great people, and the only thing I am having a hard time figuring out is how I didn't see their connection 20 years ago... Hell, I wonder how THEY didn't see it 20 years ago. But whatever the reason, they have found each other now, and the two of them have given me the inspiration to believe that somewhere out there is the man who will complete me as they have completed each other. Maybe I have already found him, who knows? But if I haven't I won't give up, because I have seen the real thing - which is rare in this day and age. And since I have always seemed to live vicariously through my friends, I can think of nothing that could have made ME happier than seeing two of my best friends wind up together.
Just to give you a little bit of background - when I was in high school I hung around with a bunch of people I worked with at the hospital. (Don't worry - we worked in the kitchen, not saving lives or anything like that.) Anyway, one of my best friends back in the day was this girl Julie. She was really fun and really nice, and had two cute older brothers to boot. At the time, I was dating one of the other guys we worked with, Dave, who actually was my first REAL boyfriend. Long story short, eventually, Dave was stolen away by another so-called friend of mine at the time, Julie and I eventually lost touch due to my indescretions over the years, and finally found our way back to each other.
Another friend of mine during this time was Dave's best friend, Jerry. Jerry was the type of friend who was a boy and a friend, but never a "boyfriend." At times I thought I WANTED him to be, but really, I didn't. He was more like a big brother than anything. My parents especially loved him, because he was really a good guy. For example, I remember one particular time on his 21st birthday (when I was only 18) I got REALLY drunk on Southern Comfort and even though he just dropped me off at the front door, because he called my parents to apologize and explained that it was his 21st and he was VERY irresponsible and hoped I was ok, they thought he was just the BEST guy in the world. ANYWAY.
So, I have these two friends, who have both known each other forever, but who have not really seen each other for a long time. Jerry (whose first wife I had fixed him up with - another story for another time) had been divorced for a while, and Julie was still waiting for her divorce to be final. It happened to be my birthday, and I convinced Julie to come out for a few drinks. Jerry, good friend that he is, had already planned on being there. But when the two of them crossed paths after Lord knows how many years of not seeing each other... well, I guess that's where you'd say Karma stepped in.
Apparently in the twenty-odd years of knowing each other neither of them had ever explored the mutual attraction. And it seemed the perfect opportunity just happened to be at my birthday outing. Never mind that my first matchmaking attempt had resulted in disaster (well, not totally, he DID have two great daughters), or that the ink on Julie's divorce papers weren't even dry - there was a spark that was undeniable. Long story short, they are in love, they are happy, and they are getting married.
Happy, happy... joy, joy. Watching them today with their combined daughters was nothing short of incredible. Yes, there is some stress and tension, which is to be expected with any combined family (look at the Brady's - those stupid pets TOTALLY ruined the cake!!) but all in all, they looked SO HAPPY. And I have to admit I am extremely jealous. Granted, I have a man in my life (as you know), but at this moment, things are still pretty fresh and new... and who really knows where things will lead? But from what I can tell, Julie and Jerry have followed the "happy family" recipe to a T - and will manage over the lumps and bumps and still have each other to turn to at night before they go to sleep, and still have loving eyes to look into every day.
I'm really hoping that for once my matchmaking skills won't backfire on me - but I really don't think they will. They are both great people, and the only thing I am having a hard time figuring out is how I didn't see their connection 20 years ago... Hell, I wonder how THEY didn't see it 20 years ago. But whatever the reason, they have found each other now, and the two of them have given me the inspiration to believe that somewhere out there is the man who will complete me as they have completed each other. Maybe I have already found him, who knows? But if I haven't I won't give up, because I have seen the real thing - which is rare in this day and age. And since I have always seemed to live vicariously through my friends, I can think of nothing that could have made ME happier than seeing two of my best friends wind up together.
Friday, June 17, 2005
Things That Make You Go Hmmmm...
Last night I was watching tv, when I suddenly had an experience like none I have ever had before. Allow me to explain. You see, I was watching one of those special summer filler shows, Hit Me Baby One More Time, which actually is not a bad show. Basically, they take like five bands from the past (“the past” being anywhere from 1979 to the late 90’s), have them perform one of their big hits from when they were popular, and then have them perform a cover of one of “today’s” hits. Then the audience votes on who they liked best and $20K goes to that band’s favorite charity (kind of a bummer for the bands, personally I think some of them need it more).
Anyway, I have watched the first couple shows and kind of enjoyed seeing these people, and alternating between making fun of them and admiring them for their guts. Some were really good, some sucked, but none of them came close to causing the Twilight Zone-like sensation I felt when I watched Wang Chung. Now, I have plenty of good memories relating to Wang Chung songs. All two of them: Dance Hall Days and Everybody Have Fun Tonight. Driving up and down Harlem Avenue with my girlfriends, picking up guys, roller skating, high school dances… I’ve got a lot of fodder for future blogs in those memories, to be sure. So I really enjoyed when they did their thing singing Everybody Have Fun Tonight. Sure, they had gotten old (haven’t we all?) and the one guitarist probably shouldn’t keep what was left of his hair in a ponytail, but they did pretty well, all things considered. Considering that they were big in say, 1986 or so, we’re talking about 20 years since these guys had been heard from. And they were probably in their 30s back then, so I was impressed with their stamina and performance. I watched the rest of the performers do their thing, and then it happened. Time for the cover songs.
I watched as Wang Chung was announced, thought I heard the MC say that they were going to perform Nelly’s Hot in Herre. I knitted my brows together and leaned closer to the television, and thought I was hearing the strains of the opening of a hip hop song. But I couldn’t have been, right? I mean, men on the verge of joining AARP do NOT sing songs like Hot in Herre. WHITE men, no less. But here was Wang Chung, using terms like “bodacious” and asking people to “take off all your clothes.” As Chris Rock would say, “that shit ain’t right!” Honestly, there was something about the whole thing that really made me feel like I needed to take a shower. The thing was, they really weren’t BAD, per se, just… see, I can’t even find the words!! And I am NOT an easy person to render speechless. I wonder if Nelly is aware of this sacrilege. If he is, I doubt he’ll ever sing that song again. The audience seemed to like it though, I just found it to be a little out there.
I thought the goosebumps would subside when they finished, and they did – temporarily. Then Cameo came out and did their rendition of Bowling for Soup’s 1985. Great. First old white guys try to do black hip hop, now black guys trying to do white-bread pop rock. And they sucked. I don’t know what they were trying to do to it, but they really screwed it up. On a side note regarding Cameo, I really hope that the lead singer didn’t have the delusion that because he was wearing an oversized bright red athletic cup, more women would find him sexy. To me, it was a cry for help. MAJOR help.
Anyway, I’m sure I will watch the show again next week, just to see if they can top this last episode. But even as I type, I can feel the hairs on the back of my neck rise remembering Wang (or was it Chung?) asking me to strip.
Anyway, I have watched the first couple shows and kind of enjoyed seeing these people, and alternating between making fun of them and admiring them for their guts. Some were really good, some sucked, but none of them came close to causing the Twilight Zone-like sensation I felt when I watched Wang Chung. Now, I have plenty of good memories relating to Wang Chung songs. All two of them: Dance Hall Days and Everybody Have Fun Tonight. Driving up and down Harlem Avenue with my girlfriends, picking up guys, roller skating, high school dances… I’ve got a lot of fodder for future blogs in those memories, to be sure. So I really enjoyed when they did their thing singing Everybody Have Fun Tonight. Sure, they had gotten old (haven’t we all?) and the one guitarist probably shouldn’t keep what was left of his hair in a ponytail, but they did pretty well, all things considered. Considering that they were big in say, 1986 or so, we’re talking about 20 years since these guys had been heard from. And they were probably in their 30s back then, so I was impressed with their stamina and performance. I watched the rest of the performers do their thing, and then it happened. Time for the cover songs.
I watched as Wang Chung was announced, thought I heard the MC say that they were going to perform Nelly’s Hot in Herre. I knitted my brows together and leaned closer to the television, and thought I was hearing the strains of the opening of a hip hop song. But I couldn’t have been, right? I mean, men on the verge of joining AARP do NOT sing songs like Hot in Herre. WHITE men, no less. But here was Wang Chung, using terms like “bodacious” and asking people to “take off all your clothes.” As Chris Rock would say, “that shit ain’t right!” Honestly, there was something about the whole thing that really made me feel like I needed to take a shower. The thing was, they really weren’t BAD, per se, just… see, I can’t even find the words!! And I am NOT an easy person to render speechless. I wonder if Nelly is aware of this sacrilege. If he is, I doubt he’ll ever sing that song again. The audience seemed to like it though, I just found it to be a little out there.
I thought the goosebumps would subside when they finished, and they did – temporarily. Then Cameo came out and did their rendition of Bowling for Soup’s 1985. Great. First old white guys try to do black hip hop, now black guys trying to do white-bread pop rock. And they sucked. I don’t know what they were trying to do to it, but they really screwed it up. On a side note regarding Cameo, I really hope that the lead singer didn’t have the delusion that because he was wearing an oversized bright red athletic cup, more women would find him sexy. To me, it was a cry for help. MAJOR help.
Anyway, I’m sure I will watch the show again next week, just to see if they can top this last episode. But even as I type, I can feel the hairs on the back of my neck rise remembering Wang (or was it Chung?) asking me to strip.
Thursday, June 16, 2005
The "Corruption" of Today's Youth
I am becoming quite concerned with the state of the nation today. Not that I haven’t been pretty much my whole adult life, but it has been becoming more and more annoying to me watching seemingly innocuous things being ripped to shreds by mostly pain-in-the-ass conservatives. It’s bad enough that our country is involved in a stupid war we have no business being in, and that the government seems to get enjoyment from screwing with people’s heads regarding everything from Medicare to taxes, but now we have morons freaking out about homosexuality and obesity. And their targets? Clowns, muppets and cartoon characters.
A few days ago I read an article that said Ronald McDonald is getting a makeover. Apparently, he needs to get into better shape and be a good role model for kids. (WHAT???) So now they have him playing soccer and wearing a soccer uniform in his new slimmed-down physique. HE IS A GODDAMNED CLOWN. Clowns are not supposed to be playing soccer – unless they are there to fall down a lot and make people laugh. And personally, I don’t want my child’s role model to be a clown, anyway. Even an athletic clown. Ronald is an icon, and he was created to sell cheeseburgers, for crying out loud. Not whip our youth into shape. Doesn’t the CEO of McDonald’s realize how moronic this is?? If Ronald is serious about playing soccer and keeping the weight off, he will have to avoid McDonald’s altogether. Even the so-called “healthy items.” (And let’s be honest here, the salads and fruit and yogurt BS shouldn’t even be sold at a fast food place to begin with.) I understand that people need to be more health conscious, but PLEASE. There is nothing wrong with a greasy quarter pounder with cheese and extra salty fries every now and then. And there was nothing wrong with the old Ronald, either. Actually, I always thought he was a bit on the slim side for a clown to begin with.
The next target is Cookie Monster. Who will no longer be chowing down on cookies, because that sends a bad message to our youth. From now on, he will be eating fruits and vegetables. I don’t know about you, but to me it won’t be the same. I don’t think fruits and vegetables even give off any crumbs, so how effective will his chowing be, anyway? And I’m pretty sure it’s only a matter of time before his name is changed too. Maybe they’ll call him the “No-More-Cookies” Monster. Or the “I-Used-To-Eat-Cookies” Monster.
Finally, I’d really like to know who the morons are who decided that Spongebob is gay. Or that Tinky-Winky is gay. Or that ANY children’s characters are gay, for that matter. I think Whoopi Goldberg hit the nail on the head when she said “None of these characters have genitalia. How can they be gay? If anything, they are ASEXUAL.” Paranoia, people. Besides, who the hell cares if they ARE gay? Gay is not a disease. You cannot watch gay people on tv and become gay. Just like you cannot associate with gay people and become gay. That is like saying I will eventually become black from watching “The Jeffersons” too much while I was a kid. Personally, I say let people be who they are and stop worrying about it. There will always be fat people, there will always be gay people. Some of today’s youth will wind up fat, some are probably gay. But changing these characters or taking them off the air won’t really change anything, will it?
Ok, the health thing I can see being concerned about, to a point. But this is something for the parents to monitor. The gay issue is something no one can. So I say just leave things alone. Let kids be kids. Don’t pressure them so much with all this stupid right-wing bullshit. Gay or not, Spongebob makes kids of all ages laugh. And I want the old Ronald McDonald and all his greasy McDonaldland pals back. Finally, for God’s sake, give the Monster back his cookies.
A few days ago I read an article that said Ronald McDonald is getting a makeover. Apparently, he needs to get into better shape and be a good role model for kids. (WHAT???) So now they have him playing soccer and wearing a soccer uniform in his new slimmed-down physique. HE IS A GODDAMNED CLOWN. Clowns are not supposed to be playing soccer – unless they are there to fall down a lot and make people laugh. And personally, I don’t want my child’s role model to be a clown, anyway. Even an athletic clown. Ronald is an icon, and he was created to sell cheeseburgers, for crying out loud. Not whip our youth into shape. Doesn’t the CEO of McDonald’s realize how moronic this is?? If Ronald is serious about playing soccer and keeping the weight off, he will have to avoid McDonald’s altogether. Even the so-called “healthy items.” (And let’s be honest here, the salads and fruit and yogurt BS shouldn’t even be sold at a fast food place to begin with.) I understand that people need to be more health conscious, but PLEASE. There is nothing wrong with a greasy quarter pounder with cheese and extra salty fries every now and then. And there was nothing wrong with the old Ronald, either. Actually, I always thought he was a bit on the slim side for a clown to begin with.
The next target is Cookie Monster. Who will no longer be chowing down on cookies, because that sends a bad message to our youth. From now on, he will be eating fruits and vegetables. I don’t know about you, but to me it won’t be the same. I don’t think fruits and vegetables even give off any crumbs, so how effective will his chowing be, anyway? And I’m pretty sure it’s only a matter of time before his name is changed too. Maybe they’ll call him the “No-More-Cookies” Monster. Or the “I-Used-To-Eat-Cookies” Monster.
Finally, I’d really like to know who the morons are who decided that Spongebob is gay. Or that Tinky-Winky is gay. Or that ANY children’s characters are gay, for that matter. I think Whoopi Goldberg hit the nail on the head when she said “None of these characters have genitalia. How can they be gay? If anything, they are ASEXUAL.” Paranoia, people. Besides, who the hell cares if they ARE gay? Gay is not a disease. You cannot watch gay people on tv and become gay. Just like you cannot associate with gay people and become gay. That is like saying I will eventually become black from watching “The Jeffersons” too much while I was a kid. Personally, I say let people be who they are and stop worrying about it. There will always be fat people, there will always be gay people. Some of today’s youth will wind up fat, some are probably gay. But changing these characters or taking them off the air won’t really change anything, will it?
Ok, the health thing I can see being concerned about, to a point. But this is something for the parents to monitor. The gay issue is something no one can. So I say just leave things alone. Let kids be kids. Don’t pressure them so much with all this stupid right-wing bullshit. Gay or not, Spongebob makes kids of all ages laugh. And I want the old Ronald McDonald and all his greasy McDonaldland pals back. Finally, for God’s sake, give the Monster back his cookies.
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
A Hole In One
First off, to all of you who faithfully read my humble blog and up my hit counter, I would like to extend my thanks. My brother brought to my attention the fact that someone (who shall remain nameless but who came in SECOND to my first in the hold ‘em tourney) mentioned my south side blog to him the other day (more specifically, the new man in my life – who is still there, by the way) and kind of freaked him out. Kudos to you – there is nothing more entertaining to me than bothering or freaking out my brother. As much as I love him, I can’t help myself. Call it sisterly instinct. So keep reading and I promise to drop interesting tidbits about him every now and then. Unless he starts reading and commenting more often, then I may behave myself. (Yeah, right!)
Anyway, I was really rushed this morning and didn’t really have a lot of time to think about what to write about today. So I am reaching into the vault of info stored deep within and selecting a story rather than an issue to discuss today. I previously mentioned that as an injury paralegal, I hear many interesting stories. The things people try to sue over are amazing. And I thought it might be fun to share one of my favorites. Keep in mind that this is a TRUE story, I mean, come on, you can’t make this shit up if you tried.
One of my main jobs as a paralegal is to take “potential client calls” and screen them for the attorney. Which in a nutshell, is talking to these people, getting as much information as possible, and then passing this info on to the attorney to see if it is, in fact, something he wants (or is able) to handle. I can spend anywhere from ten minutes to almost an hour with these people, depending on the nature of their injury and the circumstances surrounding it. The reason being is that contrary to popular belief, you cannot sue over just ANYTHING. First, there must be liability on someone other than yourself (and no, you can’t blame God). Second, there must be an injury present, which has been confirmed by a doctor. NOT A CHIROPRACTOR. I know a lot of people swear by chiropractors, but let me tell you, attorneys HATE taking on cases with only chiropractic care. This is because insurance companies don’t consider anyone without an MD to be a real doctor, and therefore even if your chiro bill is in the thousands, will only offer a few hundred to settle. Regardless of how much better they made you feel. I know it sucks, but it is the God’s truth. So once these two things have been established, I need to find out the specifics, when and how it happened, any witnesses, if it was a car accident – any tickets issued, etc and so on.
So, on this particular day, I am busy doing something on the computer (I would assume, at least, I don’t remember EXACTLY what I was doing) when my phone rings. The receptionist informs me that I have a potential on the line. With a heavy sigh, I tell her to put it through. You never know exactly what kind of person will be on the other end of a potential call. Right from the start, I know this will be something different. Mainly because the woman on the phone starts by telling me she is calling for her husband, and that this is a delicate matter. My ears perk up, sensing something a little more interesting than usual, and she continues.
She proceeds to tell me that her and her husband had gone to the Sybaris, and starts to explain that this is an “intimate getaway” for couples. I tell her I am familiar with the Sybaris. (For those of you who are not, “intimate getaway” is a polite way of saying a “sex castle” – albeit a decidedly more expensive and classy place than those on Manheim Avenue – not that I’ve BEEN to any of those places, of course.) So she goes on and says that she and her husband were au naturel and hanging out in the swimming pool in their room. (Apparently they went a bit upscale.) This swimming pool also had a “hanging waterfall” overhead, and in order to create the waterfall, water is sucked out of the pool and into the waterfall, causing a kind of recycling thing. (For those of you skilled in the art of foreshadowing and think you know what is going to happen, you are probably right, but trust me, it gets even better.) So here they are, hanging out in the pool. She is sitting on the edge of the pool, and her husband starts to approach her. When he gets to the side of the pool, while standing in the water next to the wall, he feels an unnatural suction and the next thing he knows his tallywhacker (not the word she used, but SOOO much more colorful, don’t you think?) is stuck in the suction tube for the waterfall.
Well, she said she jumped in the water right away, and her husband started to panic because he couldn’t free himself from the suction. She actually had to help him pull it out. Poor thing, she told me their evening was completely ruined, because he was in so much pain, he couldn’t even perform. She said poor Mr. Willie (again not the term she used) was all black and blue and not able to rise to the occasion at all. Then, in the morning, he was actually peeing blood. So when they checked out, they told the person at the front desk, who she indignantly told me didn’t seem to give two shits. She said the person was insensitive and rude, and didn’t even offer them a comp. They proceeded to leave, and by this time her husband was in so much pain, they stopped at the ER on the way home.
Ok, here is the interesting part: I asked her what happened in the ER, you kow, what diagnosis the doctor had given her husband. And here’s what she said: “The doctor told him it was broken.” I KID YOU NOT. Now, I may not be the biggest authority on sex, but I do recall from my fifth grade “Our Bodies, Ourselves” class that even though it may be called a “boner,” there is no actual bone in this part of the male anatomy. So I questioned this diagnosis. Gently. Because you don’t want to piss off a potential client, no matter how stupid they are. But she kept insisting it was broken. (I was almost tempted to ask her if he was put in a cast, maybe with a little sling, but I held back.) Because it was broken, she said, it would take a long time to heal and may never work properly again. That said, I put her on hold and went to talk to the attorney.
When I repeated the story for him, I told him I deserved a bonus for not laughing the whole time I was speaking to this woman. As it was, he was unable to keep a smirk off his face while I replayed it for him. Especially the “broken” part. (At which time, may I add, he actually had the nerve to ask me if I realized that there was no bone in the, you know… duh!!) So he told me to ask her if the bruising was still visible, and if it was, to have her take pictures and mail them to us to examine, since “a picture is worth a thousand words.” I stood there with a goofy smile on my face, not sure if he was seriously asking me to tell this woman to start snapping porn shots of her husband and drop them in the mail. But he was, and he explained that he doubted the husband would want to do that, because of the sheer embarrassment, and it would be a easy way to get rid of her.
So, I went back to the phone and told the woman exactly what I was told to. She took down our address, thanked me, and hung up. And the attorney was right – we never got any pictures.
I spoke to one of my cousins about this, and she made a very good point. She said she doubted this was an “accident,” and that the desk clerk probably was used to the situation. “Think about it,” she said, “you got a guy naked in a pool with a hole in the wall about even with his schlong that is suctioning stuff. Tell me he didn’t stick it in on purpose just because he was a guy, and wind up getting more than he bargained for.” Hmmmmmmmmmmm…………
Anyway, I was really rushed this morning and didn’t really have a lot of time to think about what to write about today. So I am reaching into the vault of info stored deep within and selecting a story rather than an issue to discuss today. I previously mentioned that as an injury paralegal, I hear many interesting stories. The things people try to sue over are amazing. And I thought it might be fun to share one of my favorites. Keep in mind that this is a TRUE story, I mean, come on, you can’t make this shit up if you tried.
One of my main jobs as a paralegal is to take “potential client calls” and screen them for the attorney. Which in a nutshell, is talking to these people, getting as much information as possible, and then passing this info on to the attorney to see if it is, in fact, something he wants (or is able) to handle. I can spend anywhere from ten minutes to almost an hour with these people, depending on the nature of their injury and the circumstances surrounding it. The reason being is that contrary to popular belief, you cannot sue over just ANYTHING. First, there must be liability on someone other than yourself (and no, you can’t blame God). Second, there must be an injury present, which has been confirmed by a doctor. NOT A CHIROPRACTOR. I know a lot of people swear by chiropractors, but let me tell you, attorneys HATE taking on cases with only chiropractic care. This is because insurance companies don’t consider anyone without an MD to be a real doctor, and therefore even if your chiro bill is in the thousands, will only offer a few hundred to settle. Regardless of how much better they made you feel. I know it sucks, but it is the God’s truth. So once these two things have been established, I need to find out the specifics, when and how it happened, any witnesses, if it was a car accident – any tickets issued, etc and so on.
So, on this particular day, I am busy doing something on the computer (I would assume, at least, I don’t remember EXACTLY what I was doing) when my phone rings. The receptionist informs me that I have a potential on the line. With a heavy sigh, I tell her to put it through. You never know exactly what kind of person will be on the other end of a potential call. Right from the start, I know this will be something different. Mainly because the woman on the phone starts by telling me she is calling for her husband, and that this is a delicate matter. My ears perk up, sensing something a little more interesting than usual, and she continues.
She proceeds to tell me that her and her husband had gone to the Sybaris, and starts to explain that this is an “intimate getaway” for couples. I tell her I am familiar with the Sybaris. (For those of you who are not, “intimate getaway” is a polite way of saying a “sex castle” – albeit a decidedly more expensive and classy place than those on Manheim Avenue – not that I’ve BEEN to any of those places, of course.) So she goes on and says that she and her husband were au naturel and hanging out in the swimming pool in their room. (Apparently they went a bit upscale.) This swimming pool also had a “hanging waterfall” overhead, and in order to create the waterfall, water is sucked out of the pool and into the waterfall, causing a kind of recycling thing. (For those of you skilled in the art of foreshadowing and think you know what is going to happen, you are probably right, but trust me, it gets even better.) So here they are, hanging out in the pool. She is sitting on the edge of the pool, and her husband starts to approach her. When he gets to the side of the pool, while standing in the water next to the wall, he feels an unnatural suction and the next thing he knows his tallywhacker (not the word she used, but SOOO much more colorful, don’t you think?) is stuck in the suction tube for the waterfall.
Well, she said she jumped in the water right away, and her husband started to panic because he couldn’t free himself from the suction. She actually had to help him pull it out. Poor thing, she told me their evening was completely ruined, because he was in so much pain, he couldn’t even perform. She said poor Mr. Willie (again not the term she used) was all black and blue and not able to rise to the occasion at all. Then, in the morning, he was actually peeing blood. So when they checked out, they told the person at the front desk, who she indignantly told me didn’t seem to give two shits. She said the person was insensitive and rude, and didn’t even offer them a comp. They proceeded to leave, and by this time her husband was in so much pain, they stopped at the ER on the way home.
Ok, here is the interesting part: I asked her what happened in the ER, you kow, what diagnosis the doctor had given her husband. And here’s what she said: “The doctor told him it was broken.” I KID YOU NOT. Now, I may not be the biggest authority on sex, but I do recall from my fifth grade “Our Bodies, Ourselves” class that even though it may be called a “boner,” there is no actual bone in this part of the male anatomy. So I questioned this diagnosis. Gently. Because you don’t want to piss off a potential client, no matter how stupid they are. But she kept insisting it was broken. (I was almost tempted to ask her if he was put in a cast, maybe with a little sling, but I held back.) Because it was broken, she said, it would take a long time to heal and may never work properly again. That said, I put her on hold and went to talk to the attorney.
When I repeated the story for him, I told him I deserved a bonus for not laughing the whole time I was speaking to this woman. As it was, he was unable to keep a smirk off his face while I replayed it for him. Especially the “broken” part. (At which time, may I add, he actually had the nerve to ask me if I realized that there was no bone in the, you know… duh!!) So he told me to ask her if the bruising was still visible, and if it was, to have her take pictures and mail them to us to examine, since “a picture is worth a thousand words.” I stood there with a goofy smile on my face, not sure if he was seriously asking me to tell this woman to start snapping porn shots of her husband and drop them in the mail. But he was, and he explained that he doubted the husband would want to do that, because of the sheer embarrassment, and it would be a easy way to get rid of her.
So, I went back to the phone and told the woman exactly what I was told to. She took down our address, thanked me, and hung up. And the attorney was right – we never got any pictures.
I spoke to one of my cousins about this, and she made a very good point. She said she doubted this was an “accident,” and that the desk clerk probably was used to the situation. “Think about it,” she said, “you got a guy naked in a pool with a hole in the wall about even with his schlong that is suctioning stuff. Tell me he didn’t stick it in on purpose just because he was a guy, and wind up getting more than he bargained for.” Hmmmmmmmmmmm…………
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
Life's Background Music
Ok, I would be remiss if I didn’t at least acknowledge the so-called “big news” of the day, that the evil pedophile has been exonerated. That said, before any of you begin defending the bleached-out psycho, let me first acknowledge that I will accept the fact that mommie dearest was definitely looking to get rich quick. BUT, that does not justify liquoring up little boys and playing doctor. No matter who you are. In my humble opinion, there were so many people doing wrong in this scenario, it is actually pretty hard to keep track. Bottom line though: that little boy and probably dozens and dozens of others are going to grow up to be completely fucked up adults, because they were molested by an “icon” and society refused to acknowledge it. That said, I will now use this topic to lead in to my REAL topic for today – music.
When I heard the verdict, I was almost inclined to incinerate my Thriller CD, just on principle. But then I realized that I could hate the man (or more realistically, pity the asshole for who he has become) but I still liked his music. You must admit, when you hear those gongs in the intro to Beat It, a little smile crosses your face and you are instantly brought back to whatever you were doing back in the glory days we call the 80’s. (Unless of course you are one of those young kids who was born in the 80’s. If that is the case, bear with me during my moment of nostaligia – maybe you will learn a little something about real music.) For whatever reason, the 80’s always seems to get a bad rap. This is just so wrong on so many levels, and not only because those were my teen years which I will always remember fondly. I truly believe that a lot of good came out of the 80’s, and for whatever reason, people tend to forget this.
Reverting back to my blog on singing (yes, dig deep into the archives, you will find it), I feel pretty confident that I can sing along (accurately) with any song that came out of that decade. Back then, music was fun. You had several different genres of music, but you didn’t really have to listen to only one. Music then all depended on your mood, not your style. There was the bubble gum pop like Tiffany and Debbie Gibson and even early Madonna, then there was the synthesizer sounds of the Thompson Twins (of which there were actually three, so they weren’t really twins at all) and Howard Jones. You had tons of Michael Jackson, and his biggest competition was Prince (by the way – to all those people in my youth who mocked my preference of Prince over Michael – HA!!! Look at them now, Prince is still playing sold out shows while Michael is into kiddie porn!!). Morris Day and the Time taught us about Jungle Love and the Bird, and we also had the awesome dance anthems such as AEIOU, Jam On It, and Freakazoid. Then we had the hair bands like Poison, Ratt and Guns N Roses (Well, Axl’s hair was actually pretty greasy and gross, so he wasn’t glam rock like the others). I could just devote this entire blog to naming 80’s bands, which would delight some readers, but probably annoy the hell out of some too (like my brother – not real big on remembering the 80’s, I think he had a traumatic hair experience or something…) so I won’t do that. What I WILL do is point out that there are several mainstays from the 80’s, such as Bon Jovi, Bruce Springsteen (alright, he is actually from the 70’s, but Born to Run brought him into the mainstream), Madonna, Prince… and everywhere you look there are reunion tours from the bands of my youth. I am actually going to see Def Leppard for the second time this summer, and I am hoping their pyrotechnics are as awesome as they were back in the 80’s.
What today’s kids fail to realize is that Will Smith isn’t only Hitch, and although Switch is a good song, he set the mood when he voiced a generation’s chant: Parents Just Don’t Understand. That Eminem is NOT the first white rapper in the world, that way before his sullen style came Vanilla Ice, who didn’t need to drop the f-bomb every other lyric or talk about killing people to make it big (if only temporarily). That sex in music was usually made pretty obvious (case in point: Prince’s “Lets’ Pretend We’re Married”) and we only listened to it when our parent’s weren’t around, for fear that they would KILL us, not like today’s subtleties that play on mainstream radio like “My Goodies” and “Candy Shop.” (Gives me chills seeing little kids singing these songs – Michael Jackson probably got off hearing them too) And that a vast number (which seems to rise everyday) of “today’s” music is “sampling” (i.e. STEALING) a lot of the classic lyrics and music that my generation grew up with. Apparently there IS something to be said for 80’s music after all, at least according to the Black Eyed Peas, Eminem, and several others.
Anyway, I know I barely scratched the surface on many of my favorite bands, so if any of you want to play the Memory Game and send comments complaining that I forgot “So-and-So” feel free, although I NEVER forget, and any omission was due to time constraints and not favoritism. All I really wanted to get across today is that no matter what music comes along, I will always be partial to the good old days’ happy fun music. And headbanger music. And punk music. And bubble gum music. Even when I’m old and grey. So, no, Bob, I won’t stop buying those old CD’s or “wasting” my money on “those” concerts. You may think I live in the past, but that’s not true. I’m definitely solid in the present, but still enjoy taking my trips down memory lane…
When I heard the verdict, I was almost inclined to incinerate my Thriller CD, just on principle. But then I realized that I could hate the man (or more realistically, pity the asshole for who he has become) but I still liked his music. You must admit, when you hear those gongs in the intro to Beat It, a little smile crosses your face and you are instantly brought back to whatever you were doing back in the glory days we call the 80’s. (Unless of course you are one of those young kids who was born in the 80’s. If that is the case, bear with me during my moment of nostaligia – maybe you will learn a little something about real music.) For whatever reason, the 80’s always seems to get a bad rap. This is just so wrong on so many levels, and not only because those were my teen years which I will always remember fondly. I truly believe that a lot of good came out of the 80’s, and for whatever reason, people tend to forget this.
Reverting back to my blog on singing (yes, dig deep into the archives, you will find it), I feel pretty confident that I can sing along (accurately) with any song that came out of that decade. Back then, music was fun. You had several different genres of music, but you didn’t really have to listen to only one. Music then all depended on your mood, not your style. There was the bubble gum pop like Tiffany and Debbie Gibson and even early Madonna, then there was the synthesizer sounds of the Thompson Twins (of which there were actually three, so they weren’t really twins at all) and Howard Jones. You had tons of Michael Jackson, and his biggest competition was Prince (by the way – to all those people in my youth who mocked my preference of Prince over Michael – HA!!! Look at them now, Prince is still playing sold out shows while Michael is into kiddie porn!!). Morris Day and the Time taught us about Jungle Love and the Bird, and we also had the awesome dance anthems such as AEIOU, Jam On It, and Freakazoid. Then we had the hair bands like Poison, Ratt and Guns N Roses (Well, Axl’s hair was actually pretty greasy and gross, so he wasn’t glam rock like the others). I could just devote this entire blog to naming 80’s bands, which would delight some readers, but probably annoy the hell out of some too (like my brother – not real big on remembering the 80’s, I think he had a traumatic hair experience or something…) so I won’t do that. What I WILL do is point out that there are several mainstays from the 80’s, such as Bon Jovi, Bruce Springsteen (alright, he is actually from the 70’s, but Born to Run brought him into the mainstream), Madonna, Prince… and everywhere you look there are reunion tours from the bands of my youth. I am actually going to see Def Leppard for the second time this summer, and I am hoping their pyrotechnics are as awesome as they were back in the 80’s.
What today’s kids fail to realize is that Will Smith isn’t only Hitch, and although Switch is a good song, he set the mood when he voiced a generation’s chant: Parents Just Don’t Understand. That Eminem is NOT the first white rapper in the world, that way before his sullen style came Vanilla Ice, who didn’t need to drop the f-bomb every other lyric or talk about killing people to make it big (if only temporarily). That sex in music was usually made pretty obvious (case in point: Prince’s “Lets’ Pretend We’re Married”) and we only listened to it when our parent’s weren’t around, for fear that they would KILL us, not like today’s subtleties that play on mainstream radio like “My Goodies” and “Candy Shop.” (Gives me chills seeing little kids singing these songs – Michael Jackson probably got off hearing them too) And that a vast number (which seems to rise everyday) of “today’s” music is “sampling” (i.e. STEALING) a lot of the classic lyrics and music that my generation grew up with. Apparently there IS something to be said for 80’s music after all, at least according to the Black Eyed Peas, Eminem, and several others.
Anyway, I know I barely scratched the surface on many of my favorite bands, so if any of you want to play the Memory Game and send comments complaining that I forgot “So-and-So” feel free, although I NEVER forget, and any omission was due to time constraints and not favoritism. All I really wanted to get across today is that no matter what music comes along, I will always be partial to the good old days’ happy fun music. And headbanger music. And punk music. And bubble gum music. Even when I’m old and grey. So, no, Bob, I won’t stop buying those old CD’s or “wasting” my money on “those” concerts. You may think I live in the past, but that’s not true. I’m definitely solid in the present, but still enjoy taking my trips down memory lane…
Monday, June 13, 2005
The Ultimate Survivor
Yesterday I attended a family party for my grandmother’s 88th birthday. (Holla out to Gram – 88 and lookin’ great!) It was held at my aunt’s condo, which was obviously too small for the whole family, so we all congregated on her shared back lawn. At some point during this party, my father commented, “This family is getting too damn big.” As I looked around at all my aunts, uncles, cousins, cousins’ spouses, and cousins’ kids, I realized he was right. Which was the reason we seldom were able to get everyone together. There just aren’t many places that can hold the entire family. So I was struck with a thought: What if we decided to start “voting off” people just like on Survivor? At this point, my brother offered to be the first voted off. (I think he was kidding, I mean, only LOSERS volunteer to be voted off – case in point Janu and Osten.) But the more I thought about it, the more interesting the concept became. Obviously, we couldn’t really get rid of family members on a permanent basis (after all, we weren’t the Sopranos), but what if ever week or so, we had a private ballot to vote off family members we wouldn’t really miss at the next gathering? That way, we could get together more often and have room for everyone. I’d really like to stick with tradition and get the old parchment paper and big pen, and maybe set up a vidcam to record our thoughts, just like on the real Survivor. One of my cousins thought that if we did that, the babies would likely be the first casualties. But I beg to differ – the babies are pretty cute, and are very seldom annoying. No, I would think that the moments caught on vidcam would go along the lines of this: “Sorry, Uncle So-and-So, but your jokes are just getting too old.” Or “Sorry, Cousin So-and-So, but I’m tired of hearing about your perfect life.” (NOTE TO ANY OF MY FAMILY MEMBERS READING THIS: In all honesty, I would have an excruciatingly DIFFICULT time doing this, as I love you all so much and can find not a single fault in any of you. But, as in the real Survivor, I would have to keep in mind, it’s all part of the game and go with the strongest alliance.) (Which, by the way, would probably include my grandfather Poppops. If he didn’t get voted off first.) The way I see it, eventually we would be left with two groups of people, the people voted off and the others, and all family parties would then be divided as such. So there would be no more overcrowded family parties. Maybe every once in a while we could throw a monkey wrench in the whole thing, (again like the real Survivor) and vote someone back ON again. You know, just to keep in touch with the poor souls voted off.
And as I contemplated Family Survivor, it occurred to me that this could pretty much work in all aspects of life. Just imagine: “Neighbor Survivor.” Vote out the most obnoxious person (or family) in your building or block. That would be sweet. And you could keep doing it until you finally are happy with ALL your neighbors. And if they eventually start to bug you too, vote again. (Of course, I am assuming I won’t get voted off. Maybe I will take on the role of Jeff Probst, just to assure my own safety.)
How about “Work Survivor?” (Although I think this may not work too well, since I would assume most people would vote off their employers, and may wind up cutting off their nose to spite their face.)
And finally, I really think professional sports should use the Survivor method as well. Just think of how much sooner Sammy would’ve been gone had the Cubs been able to vote him off. It would raise morale and make sports more interesting, if at the beginning of every game they had a “Tribal Council” instead of a pregame show, and each team got rid of a player. Maybe what they could do is take the players voted off and make them play for the opposing team. Think of how much fun THAT would be!
Anyway, I just really thought that life in general would be a lot more interesting if more people were concerned about being voted off whatever – and maybe make them better people in the process. But I guess we’ll never know. (That is, unless some CBS exec read this, in which case, please contact me, I have even MORE ideas than these!)
And as I contemplated Family Survivor, it occurred to me that this could pretty much work in all aspects of life. Just imagine: “Neighbor Survivor.” Vote out the most obnoxious person (or family) in your building or block. That would be sweet. And you could keep doing it until you finally are happy with ALL your neighbors. And if they eventually start to bug you too, vote again. (Of course, I am assuming I won’t get voted off. Maybe I will take on the role of Jeff Probst, just to assure my own safety.)
How about “Work Survivor?” (Although I think this may not work too well, since I would assume most people would vote off their employers, and may wind up cutting off their nose to spite their face.)
And finally, I really think professional sports should use the Survivor method as well. Just think of how much sooner Sammy would’ve been gone had the Cubs been able to vote him off. It would raise morale and make sports more interesting, if at the beginning of every game they had a “Tribal Council” instead of a pregame show, and each team got rid of a player. Maybe what they could do is take the players voted off and make them play for the opposing team. Think of how much fun THAT would be!
Anyway, I just really thought that life in general would be a lot more interesting if more people were concerned about being voted off whatever – and maybe make them better people in the process. But I guess we’ll never know. (That is, unless some CBS exec read this, in which case, please contact me, I have even MORE ideas than these!)
Thursday, June 09, 2005
If I Were a Rich Girl
If I won the lottery, there would be lots of very happy people. Because I am not the type of person who would be able to just say "Ha Ha screw you" and spend all my money myself. Nope, as mentioned in my previous post, I am a people pleaser, and want people to like me, and what better way to get people to like you than to pay them? But before you start commenting on this post and trying to PRETEND you are someone I should give some of my winnings to, let me make clear that I pretty much already have the whole thing planned out.
First of all, I never play the lottery unless the jackpot is WAY high. I have no use for a piddling 10 or 12 million, no that wouldn't work with my plans. I need one of those JUMBO jackpots, like at least 100 million. So let's say one day those magic balls fall into all the right places and I am holding the winning ticket. This is what I would do:
Right off the bat, I would sign that sucker in permanent ink. (Unless I fainted first, which I don't think I would do, since I have never fainted. But you never know.) Then I would probably call my mom, who wouldn't believe me. I wouldn't blame her, of course, but once I convinced her, she would probably start having heart palpatations. So manybe I'd better wait on mom until I can be with her. Ok, so I wouldn't call ANYONE. Which would really suck, because this is definitely the kind of thing you want to tell people. But not too many, or the media would find out and ruin my one chance to take care of some very important business. Which is this: after I finally got to sleep and managed to grasp the fact that I was now a multimillionaire, I would call an attorney first thing in the morning. But not an investment attorney, oh no, I would call a FAMILY LAW attorney. And I would schedule a meeting asap to draw up papers terminating my daughter's loser father's (who doesn't pay shild support and hasn't seen her since she was 5 months old) parental rights. Not until after all the papers were signed and the Judge's stamp appplied to those documents would I announce my winnings. And I have no doubt he'd sign, because he's an asshole and would think that this meant he would never have to pay child support and could quit skippping from job to job to avoid it. This would be true, of course, but with no legal ties to me or my daughter, he wouldn't have any claim to our millions either, and would have to stay away. (Ha! Ha! That is one of my favorite parts of winning the lottery!) Obviously, since I was busy with this attorney (because I won on a Tuesday night drawing, so it was Wednesday now), I would also call the attorney I work for, and tell him I was sick. SICK OF WORKING FOR HIM, THAT IS!!!! ha ha ha ha ha ha!!! And I would leave voice mails for the other attorney and the other paralegal and tell them I wasn't coming back, but would take care of them too. I wouldn't be able to go into details since my termination of parental rights papers weren't official yet, but I'd trust them not to say anything if they did guess the truth. Because if they did tell anyone, I wouldn't give them anything and they would have to work forever.
I would also call up Chip or Jeff (or maybe both since I would be so unbelieveably wealthy) to get to work on some investment planning. I'd probably invest at least $20 million of the $50M or so I would clear, because I would have plans for the rest. And even as un-financial savvy as I am, I am pretty sure I could manage to live VERY comfortably on the returns from $20M in investments.
Ok, now for the fun part. I quit my job, asshole is legally gone, and I invested $20M. So now I have about $30M in pocket money, right? First off, I would give my two co-workers $250K each. They deserve it. Enough to quit on, and take care of some shit. But I'm not going to support them, obviously. Each of my parents, my grandparents, and my brother and sister-in-law would get $1M (totalling $4M), each set of aunts and uncles (12 in all) would get $250K, each cousin would get $100K (except for my one cousin who I won't name - her cut will go towards rehab for her and college for her kids, otherwise I know where it will wind up). Ok, so right now I've given away about $12.5M. Which leaves $17.5 M. Ok, good buddies, this is where you come in!! Off the top of my head, I can think of at least 5 or 6 people who will get a chunk. Won't say who, though. (That way ALL my friends will stay on their toes!) Seriously, if you’ve been a good friend, odds are pretty good I’ll take care of you. On the other hand, if you always blow me off, or never call, or can’t pass the specially-designed “How Much Do You Know About Me?” quiz I will design to root out my REAL friends after I win (ok, the quiz is a joke. But it may not be a bad idea, actually…) fuggetabouttit. All right, after taking care of my buds, I’ve got somewhere in the neighborhood of $10M. Party time!!!
I’d definitely move, probably to those new houses they are building across the street, because my daughter likes them and she will want to stay with her friends. But I wouldn’t pack anything, I’d hire people to do that. Hell, I’d hire people to do EVERYTHING. I’d just pay the bills. Decorate my new house. Move my stuff. Get me a new wardrobe. Clean my new house. Build a pool. Etc and so on.
I’d have to travel a lot, because there is a lot I would like to see. Don’t know where yet. Maybe Australia. Probably Europe, just because. Oh, and a cruise!! But I would book that ridiculously expensive executive suite that every cruise ship has. With a butler. And it would be a two week cruise, that could go longer if I wanted it to.
Of course, I’d need a new car. But with that I’d be more conservative. No Bentley or Rolls or anything like that. Maybe just a Lexus. A Lexus convertible. That talks. Cool.
Wow, am I tired out from spending all this money!! But not so tired that I forgot about my party! I would have this HUGE party, hire the best party planner in the country (maybe the world) to handle the details, but Aerosmith would definitely play there. And Bo Bice. (Not Carrie, I hate her) And when they were done playing, they could just hang out and party with us. And if things haven’t worked out with the guy I met on the south side (although, why wouldn’t they have? I’d be mega-rich!!) I would probably allow either Bo or Joe Perry to be my date for the evening. (But only if Joe divorces Billie first. Which he would, for me.)
I think I’ve probably spent the rest of my money by now and would have to dip into my investments. But that would be ok, because after I finished everything above, I would be done. And could manage on only a few thou a week. (Which the interest on my investments would cover nicely.)
And then I’d live happily ever after.
First of all, I never play the lottery unless the jackpot is WAY high. I have no use for a piddling 10 or 12 million, no that wouldn't work with my plans. I need one of those JUMBO jackpots, like at least 100 million. So let's say one day those magic balls fall into all the right places and I am holding the winning ticket. This is what I would do:
Right off the bat, I would sign that sucker in permanent ink. (Unless I fainted first, which I don't think I would do, since I have never fainted. But you never know.) Then I would probably call my mom, who wouldn't believe me. I wouldn't blame her, of course, but once I convinced her, she would probably start having heart palpatations. So manybe I'd better wait on mom until I can be with her. Ok, so I wouldn't call ANYONE. Which would really suck, because this is definitely the kind of thing you want to tell people. But not too many, or the media would find out and ruin my one chance to take care of some very important business. Which is this: after I finally got to sleep and managed to grasp the fact that I was now a multimillionaire, I would call an attorney first thing in the morning. But not an investment attorney, oh no, I would call a FAMILY LAW attorney. And I would schedule a meeting asap to draw up papers terminating my daughter's loser father's (who doesn't pay shild support and hasn't seen her since she was 5 months old) parental rights. Not until after all the papers were signed and the Judge's stamp appplied to those documents would I announce my winnings. And I have no doubt he'd sign, because he's an asshole and would think that this meant he would never have to pay child support and could quit skippping from job to job to avoid it. This would be true, of course, but with no legal ties to me or my daughter, he wouldn't have any claim to our millions either, and would have to stay away. (Ha! Ha! That is one of my favorite parts of winning the lottery!) Obviously, since I was busy with this attorney (because I won on a Tuesday night drawing, so it was Wednesday now), I would also call the attorney I work for, and tell him I was sick. SICK OF WORKING FOR HIM, THAT IS!!!! ha ha ha ha ha ha!!! And I would leave voice mails for the other attorney and the other paralegal and tell them I wasn't coming back, but would take care of them too. I wouldn't be able to go into details since my termination of parental rights papers weren't official yet, but I'd trust them not to say anything if they did guess the truth. Because if they did tell anyone, I wouldn't give them anything and they would have to work forever.
I would also call up Chip or Jeff (or maybe both since I would be so unbelieveably wealthy) to get to work on some investment planning. I'd probably invest at least $20 million of the $50M or so I would clear, because I would have plans for the rest. And even as un-financial savvy as I am, I am pretty sure I could manage to live VERY comfortably on the returns from $20M in investments.
Ok, now for the fun part. I quit my job, asshole is legally gone, and I invested $20M. So now I have about $30M in pocket money, right? First off, I would give my two co-workers $250K each. They deserve it. Enough to quit on, and take care of some shit. But I'm not going to support them, obviously. Each of my parents, my grandparents, and my brother and sister-in-law would get $1M (totalling $4M), each set of aunts and uncles (12 in all) would get $250K, each cousin would get $100K (except for my one cousin who I won't name - her cut will go towards rehab for her and college for her kids, otherwise I know where it will wind up). Ok, so right now I've given away about $12.5M. Which leaves $17.5 M. Ok, good buddies, this is where you come in!! Off the top of my head, I can think of at least 5 or 6 people who will get a chunk. Won't say who, though. (That way ALL my friends will stay on their toes!) Seriously, if you’ve been a good friend, odds are pretty good I’ll take care of you. On the other hand, if you always blow me off, or never call, or can’t pass the specially-designed “How Much Do You Know About Me?” quiz I will design to root out my REAL friends after I win (ok, the quiz is a joke. But it may not be a bad idea, actually…) fuggetabouttit. All right, after taking care of my buds, I’ve got somewhere in the neighborhood of $10M. Party time!!!
I’d definitely move, probably to those new houses they are building across the street, because my daughter likes them and she will want to stay with her friends. But I wouldn’t pack anything, I’d hire people to do that. Hell, I’d hire people to do EVERYTHING. I’d just pay the bills. Decorate my new house. Move my stuff. Get me a new wardrobe. Clean my new house. Build a pool. Etc and so on.
I’d have to travel a lot, because there is a lot I would like to see. Don’t know where yet. Maybe Australia. Probably Europe, just because. Oh, and a cruise!! But I would book that ridiculously expensive executive suite that every cruise ship has. With a butler. And it would be a two week cruise, that could go longer if I wanted it to.
Of course, I’d need a new car. But with that I’d be more conservative. No Bentley or Rolls or anything like that. Maybe just a Lexus. A Lexus convertible. That talks. Cool.
Wow, am I tired out from spending all this money!! But not so tired that I forgot about my party! I would have this HUGE party, hire the best party planner in the country (maybe the world) to handle the details, but Aerosmith would definitely play there. And Bo Bice. (Not Carrie, I hate her) And when they were done playing, they could just hang out and party with us. And if things haven’t worked out with the guy I met on the south side (although, why wouldn’t they have? I’d be mega-rich!!) I would probably allow either Bo or Joe Perry to be my date for the evening. (But only if Joe divorces Billie first. Which he would, for me.)
I think I’ve probably spent the rest of my money by now and would have to dip into my investments. But that would be ok, because after I finished everything above, I would be done. And could manage on only a few thou a week. (Which the interest on my investments would cover nicely.)
And then I’d live happily ever after.
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
Tell Me Your Fears...
Let’s talk about fear. Good, old fashioned, heart-palpitating fear. Everyone in the world is afraid of something, whether or not they care to admit it. Personally, I am afraid of several things, which I would like to share with you. Just don’t EVER use this information against me. Please.
First of all, I am very scared of snakes. I just cannot deal with something moving around like that WITH NO FEET. Totally gives me the chills. (Don’t even start on me about fish – WAY different) I mean, I can be in the same room with them, don’t get me wrong, I’ve actually taken my daughter to Reptile Fest a couple times, but if I see one start to slither towards me - forget about it. I actually remember hearing once that snakes can’t get up stairs, something about them not being able to bend their bodies enough to maneuver them, so I prefer living in second floor units. And if it turns out that this is just an old wives’ tale, I’d rather not even know. In any case, I just am totally freaked out by snakes. I really believe they are evil and gross. And this has nothing to do with religion, they just look evil to me. Which brings me to my second big fear.
Almost every religion has their own perception of an afterlife. And I cannot deal with that. The afterlife, I mean. I am probably more afraid of death than I am of snakes (makes sense, right?). Actually, it’s not really death I am afraid of, it is what comes after death. Which, depending on what your beliefs are, may include total nothingness, eternal life, or anything in-between. To be honest, I’m not too keen on either of the first two options. Both total nothingness and eternal life are concepts my pithy little mind simply cannot grasp. In fact, every time I think about either one, I get sick to my stomach. You know, hurling-your-guts-out AFRAID. Because I know someday (hopefully far far in the future) I will find out exactly what happens when you die, as we all will, and I don’t think I like either option. But I have kind of tried to overcome my fear by convincing myself that MAYBE when you die, you do go to heaven, meet all the people you used to know while you were alive that have already passed on (maybe a few you’ve always WANTED to meet, just for good measure), chatted with God and waited for all your other relatives to meet you, then after spending a while in this heavenly reunion, you get sent back to earth to start all over again. Reincarnated, if you will. Only hopefully as a person, and not like a rock or anything. That would really suck. Ok, time to move on, my stomach is starting to hurt.
Finally, my other big fear is that nobody likes me. Yup, we’re talking childish popularity contest fears here. Every now and then, I get the feeling that everyone is just pretending they like me, and that as soon as I turn around, they all laugh at me and discuss how stupid they all think I am. So I get paranoid. I mean, I think I’m an ok person, but once in a while I get freaked out and start overanalyzing everything. You know – when someone forgets to call you, innocent mistake, but you think they are deliberately avoiding you. Or when you see two co-workers or friends or relatives talking and laughing, and they stop when you come near them. And when you ask about it, they say “Oh, it was nothing.” (Come to think of it, maybe I’m NOT paranoid – maybe people ARE against me…) I think that may be why I have such an innate need to always be the “good guy” and the “people pleaser.” But maybe that really just annoys the hell out of everyone. Maybe they all wish I would get attacked by snakes and die. Maybe everyone in the whole world hates my guts and won’t even be waiting for me in the afterlife, and I won’t even go to heaven, I’ll go to a hell where everything is run by giant SNAKES and it will go on for INFINITY and not only do all the PEOPLE hate me, but the SNAKES hate me too…
Hmmm. I think I’m leaning toward psychosis here. Not a good thing. Anyway, I really try not to dwell on my fears, and then they don’t bother me. Usually. But they are legitimate fears, don’t you think? I mean, at least they’re not STUPID fears…
Did I mention my brother is afraid of squirrels?
First of all, I am very scared of snakes. I just cannot deal with something moving around like that WITH NO FEET. Totally gives me the chills. (Don’t even start on me about fish – WAY different) I mean, I can be in the same room with them, don’t get me wrong, I’ve actually taken my daughter to Reptile Fest a couple times, but if I see one start to slither towards me - forget about it. I actually remember hearing once that snakes can’t get up stairs, something about them not being able to bend their bodies enough to maneuver them, so I prefer living in second floor units. And if it turns out that this is just an old wives’ tale, I’d rather not even know. In any case, I just am totally freaked out by snakes. I really believe they are evil and gross. And this has nothing to do with religion, they just look evil to me. Which brings me to my second big fear.
Almost every religion has their own perception of an afterlife. And I cannot deal with that. The afterlife, I mean. I am probably more afraid of death than I am of snakes (makes sense, right?). Actually, it’s not really death I am afraid of, it is what comes after death. Which, depending on what your beliefs are, may include total nothingness, eternal life, or anything in-between. To be honest, I’m not too keen on either of the first two options. Both total nothingness and eternal life are concepts my pithy little mind simply cannot grasp. In fact, every time I think about either one, I get sick to my stomach. You know, hurling-your-guts-out AFRAID. Because I know someday (hopefully far far in the future) I will find out exactly what happens when you die, as we all will, and I don’t think I like either option. But I have kind of tried to overcome my fear by convincing myself that MAYBE when you die, you do go to heaven, meet all the people you used to know while you were alive that have already passed on (maybe a few you’ve always WANTED to meet, just for good measure), chatted with God and waited for all your other relatives to meet you, then after spending a while in this heavenly reunion, you get sent back to earth to start all over again. Reincarnated, if you will. Only hopefully as a person, and not like a rock or anything. That would really suck. Ok, time to move on, my stomach is starting to hurt.
Finally, my other big fear is that nobody likes me. Yup, we’re talking childish popularity contest fears here. Every now and then, I get the feeling that everyone is just pretending they like me, and that as soon as I turn around, they all laugh at me and discuss how stupid they all think I am. So I get paranoid. I mean, I think I’m an ok person, but once in a while I get freaked out and start overanalyzing everything. You know – when someone forgets to call you, innocent mistake, but you think they are deliberately avoiding you. Or when you see two co-workers or friends or relatives talking and laughing, and they stop when you come near them. And when you ask about it, they say “Oh, it was nothing.” (Come to think of it, maybe I’m NOT paranoid – maybe people ARE against me…) I think that may be why I have such an innate need to always be the “good guy” and the “people pleaser.” But maybe that really just annoys the hell out of everyone. Maybe they all wish I would get attacked by snakes and die. Maybe everyone in the whole world hates my guts and won’t even be waiting for me in the afterlife, and I won’t even go to heaven, I’ll go to a hell where everything is run by giant SNAKES and it will go on for INFINITY and not only do all the PEOPLE hate me, but the SNAKES hate me too…
Hmmm. I think I’m leaning toward psychosis here. Not a good thing. Anyway, I really try not to dwell on my fears, and then they don’t bother me. Usually. But they are legitimate fears, don’t you think? I mean, at least they’re not STUPID fears…
Did I mention my brother is afraid of squirrels?
Monday, June 06, 2005
Saturday Night on the South Side
Every now and again, I have a night out that makes me feel like I’m a young, carefree, hot chick again with no responsibilities other than finding a way home. Of course, the problem with these nights are that they invariably end and the next day I remember that I am definitely still not young, probably should’ve cared more than I did the night before, and look and feel like I was run over by a truck. However, glutton for punishment that I am, I can’t wait for the next opportunity to go out. At least, the next really promising opportunity.
Everyone knows that there is a big difference between a regular night out, and a night like I had Saturday night. A regular night out can be fun, and you may drink and carouse and talk about it the next few days, but a night like Saturday you will remember (well, most of the night you’ll remember, anyway) for a long time to come. I trekked all the way out to the South Side Saturday night, there was a surprise party for one of my cousins at a bar in Oak Lawn. I already made plans with his sister to crash by her place, because for some reason whenever I go out on the South Side, I tend to overindulge and lose my ability to drive. (Not that I’d want to anyway) So I was pretty much aware of the fact that a good deal of drinking would be taking place. While getting ready to go to this party, I noticed that my capri’s were actually a little looser than usual. And when I tried on my little camisole top, I didn’t feel like an absolute cow. I put on a little bronzer to give a “healthy glow” and went easy on the rest of the makeup (too much is trashy, especially in the summertime) and slipped into my high wedged sandals. The heels did a good job of toning my calves a little more than usual, and my new pedicure was looking good. I decided to flat iron my hair (no easy task when you have as much hair as I do) and was pretty happy with the results. Bottom line – I was already starting to forget that I had a daughter at a sleepover party and haven’t been carded in years. Defiantly adding the final touch of a Cubs’ “live strong” bracelet (I was going to the South Side, after all), I popped on my shades and hit the road.
I had a drink at my cousin’s before we left for the party, and then her husband drove us to the bar. He was going to be designated driver, and my cousin had already informed me she was looking forward to having fun – and not coming home until the last possible bar had closed. I, on the other had, wasn’t sure I would make it that long, but figured I’d give it the old college try. (Get it? “The old college try”? Because in college I could stay out forever…. Oh, I KILL myself) So we get there, and start I drinking Lite on tap, which was the free drink of the party. Now, I used to drink beer all the time, but as I got older, my taste leaned more toward vodka drinks, specifically flavored vodka and lemonade. So this old body really was not used to all that malt and hops that was flowing into it. But my mind was sure enjoying it. The party was a hit, with a lot of laughs and fun, and when the free alcohol ended at 12:00, we moved from the party room to the regular bar next door. I remember dropping my phone a lot, and insulting sox fans every chance I got, and other than that, I couldn’t quite say. I do know that soon enough that bar closed, and true to her word, my cousin was dragging me off to another bar.
Now, this other bar was really jumping when we got there. I think I ordered a drink, I know I started talking to pretty much any strange man I saw. (Hold on there, buddy – I said “talking” – don’t be so judgmental!!) ANYWAY, my ego shot up about a zillion points because I was getting more attention than I had in a while. (For whatever reason, I seem to have much better luck on the South Side than here in the NW burbs. Guess the guys there just have better taste – if not in baseball at least in women!) I remember playing the “How old are you?” game and having most every guy guess between 25 and 28, which added to my mood. (Whether they really thought that or were deliberately lowballing my age was irrelevant) I managed to take pictures of a couple people I don’t know and will probably never see again, but they were very nice people. I had several “offers” that evening, but politely refused. There was one guy though, a good-looking bouncer who struck my interest, (and wasn’t even drinking!) and who happened to know my cousin. Closer to my real age, and a really nice guy. Nice enough to offer me a ride at the end of the night due to some unexpected drama… which I won’t go into at this point. Until I make sure my cousin is ok (and sobered up) at least. So I took the ride and topped off my evening with some pleasant company. (Like I’d elaborate – I am a lady, after all. Think what you like, my lips are sealed.)
Bottom line is, I finally got home around noon on Sunday, and spent most of the day after I picked up my daughter trying to rehydrate myself and popping advils. But I had a smile on my face the whole time.
Happy birthday Dan – and thanks for the party!!!
Everyone knows that there is a big difference between a regular night out, and a night like I had Saturday night. A regular night out can be fun, and you may drink and carouse and talk about it the next few days, but a night like Saturday you will remember (well, most of the night you’ll remember, anyway) for a long time to come. I trekked all the way out to the South Side Saturday night, there was a surprise party for one of my cousins at a bar in Oak Lawn. I already made plans with his sister to crash by her place, because for some reason whenever I go out on the South Side, I tend to overindulge and lose my ability to drive. (Not that I’d want to anyway) So I was pretty much aware of the fact that a good deal of drinking would be taking place. While getting ready to go to this party, I noticed that my capri’s were actually a little looser than usual. And when I tried on my little camisole top, I didn’t feel like an absolute cow. I put on a little bronzer to give a “healthy glow” and went easy on the rest of the makeup (too much is trashy, especially in the summertime) and slipped into my high wedged sandals. The heels did a good job of toning my calves a little more than usual, and my new pedicure was looking good. I decided to flat iron my hair (no easy task when you have as much hair as I do) and was pretty happy with the results. Bottom line – I was already starting to forget that I had a daughter at a sleepover party and haven’t been carded in years. Defiantly adding the final touch of a Cubs’ “live strong” bracelet (I was going to the South Side, after all), I popped on my shades and hit the road.
I had a drink at my cousin’s before we left for the party, and then her husband drove us to the bar. He was going to be designated driver, and my cousin had already informed me she was looking forward to having fun – and not coming home until the last possible bar had closed. I, on the other had, wasn’t sure I would make it that long, but figured I’d give it the old college try. (Get it? “The old college try”? Because in college I could stay out forever…. Oh, I KILL myself) So we get there, and start I drinking Lite on tap, which was the free drink of the party. Now, I used to drink beer all the time, but as I got older, my taste leaned more toward vodka drinks, specifically flavored vodka and lemonade. So this old body really was not used to all that malt and hops that was flowing into it. But my mind was sure enjoying it. The party was a hit, with a lot of laughs and fun, and when the free alcohol ended at 12:00, we moved from the party room to the regular bar next door. I remember dropping my phone a lot, and insulting sox fans every chance I got, and other than that, I couldn’t quite say. I do know that soon enough that bar closed, and true to her word, my cousin was dragging me off to another bar.
Now, this other bar was really jumping when we got there. I think I ordered a drink, I know I started talking to pretty much any strange man I saw. (Hold on there, buddy – I said “talking” – don’t be so judgmental!!) ANYWAY, my ego shot up about a zillion points because I was getting more attention than I had in a while. (For whatever reason, I seem to have much better luck on the South Side than here in the NW burbs. Guess the guys there just have better taste – if not in baseball at least in women!) I remember playing the “How old are you?” game and having most every guy guess between 25 and 28, which added to my mood. (Whether they really thought that or were deliberately lowballing my age was irrelevant) I managed to take pictures of a couple people I don’t know and will probably never see again, but they were very nice people. I had several “offers” that evening, but politely refused. There was one guy though, a good-looking bouncer who struck my interest, (and wasn’t even drinking!) and who happened to know my cousin. Closer to my real age, and a really nice guy. Nice enough to offer me a ride at the end of the night due to some unexpected drama… which I won’t go into at this point. Until I make sure my cousin is ok (and sobered up) at least. So I took the ride and topped off my evening with some pleasant company. (Like I’d elaborate – I am a lady, after all. Think what you like, my lips are sealed.)
Bottom line is, I finally got home around noon on Sunday, and spent most of the day after I picked up my daughter trying to rehydrate myself and popping advils. But I had a smile on my face the whole time.
Happy birthday Dan – and thanks for the party!!!
Friday, June 03, 2005
Try To Remember...
You know, yesterday I had a moment of clarity when I knew exactly what I wanted to write. Only it was 5:00 and I was on my way out of work. Since I no longer have the luxury of the internet at home (blame those damn viruses) the timing couldn’t have been worse, because I knew exactly what would happen. And, of course, it did. I got in the car and drove home, all the while plotting out in my mind the exact phrasing for my next entry. I found myself smiling at certain parts, and thinking, “This is going to be good!” From there I picked up my daughter, went home, cleaned up the house, made some phone calls, watched tv, and went to bed. As soon as my head hit the pillow and I started to doze off, my eyes flew open. WHAT THE HELL WAS I PLANNING ON WRITING TOMORROW??? I absolutely could not remember. Which really sucked, because I swear, it was so good. I tossed and turned for the better half of the night, trying to remember my brilliant idea, but to no avail. I don’t know what creatures are doing this to me, but I am convinced that something supernatural may be going on. Someone is wiping my brain clean, obviously to keep me from publishing thoughts that some Supreme Being wants kept secret. Kind of scary, actually. I only wish I had written down this awesome material before I was given a clean slate.
Oh well.
Since I seem to have acquired a severe case of short-term memory loss, I felt it only proper to write about something I DO remember – the past. The past actually came barreling at me this morning, when it occurred to me that today was my daughter’s last day of school. As of 10:40 this morning, she is now officially a 5th grader. Which scared me, because I can remember 5th grade like it was yesterday. And now my “baby” will be making her own memories.
My memories of 5th grade are surprisingly detailed. For whatever reason, I seem to remember things that happened 20 years ago much easier than things that happened 20 minutes ago. For instance, I remember sitting on the ledge by the windows singing the song “Peanut Butter and Jelly” with the rest of the class during lunch, just to annoy the hell out of the lunch mother. I remember starting my first novel (which for some reason paralleled The Chronicles of Narnia, or more specifically, The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe. My best friend and I were obsessed with that book, so my novel was pretty similar, except with different characters) but never quite finishing it (thank God - I would’ve been sued for plagiarism!). I remember doing a line dance (no, not the country line dance, the soul train line dance) with the sixth graders across the hall to “Knock on Wood” and thinking I was soooo cool (I wasn’t, by the way). I also remember having my first major crush, and having said crush sign my autograph book with a P.S. – “too bad I don’t like you.” (That killed me back then, but I’m ok now because turns out he’s gay, anyway) I also remember taking the Constitution Test, and hearing the whole class humming the Schoolhouse Rock song while taking it. I honestly think I wouldn’t have passed if it weren’t for that song. And according to our teachers back then, not only couldn’t you go to 6th grade if you failed, but you’d have to leave the country too. (Catholic schools were WAY strict)
As I reflected on my life as a 5th grader, I thought of my daughter. She seems so much older than I was back then. Then again, the world is a much different place. But even though she has the outward appearance of a “worldly” tween, I know that inside she is still only a 5th grader – and from what I remember, it was a roller coaster ride of a year. Not quite old enough for most things, but too grown up for others. Testing your limits – and your parents’. Starting to seriously think about things like boys, and social skills, and the future. She’s got a lot ahead of her, and I hope she trusts me enough to let me back her on this journey. And I’ll try to trust her enough to go part of it on her own.
Oh well.
Since I seem to have acquired a severe case of short-term memory loss, I felt it only proper to write about something I DO remember – the past. The past actually came barreling at me this morning, when it occurred to me that today was my daughter’s last day of school. As of 10:40 this morning, she is now officially a 5th grader. Which scared me, because I can remember 5th grade like it was yesterday. And now my “baby” will be making her own memories.
My memories of 5th grade are surprisingly detailed. For whatever reason, I seem to remember things that happened 20 years ago much easier than things that happened 20 minutes ago. For instance, I remember sitting on the ledge by the windows singing the song “Peanut Butter and Jelly” with the rest of the class during lunch, just to annoy the hell out of the lunch mother. I remember starting my first novel (which for some reason paralleled The Chronicles of Narnia, or more specifically, The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe. My best friend and I were obsessed with that book, so my novel was pretty similar, except with different characters) but never quite finishing it (thank God - I would’ve been sued for plagiarism!). I remember doing a line dance (no, not the country line dance, the soul train line dance) with the sixth graders across the hall to “Knock on Wood” and thinking I was soooo cool (I wasn’t, by the way). I also remember having my first major crush, and having said crush sign my autograph book with a P.S. – “too bad I don’t like you.” (That killed me back then, but I’m ok now because turns out he’s gay, anyway) I also remember taking the Constitution Test, and hearing the whole class humming the Schoolhouse Rock song while taking it. I honestly think I wouldn’t have passed if it weren’t for that song. And according to our teachers back then, not only couldn’t you go to 6th grade if you failed, but you’d have to leave the country too. (Catholic schools were WAY strict)
As I reflected on my life as a 5th grader, I thought of my daughter. She seems so much older than I was back then. Then again, the world is a much different place. But even though she has the outward appearance of a “worldly” tween, I know that inside she is still only a 5th grader – and from what I remember, it was a roller coaster ride of a year. Not quite old enough for most things, but too grown up for others. Testing your limits – and your parents’. Starting to seriously think about things like boys, and social skills, and the future. She’s got a lot ahead of her, and I hope she trusts me enough to let me back her on this journey. And I’ll try to trust her enough to go part of it on her own.
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
Aero-WHAT??
You know, I don't know when exactly it happened, or how, but apparently I am one of those "adults" I used to mock when I was younger. You know, the kind of person who doesn't get it when it comes to clothes, or celebrities, or music. But I guess it happened when I wasn't paying attention. Not to the extreme, mind you, I still can hold my own with a lot of the music my daughter listens to (although I have found myself becoming increasingly alarmed at some of the lyrics), but yesterday I totally humiliated myself in the face of fashion.
While we were visiting our friends in Michigan, my daughter realized she forgot her hoodie at home (yes, thankfully I at least know what a "hoodie" is). So one of the girls gave her one of hers to wear. When it came time to leave, she told my daughter she could keep it. Lexie was thrilled. She wore it all the way home, all the next day, and even today - when it is supposed to be 80 degrees outside. Apparently, this fact had to do with two things: one, the hoodie was from Katie, who she idolizes, and two, it was a designer hoodie. Now comes the part I am almost embarrassed to tell you. But I will share, not completely admitting that I have lost touch with being "cool," mind you, because I am still cool... (at least, I think I am... shit, I am starting to doubt my own "coolness." This can't be good.) Ok, here goes. The name on the hoodie was "Aeropostale." Now, although I have seen the name millions of times, I have never actually heard it pronounced. So it wasn't without careful thought that I attempted to say the name to my daughter. "So, is 'Arrow - post - ali' pretty popular now?" I asked. She started to giggle, and said, "Is what popular now?" This put me on the defensive. "Arrow - post - ali. You know, the hoodie you're wearing." Sounded right to me. Arrow - post - ali. Kind of Italian-ish. But my way-cool nine-year-old corrected me. "Mom, it's (phonetic here) 'AIR - UH - PUH - STAHL'" Well, I didn't like her holier-than-thou tone, so I told her she could be wrong. Maybe my way was the right way. She laughed, a "poor-mom-you're-so-clueless" laugh. So, determined to prove that I could be right, I called my cousin. Who has a 16 year old daughter. When she answered, I asked her how to pronounce that "Aero" brand. "Aeropostale," my daughter yelled in the background. "She's right," my cousin told me. "Why, how did you think it was pronounced?" I wouldn't tell her, but since she was on speaker phone and my daughter heard her, Lexie screeched "ARROW POST ALI!!!!!!" and roared with laughter. And my cousin, who is a fellow adult and supposed to support me, laughed at me too.
So. There you have it. Stupid name brand clothes I can't even pronounce. That shit ain't right. Whatever happened to Sergio Valente? And Jordache? And Calvin Klein? I can pronounce those. No, now designers have to make weird names to go with their weird clothes. Whatever. From now on, I won't try to pronounce anything. Until I hear my daughter say it first.
Maybe tomorrow I'll discuss music - but for now I'm gonna go. And try to remind myself I am cool, no matter what those stupid kids think.
While we were visiting our friends in Michigan, my daughter realized she forgot her hoodie at home (yes, thankfully I at least know what a "hoodie" is). So one of the girls gave her one of hers to wear. When it came time to leave, she told my daughter she could keep it. Lexie was thrilled. She wore it all the way home, all the next day, and even today - when it is supposed to be 80 degrees outside. Apparently, this fact had to do with two things: one, the hoodie was from Katie, who she idolizes, and two, it was a designer hoodie. Now comes the part I am almost embarrassed to tell you. But I will share, not completely admitting that I have lost touch with being "cool," mind you, because I am still cool... (at least, I think I am... shit, I am starting to doubt my own "coolness." This can't be good.) Ok, here goes. The name on the hoodie was "Aeropostale." Now, although I have seen the name millions of times, I have never actually heard it pronounced. So it wasn't without careful thought that I attempted to say the name to my daughter. "So, is 'Arrow - post - ali' pretty popular now?" I asked. She started to giggle, and said, "Is what popular now?" This put me on the defensive. "Arrow - post - ali. You know, the hoodie you're wearing." Sounded right to me. Arrow - post - ali. Kind of Italian-ish. But my way-cool nine-year-old corrected me. "Mom, it's (phonetic here) 'AIR - UH - PUH - STAHL'" Well, I didn't like her holier-than-thou tone, so I told her she could be wrong. Maybe my way was the right way. She laughed, a "poor-mom-you're-so-clueless" laugh. So, determined to prove that I could be right, I called my cousin. Who has a 16 year old daughter. When she answered, I asked her how to pronounce that "Aero" brand. "Aeropostale," my daughter yelled in the background. "She's right," my cousin told me. "Why, how did you think it was pronounced?" I wouldn't tell her, but since she was on speaker phone and my daughter heard her, Lexie screeched "ARROW POST ALI!!!!!!" and roared with laughter. And my cousin, who is a fellow adult and supposed to support me, laughed at me too.
So. There you have it. Stupid name brand clothes I can't even pronounce. That shit ain't right. Whatever happened to Sergio Valente? And Jordache? And Calvin Klein? I can pronounce those. No, now designers have to make weird names to go with their weird clothes. Whatever. From now on, I won't try to pronounce anything. Until I hear my daughter say it first.
Maybe tomorrow I'll discuss music - but for now I'm gonna go. And try to remind myself I am cool, no matter what those stupid kids think.
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