Because I’m incredibly lazy and pressed for time, I’m cheating on syntax and phrasing by way of bullets today. After three delays, my flight finally landed in Dallas last night at 1:45 a.m. so I have earned the right to laziness.
So much happened this weekend that I need to capture, and if I don’t get this down quickly I’ll forget it. At 27 (and after weekends like this one), the mind tends to go. Get ready to be bullet-ed… now:
- On the way to Chicago I let a stranger with adult on-set ADHD use my phone for internet access. In return, he gave me his friend’s seat in first class and sent his friend back to 26E. As a result of this exchange, the following occurred:
o Lots of wine (go figure)
o I had to read and prioritize 11 songs that he had written while he was in Costa Rica, one of which is about Matthew McConaughey. Mr. McConaughey previously dated First Class Dude’s current female obsession and now has a chicken-scratched insulting and heated song written about him on grid paper. My favorite part? The last four lines where FCD and MM reconcile their differences with “Should we keep up this fight? Nope, nope, nope. Let’s get together and smoke some dope, dope, dope.”
o I helped FCD pick out a logo design for his new company.
o I was offered a job with FCD’s new company and was told to email him with my starting salary. “Just tell me how much you want to be paid and we’ll work it out later. Your job will be to manage the marketing department and pick out music for me to listen to.” Yep.
o I discovered that FCD has political ambitions, despite his decidedly devil-may-care ensemble (mandals, jeans rolled at the bottom, yellow ringer tee with “CHICAGO” emblazoned across the chest, and a yellow and brown striped beanie covering up unwashed hair). He was playing golf with Caroline Kennedy and Bill Clinton on Saturday morning to discuss the possibility of him running as Obama’s VP.
o Free cab ride from O’Hare to downtown Chicago
o FCD became obsessed with my iPod and the music collection within, which caused him to buy it from me for $1,000. Not kidding. Luckily I had the whole thing backed up on a hard drive. If I hadn't, I probably wouldn't have taken the money. I love my music collection that much. That's normal, right?
- Two dinners at Giordano’s for stuffed pizza, all in the span of one weekend
- Drinks for my boyfriend’s co-worker’s birthday, whom I recently found out is the new Office Drunken Make-out Buddy of my ex.
- One of the best room service breakfasts I’ve ever had… it’s not often that you can get a cheese Danish with an All-American breakfast, and I can only assume that it’s because they represent two different cultures. I’m glad Chicago is open-minded about these types of affairs because crispy bacon and cheese? Yes, please.
- Discovering that Sears tower tour guides do not appreciate it if you look out at Lake Michigan and ask ironically “So where should we go to sign up for surfing lessons? Do they just have schools down by the beach?”
- Learning that the architectural boat tour is well-worth the money and humiliation of being a typical tourist.
- Creation of the world’s greatest tourist game, called Bar Roulette as Dealt by Cabbie. “Hi, we’d like to go somewhere in Wrigleyville/Lincoln Park/West Loop/etc. You get to pick the bar.”
- Drinking all day at the Pride Parade in Boys Town is a great way to get a hangover on your 10:30 p.m. flight home, which results in an all-too-sober 2 a.m. stop at McDonald’s in Dallas.
And there you go. Perhaps someday soon I’ll take one of the above bullets and turn it into a well-thought-out, well-written, cleverly entertaining anecdote for a later blog entry. Or, you know, not.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Thursday, May 15, 2008
nancy drew in the loo
What? Rhyming is fun, y'all.
And no, this is not another post about poo. Although that would go well with my rhyming scheme...
My work bathroom is freezing today. So cold that my friend Lynn claimed it was causing her leg hairs to grow their own leg hairs. That's some cold shit.
I just found myself in the handicapped stall (no, I'm not handicapped - but I'm a tall lady and enjoy the extra leg room), freezing to death and wondering if I had peed yellow icicles, when I reached for the toilet paper and noticed that the source of the cold air (and possibly evil itself) was coming from the toilet paper dispenser.
My mind begins to churn. "How is this possible? Is the toilet paper dispenser really a portkey? Should I just not touch the thing and drip dry so I'm not transported somewhere else while my pants are around my ankles? That would be awful! So embarrassing! Wow, Harry Potter references aren't even topical. Bless my heart. Where the hell is that cold air coming from?"
So, like any good self-respecting Nancy Drew, I decide to investigate (after I decide to wipe). After I check the other stalls and the sinks for co-workers, I get down on my hands and knees, looking up inside the dispenser for some sort of hole that would create a draft. Nothing. I feel around inside the dispenser for a hole. Nothing. "Where is this steady stream of freezing air coming from? And, if we had office mice, would they be smart enough to use this space to refrigerate their cheese?"
The bathroom door opens and I'm jolted back to my senses. It is only then that I'm aware that I'm crawling around with my HANDS ON THE BATHROOM FLOOR AT WORK. All caps are necessary because THAT IS DISGUSTING.
So, for the sake of hygiene, I've washed my hands of both the germs and the detective work. Some mysteries are better left unsolved, I suppose. If not, we never would have gotten that great TV show.
And no, this is not another post about poo. Although that would go well with my rhyming scheme...
My work bathroom is freezing today. So cold that my friend Lynn claimed it was causing her leg hairs to grow their own leg hairs. That's some cold shit.
I just found myself in the handicapped stall (no, I'm not handicapped - but I'm a tall lady and enjoy the extra leg room), freezing to death and wondering if I had peed yellow icicles, when I reached for the toilet paper and noticed that the source of the cold air (and possibly evil itself) was coming from the toilet paper dispenser.
My mind begins to churn. "How is this possible? Is the toilet paper dispenser really a portkey? Should I just not touch the thing and drip dry so I'm not transported somewhere else while my pants are around my ankles? That would be awful! So embarrassing! Wow, Harry Potter references aren't even topical. Bless my heart. Where the hell is that cold air coming from?"
So, like any good self-respecting Nancy Drew, I decide to investigate (after I decide to wipe). After I check the other stalls and the sinks for co-workers, I get down on my hands and knees, looking up inside the dispenser for some sort of hole that would create a draft. Nothing. I feel around inside the dispenser for a hole. Nothing. "Where is this steady stream of freezing air coming from? And, if we had office mice, would they be smart enough to use this space to refrigerate their cheese?"
The bathroom door opens and I'm jolted back to my senses. It is only then that I'm aware that I'm crawling around with my HANDS ON THE BATHROOM FLOOR AT WORK. All caps are necessary because THAT IS DISGUSTING.
So, for the sake of hygiene, I've washed my hands of both the germs and the detective work. Some mysteries are better left unsolved, I suppose. If not, we never would have gotten that great TV show.
Friday, April 11, 2008
type write, not well
Did anyone else have one of those when they were little, or was I just a complete dork for wanting to learn how to type as quickly as my mother could? The Type Write and I would spend many an hour in the backseat of the family car on trips, just clicking away.
In case you didn't grow up in the 80s (or were doing interesting things in your childhood like "playing sports" or "building treehouses" or "not practicing administrative skills"), the Type Write was a small, red keyboard with a tiny screen across the top of it. You would turn it on, select a skill level 1-9, and then words would scroll across the screen. Your job was to type out the words without messing up, then advance to the next level. Skill Level 1 was all lower-case home-row keys (in other works asdf and jkl;). Skill Level 2 included the home-row keys, plus g and h - ooh, tricky! I hated Skill Level 9. Hated it with a passion. It was all the punctuation marks and symbols on the top row of the keyboard - those tricky ones that you have to shift to access and that no one ever really memorizes. Why would you ever put yourself through all that stress voluntarily? I tried it once or twice after my confidence had been built up with Levels 1-8, but every time my 7-year-old self would end up breathing hard and pitting through my splatter-painted t-shirt. Those scary symbols were just not worth it and I've never looked back.
Stay with me here; there's a point.
My cube at work backs up to my Sr. VP's admin, which is a superb position to be in if you enjoy eavesdropping. Which I do, and have become quite skillful. That skill was greatly rewarded today as I overheard the following one-sided conversation, just after she provided the other end of the phone with her email address:
"Right. No, wait. It's my first name, and then 'at'. You know, the 'at' symbol? Okay, no... you don't. Okay - here. Do this. Hold down your shift key, then press the number 2. That should make the 'at' symbol. Did that work? Yes! That's right! That's the 'at' symbol! Oh, you've heard of that before! Yes, that's it."
I can only assume that this is what happens to people who never even attempt Type Write Level 9.
In case you didn't grow up in the 80s (or were doing interesting things in your childhood like "playing sports" or "building treehouses" or "not practicing administrative skills"), the Type Write was a small, red keyboard with a tiny screen across the top of it. You would turn it on, select a skill level 1-9, and then words would scroll across the screen. Your job was to type out the words without messing up, then advance to the next level. Skill Level 1 was all lower-case home-row keys (in other works asdf and jkl;). Skill Level 2 included the home-row keys, plus g and h - ooh, tricky! I hated Skill Level 9. Hated it with a passion. It was all the punctuation marks and symbols on the top row of the keyboard - those tricky ones that you have to shift to access and that no one ever really memorizes. Why would you ever put yourself through all that stress voluntarily? I tried it once or twice after my confidence had been built up with Levels 1-8, but every time my 7-year-old self would end up breathing hard and pitting through my splatter-painted t-shirt. Those scary symbols were just not worth it and I've never looked back.
Stay with me here; there's a point.
My cube at work backs up to my Sr. VP's admin, which is a superb position to be in if you enjoy eavesdropping. Which I do, and have become quite skillful. That skill was greatly rewarded today as I overheard the following one-sided conversation, just after she provided the other end of the phone with her email address:
"Right. No, wait. It's my first name, and then 'at'. You know, the 'at' symbol? Okay, no... you don't. Okay - here. Do this. Hold down your shift key, then press the number 2. That should make the 'at' symbol. Did that work? Yes! That's right! That's the 'at' symbol! Oh, you've heard of that before! Yes, that's it."
I can only assume that this is what happens to people who never even attempt Type Write Level 9.
Monday, March 31, 2008
to grandma's house i went
Yes, I know it's a dumb title for a post. But I'm feeling particularly Monday-ish in that I'm disoriented, a little sleepy, hungry (always so hungry on Mondays... why is this?) and less than creative.
However, despite all of these obstacles I still feel it necessary to capture the quaint country-ness that was my weekend. In one weekend I have learned more about aging, The War (aka WWII), "damn Meskins" (see: "racism and the elderly"), and tomato preserves than I ever thought I would in an entire lifetime.
My grandmother turns 85 this week and I flew down to South Texas to surprise her. She answered the door to her farmhouse at 7:30 p.m. in her green silk pajamas, peering through the diamond-shaped window as I pulled into the carport. I had to yell "Grandma, it's Not Lisa! Don't shoot!" as there's a shotgun permanently hanging above the front door, often used to discourage unwelcome visitors.
Have I ever mentioned that the women in my family are eccentric?
Here's an establishing shot that will give you an idea of where my grandmother lives: picture a farmhouse in 1961, as that's when it was built and nothing has changed since then. Picture incredibly dry farmland where it's always humid but it never rains. Picture a town that has 1,287 people and 11 miles down the road another town that has 483 residents - then picture an even smaller town between the two that barely shows up on Google Maps. That's where my grandmother lives.
As I was driving my borrowed car (borrowed from my aunt, not stolen from a stranger) from Corpus Christi to the farmhouse, I realized that I had never been alone with my grandmother. I would go visit her when I was younger, as my parents finally learned to take adult vacations and leave their only child with her grandparents, but my Papa was always with us. He and I were much closer than my grandmother and I ever were, as he was the big gruff teddy bear that I could convince to play dress-up with me. My grandmother was always so stoic, so German, so stubborn. She would discipline my smart mouth in my parents' absence while my grandfather made faces behind her back. My grandfather would take his pig-tailed granddaughter into town to "pick up the paper", but it was really just his daily excuse to sneak in some pancakes. My grandfather would joke around with the man at the gas station in the city, convincing him through his dark skin and perfect Spanish that he was from Mexico and had kidnapped a young gringo child for ransom. We would laugh the whole way home and I was never allowed to tell the rest of the family about our shenanigans. He taught me Spanish, he taught me how to handle a horse, he taught me how to watch out for snakes and he taught me how to find eggs in a hen-house. We swam in horse tanks, we rode bikes together and he showed me where the old embarrassing pictures of my mother were kept.
All the while, my grandmother watched through the window of the house, making sure that I was safe and sound but never put down the dirty dishes long enough to join in on our fun. They had to be washed thoroughly with soap and water before being run through the dishwasher and that was that.
As I grew older I began to better understand through off-hand comments from my mother that my grandmother was not entirely to blame for her attitude and approach to our visits. When I was swimming in the horse tank with my Papa I was too young to know that he had walked out on my Grandma many times in their 30 years of marriage, leaving her and their four children for weeks at a time. When I was placed on top of the family dog as if he were a horse I was too young to know that my Papa had a violent and physical temper. When I was helping pick tomatoes in the garden I was too young to know that my mother had a brother that I had never met because my Papa kicked him out of the house when he was 17 and hadn't spoken to him since. Even when I was 20 years old and my Papa passed away I was too young to know that he had planned for many years to leave his son $1.00 in the will so he couldn't contest his lack of inheritance with "I was left out accidentally."
It's funny what you learn as you get older. When I was a young child in red Mickey Mouse suspenders I thought my Papa could do no wrong and that my Grandma was a feared disciplinarian. As I grew through adolescence I saw the less-than-pretty side of my Papa and watched my Grandma maintain her emotionless demeanor through Papa's bout with Alzheimer's and then also through his funeral. After college I made the occasional visit to the farmhouse, but always accompanying my parents and conversing more with them than my Grandma.
However, this time we were alone. During our time alone I think I learned the most.
I learned that my Grandma is funny. That she can laugh to the point of tears at a seemingly randomly recalled memory, and then she feels it completely necessary to tell you in detail all about how her mother caught her at 14, kissing a boy on the front porch until midnight. That she remembers in detail that she had to do both Boy and Girl Chores while growing up on a farm in Nebraska, while her sister somehow managed to avoid the outdoor Boy Chores and the indoor Girl Chores because she was brainy and claimed to always be studying. That the very same sister didn't study or take tests for three months in protest to not being allowed to go on a date. She got her way, started studying again and still graduated as valedictorian.
I learned that my Grandma is a romantic. That she and my grandfather were married in secret for six months before they ever told any friends or family. Married women weren't allowed to finish high school in her day, but she and my Papa just couldn't wait so they eloped first and asked questions later. "We were just stupid kids..." she laments, but the mischief and romance glittering behind her glasses was hard to miss.
I learned that my Grandma is the strongest woman I know. That she raised two babies by herself for two years while my Papa went off to fight in the war. That she didn't even lay eyes on her husband in the entire two years that he was gone. That she and her two children subsisted on $100 a month from the government, making it from month to month on food rations. That she gave her coffee and sugar ration stamps to her in-laws because she knew they would enjoy it more than she would. That even during this time she was still able to pack up her two kids and move three states away to take care of her ailing grandparents while she waited every day for a letter with news of her husband.
I learned that my Grandma is an individual. That she was married for over 50 years but still doesn't understand why modern women feel as though they have to get married. That all you need to be happy is yourself and the company of others is just added blessing. That if you want to see a movie that no one else wants to see, you go by yourself - even if it is on a weekend. That she and my Papa fought "like cats and dogs", but she doesn't regret a single opinion that she's ever offered up.
I learned that I can still learn a lot from my Grandma.
However, despite all of these obstacles I still feel it necessary to capture the quaint country-ness that was my weekend. In one weekend I have learned more about aging, The War (aka WWII), "damn Meskins" (see: "racism and the elderly"), and tomato preserves than I ever thought I would in an entire lifetime.
My grandmother turns 85 this week and I flew down to South Texas to surprise her. She answered the door to her farmhouse at 7:30 p.m. in her green silk pajamas, peering through the diamond-shaped window as I pulled into the carport. I had to yell "Grandma, it's Not Lisa! Don't shoot!" as there's a shotgun permanently hanging above the front door, often used to discourage unwelcome visitors.
Have I ever mentioned that the women in my family are eccentric?
Here's an establishing shot that will give you an idea of where my grandmother lives: picture a farmhouse in 1961, as that's when it was built and nothing has changed since then. Picture incredibly dry farmland where it's always humid but it never rains. Picture a town that has 1,287 people and 11 miles down the road another town that has 483 residents - then picture an even smaller town between the two that barely shows up on Google Maps. That's where my grandmother lives.
As I was driving my borrowed car (borrowed from my aunt, not stolen from a stranger) from Corpus Christi to the farmhouse, I realized that I had never been alone with my grandmother. I would go visit her when I was younger, as my parents finally learned to take adult vacations and leave their only child with her grandparents, but my Papa was always with us. He and I were much closer than my grandmother and I ever were, as he was the big gruff teddy bear that I could convince to play dress-up with me. My grandmother was always so stoic, so German, so stubborn. She would discipline my smart mouth in my parents' absence while my grandfather made faces behind her back. My grandfather would take his pig-tailed granddaughter into town to "pick up the paper", but it was really just his daily excuse to sneak in some pancakes. My grandfather would joke around with the man at the gas station in the city, convincing him through his dark skin and perfect Spanish that he was from Mexico and had kidnapped a young gringo child for ransom. We would laugh the whole way home and I was never allowed to tell the rest of the family about our shenanigans. He taught me Spanish, he taught me how to handle a horse, he taught me how to watch out for snakes and he taught me how to find eggs in a hen-house. We swam in horse tanks, we rode bikes together and he showed me where the old embarrassing pictures of my mother were kept.
All the while, my grandmother watched through the window of the house, making sure that I was safe and sound but never put down the dirty dishes long enough to join in on our fun. They had to be washed thoroughly with soap and water before being run through the dishwasher and that was that.
As I grew older I began to better understand through off-hand comments from my mother that my grandmother was not entirely to blame for her attitude and approach to our visits. When I was swimming in the horse tank with my Papa I was too young to know that he had walked out on my Grandma many times in their 30 years of marriage, leaving her and their four children for weeks at a time. When I was placed on top of the family dog as if he were a horse I was too young to know that my Papa had a violent and physical temper. When I was helping pick tomatoes in the garden I was too young to know that my mother had a brother that I had never met because my Papa kicked him out of the house when he was 17 and hadn't spoken to him since. Even when I was 20 years old and my Papa passed away I was too young to know that he had planned for many years to leave his son $1.00 in the will so he couldn't contest his lack of inheritance with "I was left out accidentally."
It's funny what you learn as you get older. When I was a young child in red Mickey Mouse suspenders I thought my Papa could do no wrong and that my Grandma was a feared disciplinarian. As I grew through adolescence I saw the less-than-pretty side of my Papa and watched my Grandma maintain her emotionless demeanor through Papa's bout with Alzheimer's and then also through his funeral. After college I made the occasional visit to the farmhouse, but always accompanying my parents and conversing more with them than my Grandma.
However, this time we were alone. During our time alone I think I learned the most.
I learned that my Grandma is funny. That she can laugh to the point of tears at a seemingly randomly recalled memory, and then she feels it completely necessary to tell you in detail all about how her mother caught her at 14, kissing a boy on the front porch until midnight. That she remembers in detail that she had to do both Boy and Girl Chores while growing up on a farm in Nebraska, while her sister somehow managed to avoid the outdoor Boy Chores and the indoor Girl Chores because she was brainy and claimed to always be studying. That the very same sister didn't study or take tests for three months in protest to not being allowed to go on a date. She got her way, started studying again and still graduated as valedictorian.
I learned that my Grandma is a romantic. That she and my grandfather were married in secret for six months before they ever told any friends or family. Married women weren't allowed to finish high school in her day, but she and my Papa just couldn't wait so they eloped first and asked questions later. "We were just stupid kids..." she laments, but the mischief and romance glittering behind her glasses was hard to miss.
I learned that my Grandma is the strongest woman I know. That she raised two babies by herself for two years while my Papa went off to fight in the war. That she didn't even lay eyes on her husband in the entire two years that he was gone. That she and her two children subsisted on $100 a month from the government, making it from month to month on food rations. That she gave her coffee and sugar ration stamps to her in-laws because she knew they would enjoy it more than she would. That even during this time she was still able to pack up her two kids and move three states away to take care of her ailing grandparents while she waited every day for a letter with news of her husband.
I learned that my Grandma is an individual. That she was married for over 50 years but still doesn't understand why modern women feel as though they have to get married. That all you need to be happy is yourself and the company of others is just added blessing. That if you want to see a movie that no one else wants to see, you go by yourself - even if it is on a weekend. That she and my Papa fought "like cats and dogs", but she doesn't regret a single opinion that she's ever offered up.
I learned that I can still learn a lot from my Grandma.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
oh, romance
This morning I went through my (almost) daily routine of waking up, hitting the snooze button 7-9 times, begrudgingly taking a shower, then waking up Boyfriend so he can do the same while I do girly things like moisturize and put on my face.
This morning I walked to the bed and kissed him on the forehead, telling him sweetly that he better get his ass in gear or he would be late (again). He smiled slyly and reached for my towel, causing me to squeal and slap his hand saying "No time for love, Dr. Jones."
He then looked at me pointedly and said in an earnest voice "Well, it's not going to suck itself."
He's always been such the romantic.
This morning I walked to the bed and kissed him on the forehead, telling him sweetly that he better get his ass in gear or he would be late (again). He smiled slyly and reached for my towel, causing me to squeal and slap his hand saying "No time for love, Dr. Jones."
He then looked at me pointedly and said in an earnest voice "Well, it's not going to suck itself."
He's always been such the romantic.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
honesty is the worst policy
This evening I joined a few old college friends for our monthly catch-up dinner. We're a random assortment, to be sure, but I may just be the most "random" of the group. Within our small population we have a couple of teachers, two Child Life Specialists, one Leukemia Foundation fundraiser, a couple of marathon runners, a triathlete and two event planners. Those are their professional descriptions, at least. All of the above are card-carrying Bible-toting Baptists who get tipsy after one glass of white zinfandel.
I, well, obviously don't fit any of the above criteria. I think they keep me around for entertainment. That and they're all too sweet to take me off the Evite roster.
Every week we pass around a book that lists the date, the location where the dinner was enjoyed and the name of the person who planned it. It's our responsibility to write our name down as an attendee and then give a short update as to what's going on in our lives (no, seriously - that's what we do... keep in mind I had nothing to do with the tradition). Here are a few excerpts from tonight's dinner (none of them mine):
"I just got married and returned from my honeymoon!! Today was my first day back at work. I've really been looking forward to this dinner but not as much as I'm looking forward to going home to my new hubby!!!"
"Church has been really great lately. I'm running another marathon soon - either New York or Chicago, depending on which accepts me. Wish me luck!"
"Totally enjoying Spring Break!!!!"
"A family is finally moving into our lease house in Durango!! Finally, a family came along with good credit that is the answer to our prayers. Praise Jesus! We can't thank you enough!!!"
As I took my turn with the book, I couldn't help but think about writing the truth - complete with the required exclamation points.
"I saw Most Serene Republic last weekend and got so hammered that I barely remember my best friend's boyfriend trying to attack me while I was passed out in their bed! I went to visit my parents this weekend even though I really wanted to stay in town for an all-day drunk fest! I picked tonight's dinner location but I really wish I had a bottle of wine to help me get through it! Instead I'm going to drink this water because it's totally better for me!! The girl two seats down from me ordered a medium vegetable pizza but is "taking home" all but the one piece that she ate because she has an eating disorder which is evidenced by her skeletal body structure, gaunt face and malnourished hair!!! The girl who just got back from her honeymoon's husband just touched her boobies for the first time in 3.5 years while she was in the Dominican Republic contracting a urinary tract infection! 'The Honeymooner's Disease' - how cute is that??? Especially considering that the general consensus is that he's A Closet Gay!!! I've also been having recurring dreams about my best guy friend who is also my ex-boyfriend-type-person - things get tricky when you get older, right?!?!?!?!"
Needless to say, I didn't write any of this. But I thought it.
What would you have written, should the truth dare you to expose it?
I, well, obviously don't fit any of the above criteria. I think they keep me around for entertainment. That and they're all too sweet to take me off the Evite roster.
Every week we pass around a book that lists the date, the location where the dinner was enjoyed and the name of the person who planned it. It's our responsibility to write our name down as an attendee and then give a short update as to what's going on in our lives (no, seriously - that's what we do... keep in mind I had nothing to do with the tradition). Here are a few excerpts from tonight's dinner (none of them mine):
"I just got married and returned from my honeymoon!! Today was my first day back at work. I've really been looking forward to this dinner but not as much as I'm looking forward to going home to my new hubby!!!"
"Church has been really great lately. I'm running another marathon soon - either New York or Chicago, depending on which accepts me. Wish me luck!"
"Totally enjoying Spring Break!!!!"
"A family is finally moving into our lease house in Durango!! Finally, a family came along with good credit that is the answer to our prayers. Praise Jesus! We can't thank you enough!!!"
As I took my turn with the book, I couldn't help but think about writing the truth - complete with the required exclamation points.
"I saw Most Serene Republic last weekend and got so hammered that I barely remember my best friend's boyfriend trying to attack me while I was passed out in their bed! I went to visit my parents this weekend even though I really wanted to stay in town for an all-day drunk fest! I picked tonight's dinner location but I really wish I had a bottle of wine to help me get through it! Instead I'm going to drink this water because it's totally better for me!! The girl two seats down from me ordered a medium vegetable pizza but is "taking home" all but the one piece that she ate because she has an eating disorder which is evidenced by her skeletal body structure, gaunt face and malnourished hair!!! The girl who just got back from her honeymoon's husband just touched her boobies for the first time in 3.5 years while she was in the Dominican Republic contracting a urinary tract infection! 'The Honeymooner's Disease' - how cute is that??? Especially considering that the general consensus is that he's A Closet Gay!!! I've also been having recurring dreams about my best guy friend who is also my ex-boyfriend-type-person - things get tricky when you get older, right?!?!?!?!"
Needless to say, I didn't write any of this. But I thought it.
What would you have written, should the truth dare you to expose it?
she's a lady
When I was getting dressed yesterday morning, I was quite proud of myself for remembering to shave my legs when I put a skirt on that showed my bare (albino-esque) legs. It's still March, a bit nippy and I'm not known for my cold-weather tolerance. All of this usually adds up to one big excuse to wear layers of skin-covering clothing late into the spring season, therefore enabling me to swear off leg-shaving unless it gets excessively jungle-like down there. In other words, until the leg hair starts interfering with sexy time. In even more other words, until I'm on the brink of being able to wear my leg hair in dreadlocks.
Anyhoodle, I found myself celebrating the early spring silky legs by prancing around in my business casual, client meeting heels... until I realized that I could feel the breeze more on my ankles than I could on the rest of my legs. And the reason for that was the feeling of movement. Yes, I had missed such a large spot of hair on both of my ankles that I could actually feel them waving proudly in the breeze with every step I took.
Throughout the rest of the day I giggled with the thought of someone walking closely behind me, stepping on one of them and tripping me. My mind is nothing if not exaggerative.
Anyhoodle, I found myself celebrating the early spring silky legs by prancing around in my business casual, client meeting heels... until I realized that I could feel the breeze more on my ankles than I could on the rest of my legs. And the reason for that was the feeling of movement. Yes, I had missed such a large spot of hair on both of my ankles that I could actually feel them waving proudly in the breeze with every step I took.
Throughout the rest of the day I giggled with the thought of someone walking closely behind me, stepping on one of them and tripping me. My mind is nothing if not exaggerative.
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