Charming Accounts of Tediousness

Hiatus

2009-08-27T12:46:00.003-05:00

I'm back from wherever I've been for the past, um, TWO YEARS.

But with my mid-twenties under my belt (and a little Photoshop experience) comes a different blog name/look. Tune back in here!

I've Been Really Bad at This Blog Thing

2007-12-03T16:26:00.000-06:00

Note to Self: Get better.

Delightful Barry

2007-10-25T10:22:00.000-05:00

There is nothing in this world that makes me more uncomfortable than pulling up beside a homeless man standing at an intersection with a cardboard sign. Not because I'm nervous about what he'll do, but because I simply feel awkward and...helpless. Helpless because as much as I want to help this man, I know that my handful of odd change truly won't make a difference in his life.

So I tend to get flustered. Do I busy myself with my cell phone in an attempt to ignore him and therefore feel like a bitch? Or do I stare out at him from the comfort of my car like he's an intriguing museum exhibit? Neither option feels right.

This constant dilemma causes 90 seconds of red light to feel like eternity.

But as trite as it may be, to every rule there is an exception, and my exception is Barry.

Barry is an older black man who roams a three-block area near my office building. With a single glance, it's apparent that he's suffering from some kind of mental illness. All day long, he lopes up and down the sidewalk and grins like he hasn't a care in the world. But he doesn't just stop there.

I haven't figured out how he does it, but every few days, Barry has a new prop. One day he'll be dancing on the corner wearing a motocross helmet, the next he'll be happily sqweeging people's windshields while they're stopped at red lights. I've seen him wear a cut-open rubber chicken, an old-fashioned bowler hat and rubber gloves with a surgeon's cap. (I'm still waiting to see a lampshade...)

Because I pass his intersection several times in a day, Barry now recognizes me. Most of the time, if I'm stopped at the light, he'll tap on my window and wave enthusiastically to me. His genuine, smiling face can truly make my day.

Barry delights me. Despite his hard circumstances, his upbeat attitude never seems to waiver. To Barry, the world is a party and he obviously sees himself as the life of it.

Barry makes me feel both blessed...and ungrateful for my blessings. No matter what petty worry is on my mind—credit card bills, work stuff, relationship problems—it takes a single smile from Barry to snap me back to reality. Strange to say, but I honestly wish I was more like him.

Minus the rubber chicken hat.

Pops Rocks

2007-09-21T11:12:00.000-05:00

Last night, I called my dad to vent about adult responsibilities (read: car maintenance) when we somehow got on the topic of youthful tomfoolery. And he started telling stories.

When my dad was my age, he played in a popular local band with none other than Dennis Haskins of Mr. Belding fame. (It's true. I've seen the pictures of Mr. Belding sporting bellbottoms and hair.)

Their band apparently had quite the cult following and they therefore "had an easy time with the ladies" (I didn't ask for specifics). Since the band members lived together, the party usually moved to their place after the shows ended and the bars closed.

Sometimes they'd legitimately be tired and want the groupie roadwhores to just go home. So instead of being upfront and simply asking the ladies to leave, they came up with hilarious schemes to discourage any more partying. My personal favorites are 1) drooling beer out of their mouths and then pretending to seize, 2) dumping buckets of water into the toilet while making horrible vomiting noises and 3) setting off the fire alarm.

No wonder I've been a troublemaker since day one. It's in my blood.

Balancing Act

2007-09-20T23:50:00.000-05:00

The thing I’ve struggled most with in my twenties is faith.

There. It’s been said.

I realize that while religion isn’t exactly the coolest thing to blog about, it’s probably the most controversial. Honestly, I respect whatever your feelings and opinions are on the topic. Maybe you have the fire of the Lord in your soul and want to tell the world. Or maybe you think the Bible is an out-of-date book that fits better in a library than your lifestyle.

I personally fall somewhere in between.

Since as far back as I can remember, I’ve balked at religion. I was the "bad girl" with skinned knees who talked too much and laughed too loud during boring Sunday School lessons. I snuck random things (hair clips, artistic doodles, etc.) into the offering plate and made faces at friends when we were supposed to be praying. I loved asking teachers impossible questions I knew would make them flustered. (How do we know the Bible really is the word of God? And if God really created the world in seven days like it says, why do we have dinosaur bones?)

Truthfully, despite growing older, I haven't gotten a lot better. (See: perfect example.)

In it's simplest form, most religion spouts that in order to achieve an idyllic afterlife, our worldly lives must be lived piously and according to specific guidelines. Yet youth tends to laugh in the face of authority, whether from worldly parents or a heavenly God. When you’re young, life is intoxicating. It fills you up so completely that you can barely fathom a future where excitement isn’t enough. Your life revolves around new experiences and instant gratification. Life isn’t meant to be lived by rules; it’s meant to be explored—boundaries pushed, limits tested, self discoveries made.

Needless to say, I am NOT a religious person...I never have been and probably never will be. But as I've gotten older, my faith has become increasingly important to me. Yet my mid-twenties oftentimes causes my faith to be an elusive thing. Right now, life is wonderful. It's invigorating and exciting and it makes me feel invincible. As a result, my faith sometimes falls to the backburner...yet even when dim, it's always there.

Honestly, young people who are uber religious tend to scare me. (You know the ones. The kids who stay in and do Bible journals on Friday night when the rest of their peer group is playing beer pong.) I'm not saying it's wrong, just...odd.

I think there should be a healthy balance. Your twenties should be raucous and thrilling. You should be a little selfish and make a few mistakes. You should question things, including your religion.

In short, my faith serves as a guide on respecting myself and respecting others. It's always there to buoy my spirit when I stumble and lose myself. But will I still occasionally be found beer in hand, dancing on stage somewhere on Broadway? All signs point to yes.

Singleitis, Part II

2007-08-30T15:32:00.000-05:00

Marrieds setting up non-marrieds is a never-ending cycle of awkwardness. I swear.

Last week I received a random email from a friend of my aunt (different friend, different aunt) saying that she works with a guy who she thinks would be great for me and wondered if I'd be interested in meeting him.

Sigh.

I knew she was just trying to be nice so I hesitantly told her that I wasn't completely opposed to the idea...but that if it was awful, she'd owe me.

The next thing I know, she's copied us both on an email saying, "Rachel...meet Clint. Clint...meet Rachel. Happy chatting!"

Fuck.

Luckily, we both seem to have good senses of humor because our subsequent emails to each other joked about where our situation would fall on a scale of 1-10 on the awkward meter and whether it's better to be a pro-wrestling fan or a Pacman Jones fan. (Thoughts?)

The most recent email I received was a request to actually meet in person. Which is a whole different ballgame...possibly a whole different sport. All I know about this Clint person is that he's tall, blonde, does triathlons and (based on his emails alone) is intelligent and quite witty.

But he could be a train wreck in person...

I'm leaning towards meeting him. Maybe for drinks after work (strategically planned because if it goes well, we can stay for dinner...but if it's horrible, I can beg off early to do laundry or some such mess).

And looking on the bright side, if it is a train wreck, I'll have a fantastically awkward story for the history books.

The Early Bird Gets Firm

2007-08-28T12:41:00.000-05:00

Let me start off by saying that I am not a morning person. At all. My alarm is often proceeded by cursing and thumping of pillows. If there were such a thing as sleep competitions, I'd be a world champion.

But (woe is me) my evenings have gotten so chock full o’ social activity that my options have been whittled down to 1) work out early or 2) get fat. And considering that I lean more towards "vain" than "lazy" on the personality barometer, option #2 really isn't an option at all. Therefore, I’m revving the treadmill before the sun is up at least three days a week.

The first two weeks of my lofty early morning exercise regime were hell. My alarm would go off and I’d honestly decide I’d rather be dead than dragging myself out of bed. The drive to the gym and the first few minutes spent there weren’t much better.

But now that I’ve surpassed a month of sweating my ass off pre-sunrise, I’m actually starting to enjoy it. Especially the peaceful drive to the gym on silent, deserted roads.

The morning gym is a completely different place than the evening gym. The people who work out in the morning gym are no-nonsense, get in, get your shit done and get out types of people. They don’t wear cutesy matching spandex outfits and parade around the weight room like it’s a runway. They don’t spend half their time flexing in the mirror and talking to their buddies about supplements. They don’t force me to overhear their inane cryptic letterspeak conversations (OMG! WTF?!) as their grossly exaggerated implants heave in indignation.

Every once in awhile, the early morning non-gym-bullshitters are infiltrated by what I like to refer to as the “The Vains” (who stick out like Dennis Rodman at the Alabama State Fair).

This morning, the presence of a platinum-haired lady in FULL makeup caused me to snicker. There she was, amongst the serious exercisers, wearing lip liner. Lip liner! I mean, come on lady. The gig is up. We KNOW that you must’ve gotten up even earlier than necessary to apply a layer of thick makeup that’s just going to run down your face and cause stains on the public towels that we’re all forced to use.

I may be vain in the sense that I’ll sacrifice precious sleep for a toned body, but thank GOD I’m not insecure to the point of caring what I look like in a state of extreme sweat. The world already has one Workout Barbie. It doesn’t need another.

Sooie!

2007-08-21T18:01:00.000-05:00

Sunday night I braved the Wilson County Fair. (I use the term “braved” very loosely because who am I kidding? I live for the kind of kitschy redneck experiences county fairs offer...)

I sadly grew up in a city that didn’t have fairs so they are a relative novelty. Despite my mature(ish) age, I relate to the bevy of sticky 8-year-olds whose faces light up as they skip through the colorful gates.

The entire fair experience is almost seizure inducing. The sights and smells are garish, yet awe-inspiring all the same.

Within the four-hour time span we spent strolling the fairgrounds, I watched people make fools of themselves under “hypnosis”, cheered for the 4-H kids showing their prize pigs, bought a foot-long corn dog from a midget, counted 17 pairs of jorts (jean shorts…“jorts”), rode two very intense rides and got headbutted by a camel at the petting zoo.

But the most classic fair moment of all happened during the pig race at the “Hogway Speedway”. As they were all coming around the second turn, two of the pigs stopped mid-race and started humping. They were honest to God going at it hardcore with a hundred plus kids watching in complete shock. To the point that the track operator had to step in and pull the frisky lovebirds apart for the race to continue.

I swear I laughed for ten solid minutes.

I know, I know…8th grade called. It wants it’s sense of humor back.

Pervy Purvis

2007-08-08T15:32:00.000-05:00

A friend recently sent me a link to an online sexual predator database that magically generates every registered offender who lives in your area.

With a little trepidation, I typed in my address and held my breath as the page loaded. I half expected a little red flag to appear on top of MY house as the friendly, animated representation of my creepo landlord/neighbor. Thankfully, my house was clear (I guess the hiring of hookers and attendance at swingers parties doesn't quite qualify you for this particular website's elite).

With my immediate worries relieved, I commenced clicking on the colorful flags surrounding my neighborhood.

Now, I realize that sexual abuse is no laughing matter, but the sexual abusers' mugshots are pure comedic fodder. Seriously. These men are the singularly most strange-looking group of individuals I've ever laid eyes on.

I was happily clicking and snickering away when the mugshot of the man directly south of me stopped me dead in my tracks:

HOLY HELL. This guy is the ultimate poster child for sexual predators.

1) His god-given name is actually (and quite fittingly) Larry Purvis.
2) Did he intentionally make that face or is it what he looks like all of the time?
3) Why the fuck does he have a surgical mask dangling from one ear?

Although definitely disturbing, I have NEVER laughed so hard in my ENTIRE LIFE.

C-C-Changes

2007-08-02T16:19:00.000-05:00

I've officially completed my first week at my new job and couldn't be happier.

I'd been missing a creative aspect in my life for awhile now, so when the opportunity for both a title and salary increase popped up several weeks ago at an advertising agency, I jumped at the chance.

It's been an absolute blast. I work with some of the coolest and wittiest people I've ever met and thankfully for me, my personality has blended right into the mix. Even though we work hard, the office environment rarely resembles a "work place". It tends to feel more like a college dorm hall.

We pull childish pranks and shout good-natured insults across the office like we're punch drunk 19-year-olds at 2:00 a.m. And if the dorm reference isn't clear enough already, there's been talk of purchasing a Wii for the conference room...

My first day on the job, my co-workers installed a Nerf basketball hoop on my office door and set my internet homepage to Playgirl.com. But that's just the tip of the iceberg.

I've probably laughed more in the past week than I have in a month. Within the last five days, I've shot coffee out of my nose approximately three times and have literally rolled around on the floor, tears streaming down my face at least once. It's out of control.

And with perfect timing, loud farting noises are echoing from the president's office as I type this. He's literally hooting with laughter and yelling that we all need to download the Whoopie Cushion synthesizer to our desktop.

All I lack is a shower caddy and a mini-fridge and I swear it could be freshman year all over again.

Day Brightner

2007-07-19T16:05:00.001-05:00

This email was waiting for me in my inbox this morning:

File under "random": I found your blog about Stella Mae. I've thought about being a big brother for a few weeks, but was worried it might quickly turn into a commitment rather than something I looked forward to doing. I just want you to know that your honesty and openness sealed the deal, and now I feel guilty for not getting on the ball sooner. So thanks.

It's kind of nice to feel like a positive influence.

Rocked

2007-07-18T15:46:00.000-05:00

Yesterday a very lucky friend won tickets on the radio for the Augustana/O.A.R. concert at the Ryman. Because he's awesome (or maybe because I am...wink, wink), he invited me to go with him.

All in all, the show was fantastic. Both bands are amazing live and put on great performances. But I came away from the evening with a few observations...

1) Three out of the five Augustana band members wore ridiculously skinny jeans and severely v-necked (women's?) shirts:

I'm sorry, this isn't a good look for ANY man, but especially not for an under-developed "rocker" who spent his formative years playing guitar in a dark basement.

Dude, please keep your bird chest to yourself and your groupies. Oh, and if your pants cause me to wonder if you have to tuck your junk behind you to zip them, you should probably go up a size. Just a suggestion.

2) With that being said, there really is something about a man rocking out on a musical instrument, standing in a pool of stage lights. Generally I gravitate towards the All-American kind of guy and am probably the last person to sleep with someone simply because they're famous...but when Jerry of O.A.R. played that sax with his rippling muscles... Whew.

3) I am old. Seriously OLD. I swear out of the 4,000 people there, my friend and I were one of maybe 25 adults who didn't need a fake ID to stand in the beer line.

The minute we walked into the place, I felt like I'd accidentally stumbled my way into a high school field trip. Little pubescent people ran through the auditorium, shouting to their friends about their summer vacation plans. You could almost smell the mixture of false self-importance and zit cream.

My old age truly hit home while standing in line for the bathroom and overhearing a peppy cheerleader type tell a slouchy rocker type, "I'm 15 and a HALF."

It took everything I had not to belly laugh. Mainly because I so clearly remember those long-ago days of enhancing your age in an effort to appear more mature. Like those extra six months make any real difference.

I suddenly realized that from here on out, I'll probably want to do just the opposite. Someday, I'll be one of those 56-year-old women who are "39 and holding" or other such bullshit. Never again will I pump up my age to impress a boy.

Although, the thought is actually quite funny. I think the next time someone asks my age, I'll smile sweetly and reply, "24 and three-quarters" just to see what happens.

Confession

2007-07-13T15:36:00.000-05:00

I've been so busy this summer that my involvement in the Big Brothers/Big Sisters program started to become an afterthought. As horrible as it sounds, instead of actually looking forward to spending time with Stella Mae, she'd become just one more obligation to fit into my hectic schedule.

Although I love her dearly, Stella Mae can sometimes flat wear me out. She has more energy than I ever thought possible and likes to ask questions over and over and over--especially when it comes to buying her things. In the past few months, I'd begun feeling more like a glorified babysitter than a mentor actually making a difference in a child's life...

And then everything changed in an instant.

I promised Stella Mae a week ago that we'd hang out last night. Every single day leading up was met with calls and garbled text messages from her guardian's phone making sure we were still on for our "play date". (Needless to say, it became annoying.)

I picked her up promptly at 5:30 as promised (but not before she sent me three texts), and thought to myself that I'd have her home in a couple of hours and be off the hook for another few weeks (terrible, I know).

Because I didn't feel like doing much, we just headed to my house where we cooked dinner together and played with my dog in the backyard. Later that evening, while watching marathon episodes of Hannah Montana, Stella Mae asked if she could see my cell phone. I handed it to her and she promptly started snapping pictures of everything in the room.

After taking a picture of herself, she looked at it and proclaimed, "Dang! I look drunk!"

I sat stunned for a second and then asked her how she (at 9-years-old) even knew what "drunk" meant. She replied in the quietest voice possible, "My daddy gets that way a lot."

In that instant, my heart completely broke for her. I had no words to make things better so I simply scooped her into my arms. She nestled against me and we sat like that for awhile, as I mentally railed against the world's unfairness.

That night when I dropped her off, instead of bounding out of my car like she normally does, she sat quietly for a few moments before saying, "Rachel...you make my life seem good. You know?"

I cried the entire way home.

Those childlike words from a hardened 9-year-old made everything worth it. I know I'll never be able to replace an absent drunk father, but damnit if I'm not going to do my best to try.

Lucky One

2007-07-12T01:29:00.000-05:00

On the rare occasions that I have shitty days or feel sorry for myself, writing is the only thing that truly grounds me. The simple act of recording my conscious stream of thought allows me to understand myself better than most.

Tonight was admittedly rough. I was completely disregarded by someone I cared about and the worse part was that everyone with us seemed to pick up on this, despite my attempts at cheerfulness. My smile was bright and my jokes were on target, but they somehow saw through my facade. I do realize that their insightfulness is a sign of true friendship and am grateful, but their well-meant hugs and whispered reassurances did nothing but make me feel small. So despite their protests, I received their last rounds of hugs and said my goodbyes. As I walked away, I simply felt...numb.

After unlocking my door and greeting my exuberant puppy with a mixture of love and relief, I suddenly felt drawn to my laptop. So I cued a favorite soulful artist on my iPod and sat down to a blinking cursor. I stared at the screen woodenly for a few minutes as indistinguishable thoughts and feelings poured through my mind. And then, as quickly as they arrived, everything settled and I was simply left with ME.

The freshly blank page provided nothing but clarity. Gone was the self-pity and self-doubt and in their place was simply the green-eyed girl who always sees silver linings in thunderclouds. The smart-aleck girl with the juvenile sense of humor who loves her friends to a fault. The girl with a soft spot for the neglected, but an (ironic) intolerance for the closed-minded. The girl who oftentimes speaks before she thinks, but still desires to make everyone feel included. The girl who unwaveringly knows that her respect and love are valuable and will therefore disappear the moment they are taken for granted.

So despite whatever is going on in my life, the ability to write causes me to feel blessed. It causes problems/worries/insecurities to fade into the background as I reintroduce myself to my true self. Somehow, that tiny blinking cursor manages to reach straight into my soul and reminds me that no matter what the circumstance, that green-eyed girl is going to not only prevail, but will more than likely throw her head back and laugh in the process.

Kindred Spirits

2007-07-10T20:28:00.000-05:00

It seems that my appreciation for family grows with every year that passes.

I spent last week in the North Carolina mountains with 50 of my closest family members. This annual reunion is a tradition which has been in place since I was 8-years-old and is miraculously still going strong.

I loved the reunion as a child. My cousins and I made crafts, played hide and seek, teased each other mercilessly and basically had a bang up time. But in typical surly, pre-teen fashion, the family reunion spiraled out of my favor as soon as I hit the middle school social scene. The thought of missing a single glorious afternoon flirting with boys at the neighborhood pool to be forced to wear matching t-shirts for things like "potluck night" sent me into a prickly bitterness. My family was lame, my cousins were dorks and the world was completely and utterly unfair (of course).

But as I got older, my viewpoint shifted. The reunions slowly morphed from excruciating endeavors to tolerable obligations to enjoyable vacations.

I now look forward to my annual reunion with fervor—it's the only time all year that the people I love most in this world are gathered together in a single place.

This year was no exception. As I approached the familiar town limit sign, joy welled up to the point of almost bursting. The minute I parked my car and flew up the familiar steps, I felt completely at home. My favorite cousins were waiting and within minutes, we fell into our natural repartee as if a year’s time never separated us.

One afternoon, after laughing until gasping for breath, sprawled side-by-side across the floor of the “cousins’ house”, I looked around at the faces surrounding me and felt truly thankful. For the first time, it hit home that these amazing people were mine. I belonged to them and they to me.

They’d been there through my bout with scrunchies and bike shorts, my too-cool adolescent attitude and mean-spirited practical jokes. They’d seen me at my absolute worst and loved me anyway.

Despite our obvious differences, their faces and spirits somehow reflect my own. Within these unique individuals lies my home away from home. Within these unique individuals lies not only my identity, but absolute proof that I’m one of the luckiest girls in the world.

Despite still being made to wear matching reunion t-shirts at the age of 24.

SINtillating

2007-06-28T22:38:00.000-05:00

This might be the most judgmental thing that has ever come out of my mouth, but I have to say it...

I've come to the conclusion that I'll automatically have nothing in common with the type of female who lists under the "Favorite Books" section of Facebook, Myspace, etc. any variation of, "I really only like magazines! Oh, and the Bible!"

Ugh. The old Cosmo/Bible combo irritates me beyond belief. It's so oxymoronic, it's almost laughable.

50 Ways to Please Your Man...and Jesus!

Get to Know His Erogenous Zones...and Eternal Salvation!

Now, don't get me wrong. I have nothing against having faith and being open about that faith. And I'm definitely not saying that you can't have a passion for both makeup and the Lord.

However, I DO have a problem with flaunting your faith in an effort to appear "good" or "deep". And that's just what those types of profile descriptions convey.

Call me crazy, I simply have a hard time believing that someone who can't bear to occasionally pick up a John Grisham or David Sedaris or even Jennifer Weiner is actually an avid reader of a monstrously thick book that was written thousands of years ago.

And I'm now done with my bitchiness. At least for the time being...

Oh, and for those gearing up to send bitter emails, I'll beat you to the punch. Matthew 7:1 has been dually noted.

Singleitis

2007-06-27T12:10:00.000-05:00

If there's one thing worse than a blind date, it's a blind date that you're unaware you're being set up on.

One of my aunt's best friends lives in town and occasionally invites me over for dinner and cocktails with her family. Considering that a) they're amazing and b) they live down the street from Keith Urban and Nicole Kidman, their dinner invitations are rarely declined.

Monday night, I'd been invited for Tex-Mex and homemade margaritas and arrived promptly at 7:00. I knew that something was up when the very first thing Mary said when she answered the door was, "Oh good! You look cute!"

I arched an eyebrow and asked what she was up to, to which she responded, "Oh, nothing really. I just invited another friend for dinner. I think you'll like him!" I groaned and told her she'd owe me if I ended up having to babysit a train wreck.

My "date" for the evening arrived shortly thereafter and proved to be a 29-year-old investment banker who was cute, if not a tiny bit shy. Luckily I can talk to a fencepost so conversation flowed nicely...and I only caught him looking at my chest a total of three times.

But STILL. I'd arrived under the auspice of being fed a good meal and getting to lounge on the couch with Mary and a bottle(s) of wine to discuss work, men, books we were reading, places we wanted to travel, etc. NOT to make small talk about the house Mr. Banker Man just bought in Green Hills and what we both did for a living.

I don't know what it is about older married people, but most seem determined to "cure" everyone they know of the "singleness disease". Like we're all somehow wasting away without the presence of a significant other and they are our fairy godmothers, come to rescue us from a life of perpetual loneliness.

Christ. If I had to bet money, I'd say Mary probably gave him my phone number. Maybe (fingers crossed) he's smart enough to realize that since I didn't give it to him personally, he shouldn't call. But for the next week or so, a random number flashing across my cell phone screen might cause minor panic.

I Scream

2007-06-25T16:43:00.000-05:00

I know this should be filed under "C" for "Crotchety", but I've just about had it with the friendly neighborhood ice cream vendor.

Firstly, why the HELL is there an ice cream truck tooting up and down Music Row in the first place? I can't imagine there are enough well-dressed professionals flying out of their offices clutching grimy dollar bills at the first sound of music to warrant it's presence. It needs to relocate to Brentwood or Belle Meade...or really anywhere other than here.

Secondly, whoever designed the damn thing must have been downright malicious. It plays the most excruciating track of carnival calliope music, punctuated by the occasional (demonic) little girl voice shouting, "HELLO!"

The first time I heard this, I thought it bizarre, yet amusing. But because it's returned every day since, I'm on the verge of doing something drastic.

Since I'm on the top floor of my office building, I have the unique advantage of a covert airborne attack. And believe me, I've thought of everything from homemade water balloons to borrowing my ten-year-old neighbor's paintball gun.

To be honest, at this point I'm not sure if I'll be able to sustain enough self-control to carry out a premeditated attack. I'm on the brink of just slamming my window open and screaming expletives at the offensive vehicle as it toots down the alley.

And just like that, the silly little childhood rhyme has a whole new meaning...

Dirty Laundry

2007-06-18T22:28:00.000-05:00

I think the best part about growing up is recognizing change in yourself.

It's somehow both thrilling and grounding to experience random life moments that make you step back and observe just how different you've become.

I feel like I've been doing this a lot lately. It can happen during small moments such as a catch-up phone call from an old high school sweetheart or big moments like passing your two-year anniversary from college graduation.

To that end, I truly believe that a main life goal for every individual should not simply be to change, but to better oneself in the process. But it's hard. It's oftentimes much easier to adapt to your shortcomings and bad habits than it is to fix them.

A former shortcoming that I've struggled with is control. My parents divorced when I was young and all I've known is a single-parent household. My mom worked hellish hours and as a result, I had little choice but to grow up faster than my friends. I remember doing the laundry at the age of 9 and was cooking dinner by the age of 12. (But before you paint me as a poor Cinderella, I definitely played just as hard as the other kids in my neighborhood. I rarely missed marathon games of Capture the Flag and threw snowballs at cars with the best of them. I had as much fun, but simply more responsibilities than my carefree peers.) I assume that because my mom relied so heavily on me at times, it created in me a deep-seeded craving for perfectionism. For a while, I was all she had and I therefore felt I had to be The Perfect Daughter to compensate.

This perfectionist streak can at times be a positive thing. I tend to excel at whatever I put my mind to and rarely settle for less than the best in both myself and others. But when not kept in check, this need for control can, in turn, control me.

It ran rampant my very last semester of college. My entire life as I'd known it was changing and I felt lost. I felt like my big, scary grownup future was out of my hands and the only way to make myself feel better was to minutely control the comfortable (but fleeting) life I had. So I made perfect grades. And when I wasn't in class, I helped edit our alumni magazine and was a reporter for our campus TV station. I volunteered. I nannied for the cutest family ever. I headed up several campus organizations, including one that required I sometimes travel with the baseball team. I exercised religiously. I strived to be a true friend to my sorority sisters and a supportive, amazing girlfriend to an overwhelmed law student.

I tried to be everything to everybody and lost myself in the process. By the time graduation rolled around, I was exhausted. The day I walked in my cap and gown, I weighed less than 100 pounds. I had no hint of a disorder; it just proved impossible to eat enough to keep up with my hectic lifestyle.

Graduation came and went and I was left with mere shards of the "perfect" life I'd created for myself. College was over and it stung to realize that nothing I achieved there meant anything further than excellent resume material. I was jobless, homeless and directionless and for the first time in my life, I had to learn to let go and accept the unknown. It was either that, or drive myself slowly insane.

So I did. I woke up one morning and decided that life could be simpler and much more enjoyable if I adopted the attitude that everything eventually works out for the best. I won't lie, it's definitely been an uphill battle. But now that I'm finally reaching the peak, I look back and marvel on just how far I've come...on how much more I love myself now that I'm not taking her so seriously.

I still backpedal occasionally. Last night, my normal mature self slipped and I acted embarrassingly childish. I proved far less than perfect and as a result, I spent an hour and a half of my evening running at full speed on the treadmill. I didn't stop until my t-shirt dripped and my mind went blank.

The difference between now and college is that I can instantly recognize this kind of behavior for what it is before it takes over. The very moment I stepped off the treadmill, I laughed inwardly at myself. I knew in an instant that because I'd felt imperfect and lacked control, I exerted ultimate control over my body by pushing it to the limit. But in that moment, with both my heartbeat and Michael Jackson ringing in my ears, I chose to feel exhilarated rather than turbulent.

I see positive change in myself, which must mean I'm growing up. I can honestly say that I'm a better person today than I was two years ago as I fell unbelievably short of my superhuman goals. And I hope that two years from now, I can look back at this very post and recognize how much progress I've made to becoming the person I want to be.

It's taken awhile, but I've finally grasped that that person, that ideal girl, will never be perfect. She'll be warm and caring, generous and inclusive, good natured and laid back. But she'll still sometimes say the wrong things and laugh at inappropriate moments. She'll still be a messy eater and a sucker for a dare. She'll still be snarky and, at times, brutally honest.

And hell, if she just so happens to have fantastic legs due to frustrated miles logged on the treadmill as she learned to accept herself, that would be a major bonus.

Um...EW.

2007-06-14T23:42:00.000-05:00

I'm not sure what it is about old men on vacation, but a little beach action tends to bring out the dirty in them.

Last night, the minors and I went to eat at a popular seafood restaurant right on the beach. The wait to get a table was an hour and a half so we decided to kill time at the outside bar and enjoy the sunset over illegally purchased drinks (a la me...don't tell). I politely asked the 45-year-old man sitting next to me if he could pass me a menu so we could look over the appetizer selection when he (no joke) wiggled his eyebrows and asked me how I'd repay him.

EH?! Did he actually expect I'd leap into his lap and suggest I service him in the bathroom to thank him for his immense kindness? Please.

Later on, as we were leaving the restaurant, a drunk man "bumped" full-frontal style into my cousin and looked her up and down before I elbowed him out of the way and said, "she's 18...and you're pathetic".

I realize that most of them are just having a little fun and are harmless, but it's still annoying. Especially if they have small children in tow while walking down the beach and they STILL wink at you in your bikini.

For whatever reason, it seems the go-to phrase for creepy old men is, "Hey Ladies" (with exaggerated eyebrow wiggle and/or fake "gun" cocking). But tonight, I discovered the ultimate comeback to such lechery...

While strolling through an open-air market after dinner, the minors and I (surprise, surprise) received the go-to "Hey Ladies" from a group of mafia crime boss look-a-likes. Rather than rolling my eyes and huffing off, I tossed sweetly over my shoulder, "Hey Daddies...or should I say Granddaddies?" And then I grinned.

The stunned (but slightly amused) looks on their faces were hysterical.

Funny how they spent the day at the beach and it wasn't until nightfall that they got royally burned...

Drama Mamas

2007-06-11T23:13:00.000-05:00

For the first time in my life, I can solidly say that I wouldn’t go back to high school for anything.

Several months ago, my aunt asked if I would like to accompany my 18-year-old cousin and several of her friends for a week in Destin. Never one to turn down a beach trip, I agreed.

We arrived last night and within 10 minutes, it looked like Seventeen magazine vomited its contents all over our house—colorful swimsuit tops, makeup brushes and bottles of nail polish strung haphazardly throughout the rooms. Squeals and girlish laughter rang out as we claimed sleeping arrangements and marveled over our entire week of freedom.

After semi-unpacking, we ordered pizza and lounged on the porch for several hours, talking about boys (of course), college fears and catty cliques. When I wasn’t giving sought-after advice, I simply sat back and marveled.

The conversations ranged from “oh my god, I can’t believe he’s dating a sophomore” to “can you believe she actually wore that to prom”? They obsessed about whether they should call him if they hadn’t heard from him by Thursday and whether they’d fit in at their chosen colleges.

The main thing that struck me was their intensity…everything was either amazing or tragic, there wasn’t much in between. Looking back, I know I was the exact same way at their age—I truly felt like my world would stop if a certain boy didn’t call or if another girl wore my exact dress to a dance.

Being thrust back into such a juvenile viewpoint at the ripe old age of 24 has been eye-opening. It makes me feel silly to think I spent so much time obsessing over things that plain didn’t matter, for worrying so much about what other (less amazing) people thought of me.

Listening to their angst over trivial problems has made me incredibly grateful for my current age and wisdom. It took me awhile, but I’ve finally learned that it’s exhausting to stress about things over which you have no control. (If he doesn’t call by Thursday, fuck him…you’ll find someone who will. If another woman shows up in your dress, simply laugh and compliment her good taste.)

It’s now our second night at the beach and I’m already on drama overload. So after returning from a late dinner, I grabbed my laptop and a glass of wine and headed out in search of solitude.

I can hear their distant high-pitched chatter from my cozy lounge chair by our pool and it makes me smile. It makes me smile to think how absolutely carefree they are, to think of the amazing college adventures they each have in store, to think of their complete naivety as to how great life is after high school.

It makes me smile to think how much I once resembled them and just how much I’ve changed. It makes me smile to be able to feel completely and utterly content.

Parental Supervision Required

2007-05-23T18:26:00.000-05:00

There's great benefit in having a nursing student for a roommate. Namely, she gives great advice on how to shorten a cold or can stitch up a gash from a veggie chopping accident while I'm passed out from the sight of my own blood.

But the best part of ALL is the fact that she works in a health clinic and has fantastic stories about the redneck patients she sees.

Most of the time, the stories are funny. Like the one about the large woman who wore jeans with two perfect-circle holes in the butt and had a boy in tow named DeWeese (bahaha). Or the one about the man who had to come in because he'd stuck one too many household objects up his poop hole.

But last night, she told me a story that's almost too horrifying to believe. I know this is going to make me sound 75, but what the hell is wrong with kids these days?!

Yesterday my roommate had to perform a pelvic exam on a 12-year-old girl because she'd been caught having both regular and anal sex in the bathroom at school.

(Yes, you read that right. When my roommate told me, I dropped my toothbrush and almost passed out and chipped my teeth on the sink.)

I know this is too much information, but when I was twelve, it was a BIG deal when the sluttiest girl in 7th grade went to second base...and that's just a little fondling.

Apparently, this sexually active preteen was both angry and scared to death of the exam. Um, hello? A little Q-tip swab is nothing in comparison to a penis in your butt. Ugh! It makes me want to shake her. In my opinion, a 12-year-old isn't mature enough to be dropped off at the mall, let alone having sex. What is she possibly thinking? And does this mean that MY kids will be having sex when they're five?

But here's the kicker. After my roommate gave her the whole spiel about abstinence, safe sex and birth control, the girl asked if birth control tablets come in CHEWABLES.

I may not be an expert, but I know that if you have a hard time swallowing a birth control pill (or want it in a fruity flavor), chances are you shouldn't be having sex. Period. End of discussion.

Now go to your room.

Wrestling With "Reality"

2007-05-09T18:37:00.000-05:00

For whatever reason (perhaps this blog?) I recently received an invitation to a closed casting call to be on the next season of The Bachelor—I apparently have what “they’re looking for”. Whatever that means.

My first reaction was total disbelief. I definitely belly laughed and then wondered which of my goober friends pulled the prank. But after a little research, I discovered that the individual who contacted me really IS a casting agent for ABC.

I’ve polled a lot of my friends and every single one of them thinks I should audition. (Whether they think I’d do well or just want to tell people their friend is “famous” is unclear...)

My thoughts on auditioning are mixed. On one hand, it could be a great experience. When else would you get the opportunity to fly to exotic locales and drink loads of champagne on yachts? But on the other hand, every time I’ve ever watched The Bachelor, it’s mainly to laugh at the silly drama of all the stupid hookers. I can’t quite wrap my head around the thought of BEING one of them.

The only way I can come up with solving this dilemma is the classic pro/con list:

Pro: Free vacation. (Hell yes.)
Con: Telling my boss why I need three weeks off work.

Pro: Fantasy trips/dates.
Con: Putting up with (probably annoying) women tagging along on said fantasy trips/dates.

Pro: Being on TV. (Or is this a con?)
Con: My ENTIRE FAMILY watching me make out with a dude on national television.

Pro: Being one of the only cool, down-to-earth girls in the show’s history.
Con: Living in the same house with Barbie look-a-likes who think Oscar Wilde is an edgy designer.

Pro: Free booze.
Con: Being craftily edited to look like a snarky bitch on national television.

And…we’re back to square one. I’m torn. This is of course all assuming that I even make a call back, which is doubtful. The casting agents could just think I’m “nice”…

I’m opening the floor for your opinions/advice/hysterical laughter.

To Bachelor or not to Bachelor?

The Season

2007-04-30T22:56:00.000-05:00

It has officially begun.

Yesterday, I received my SEVENTH wedding invitation in the mail.

Don't get me wrong, I love attending weddings. They provide the unique opportunity to drunkenly gorge yourself on fluffy cake while dancing to live bands and shamelessly flirting with other "unweds".

But this is where my attraction ends.

For whatever reason, I was never the little girl to dress-up and play "wedding" with her friends/dolls/siblings/anything that would cooperate at the "alter". I was too busy playing kick the can with the neighborhood boys, building houses for caterpillars and skinning my knees.

To this day, while some females light up during discussions of flower arrangements and dress cuts, my eyes tend to glaze over. While other females gush over cake stands at bridal showers, I can be found gazing out the window, wishing I was driving through the sunshine with wind whipping through my hair and Stevie Nicks crooning over my speakers.

I often feel like an outsider in the world of nuptials. Like an underdeveloped middle-school boy who's friends have become interested in girls overnight; he gets the attraction, he just doesn't feel it himself. Come ON guys! What's the big deal? They're just stupid GIRLS.

Maybe your mind frame changes when you meet that person who you want to stand beside at the alter. Maybe a "first dance" to a sappy, overused love song isn't so heinous when you're dancing with your perfect match. Maybe flower arrangements and dress cuts suddenly become synonymous with hope and happiness.

Or MAYBE, if I'm honest with myself, the only thing I'm truly looking forward to about my (very) future wedding is calling my mother in the midst of frenzied wedding preparations to ask if Port-a-Potty rentals will put us over budget. And then giggling as her head explodes in complete disbelief.

The Best I'll Ever Be

2007-04-25T22:13:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I said goodbye to the greatest man I’ve ever known.

My incredible granddad died unexpectedly last Friday at the age of 84. And left me shell shocked. I’m sure it’s no coincidence that my last blog post was about my love for him. If I had only known at that Easter lunch that that would be the last time I’d see him alive, I would’ve stayed for days. But instead I’m left aching to hear more of his stories. Stories that will now never be told.

My grandfather was my rock. He was one of the greatest men in the greatest generation our country has ever seen. He lived and breathed integrity. He was gentle, yet commanding. Respectful, yet vivacious. Mirthful, yet deep. He’s been the best example, the best champion, and the best friend a girl could ever hope to have.

As funerals go, his was…nice. Over 500 people came to pay their respects which was powerful to see, to know that he’d touched that many individual lives. Unfortunately, I spent the entire time feeling as if I was trapped in a fishbowl. All I wanted to do was lie in my high school bed and sob like a little girl, but I dutifully shouldered my responsibility as his oldest grandchild and welcomed his guests. I received countless hugs from virtual strangers and tried to ignore their curious stares. As if I was a battered car wreck victim being hauled into an ambulance on the side of an interstate instead of a heartbroken young woman who’s entire world had shifted overnight.

But this story isn’t all sad. Whatever your beliefs are concerning an afterlife, the strangest thing happened to me on the way to his funeral. Something that lifted me up and forever tinged my memory of him with wonder.

I left Nashville Monday morning in a cloud of misery and dread. I knew that as soon as I arrived home, his death would fade from being dreamlike into stark reality. About 45 minutes into my trip, one of my tires blew out on the interstate. I have no idea how, but I managed to guide my car to the shoulder without hitting anyone.

I sat stunned on the side of the road for a few moments and then laid my head on the steering wheel and sobbed. I couldn’t believe that such shitty luck happened on that particular day.

Just when I’d managed to pull myself together and had started out on my hike to the nearest gas station, an older man pulled up behind me in a giant moving truck.

I’m sure I looked a mess—helpless, windblown and tear-streaked. But he gave me a kind smile and in an almost unintelligible stutter, asked if he could be of assistance. I resisted the urge to throw my arms around him and simply asked if he could help me change my tire. Because I already felt like the most pitiful thing in the world, I refrained from telling him where I was headed…

In no time flat (ha!) he got me back on the road. I burbled my gratitude and offered to compensate him for his efforts, but he just smiled. As he climbed into the cab of his truck, his stutter fell away and he said clear as day, “just consider me your guardian granddad”. And with a wink, he drove away.

I stood on the side of the road in silence as a chill crept up my spine. Then I threw my head back and laughed. Coincidence or no, it was perfect. It made me feel both exhilarated and protected, just like I did as a little girl when he would toss me into the air and then catch me in his strong arms.

Robert Clay Evans, you will be missed. Missed in a way that aches and forever feels empty. But in subtle ways, your spirit still lives on. It lives on in good samaritans willing to help the helpless. It lives on in your surviving family members who will tell your priceless stories for generations to come.

It lives on in your oldest granddaughter’s heart as she continues to be your biggest fan.

Oldies But Goodies

2007-04-15T16:28:00.000-05:00

Several years ago (as shameful as this is to admit), I viewed visits to my grandparents' house as a necessary chore filled with mind-numbing questions. (What classes are you taking? Have you been to any fun dances? Are you sure you're getting enough to eat?)

I'd answer their questions robotically, all the while hoping my grandad would slip me some "gas money" on my way out the door.

But as I've grown older, I've begun viewing visits with them more as a refreshing pit-stop instead of just a speed bump on my fast-moving social calendar.

I can spend hours listening to their stories while attempting to catch glimpses of what they might've been like at my age. During rare moments, their gray hairs and wrinkles are stripped away and I'm left feeling like I'm chatting with close friends. Friends who straight up make me LAUGH.

Remember in Steel Magnolias when Clairee says, "If you can't say something nice, come sit next to me"? That's my grandmother to a tee. Especially in church. (If that woman doesn't stop showing off half her bosom, my Sunday School class just might nickname her "Trudy the Tart"...bless her little heart.)

While I have the utmost respect and awe over the great lives my grandparents have led and there is admittedly no other couple I'd rather swap gossip or old stories, it's hard not to laugh at their absolute bafflement of modern technology.

For the simple fact that I'm under the age of 50, I've been deemed their personal technology wizard. Every time I visit, they have questions about "the intranet" and lists of numbers that need to be programmed into their cell phone.

Last weekend while home for Easter, I decided it was high time they became a little technologically savvy themselves. So in a crash course of the 21st Century, I introduced them to their PICTURE PHONE (which they didn't even realize they had).

In several minutes flat, I'd snapped pictures of every family member in the room and set them to appear when each individual called. And if that didn't flabbergast them enough, I took a picture of them on their phone and text messaged it to my phone.

Judging by their amazed reaction, you'd think I set fire to the living room carpet with my eyeballs...

In the days following my "cell phone sorcery", I received multiple whispered phone calls from my grandmother to the effect of, "Can you please call me back? I'm at the Senior Center and want to see Doris' stunned face when your picture appears!"

Next up? Mastering the universal remote.

Bless their little hearts.

Team Player

2007-03-23T11:55:00.000-05:00

In an effort to recapture my youth, I've joined an adult kickball league. The season started last Wednesday and so far, it's been a blast.

There's nothing quite like rolling out your cooler and lawn chairs and sitting under the hazy evening sky while watching grown ass men make fools of themselves.

Glints of athletic glory-days-gone-by shine in these out-of-shape, overgrown boys' eyes. These are the athletic scholarship rejects, but that fact doesn't interfere with their ability to slam powerful line drives like it's their job. Their self worth is wholly dependent on their number of runs scored...

Which is really too bad considering my team is going to CRUSH THEM. Buahahahaha! We've put together the best of the best and actually have a practiced strategy to ensure wins. Plus, we have the best kickball team name ever created.

It's...wait for it..."Rubber Balls and Liquor."

Dirty, but hysterical. And continuing with our theme, our jerseys have personalized drinks emblazoned on them instead of our own boring names. (Hello. My name is: "Hypnotiq".)

Despite the marketing genius behind our team's theme, it was a tad embarrassing to actually order the shirts. When I called a local screen printing shop to place our order, an old man answered the phone and asked in the most pleasant voice possible how he be of assistance (gulp).

"Um, please don't judge me by this, but I need 14 shirts with our 'Rubber Balls and Liquor' logo on the front and individual names on the back. Starting with number double zero, name 'Buttery Nipple'..."

Lawd, do I know how to make my mama proud or what?

Ridin' Dirty

2007-03-20T16:16:00.000-05:00

About six weeks ago, I got rear-ended downtown. (I'm shocked that I didn't post some long-winded rant about sassy bitches who can't drive, but nada.)

Basically, she hit me, then threw me an attitude...which I threw right back. I'll see your huffy temper tantrum and raise you one snarky battle of wits.

To make a long story short, while our insurance companies haggle out who's fault it was (hers), my cute little Volkswagen is sitting in the repair shop. Luckily, State Farm is providing me with a rental car at no charge.

Because the rental company was short stocked the day I picked up my car, I had my choice between a tiny station wagon/tennis shoe-looking thing or a regular sedan. I opted for the sedan and chuckled when the man at Enterprise handed me keys to my brand new Chevy Impala...holla! (I definitely asked whether spinners and tinted windows came standard, or were an extra charge.)

It amuses me to no end to cruise around in this absolute boat of a car. It's like a full-size sofa on wheels with a ride so smooth a crater wouldn't rattle gramp's dentures (or Nelly's grill). An added bonus: it has a stereo system to rival the best of them.

And hey! At least it's not a minivan!

Belawha?

2007-03-14T14:47:00.000-05:00

This past Sunday was absolutely gorgeous so Stella Mae and I postponed our movie plans to take my dog to the park.

When I picked her up, Stella Mae informed me that she's not allowed to go to the park by her house because people fight there, so we opted for a safer park in my neighborhood.

Little did I know just how much entertainment we were in for...

We pulled into the parking lot just in time to hear a shrill battle cry and witness several dozen adults (in medieval costumes) charging each other. Stella Mae sat agog as swords clashed and men fell to the ground. All I could think was, "Great! She can't go to her park because people fight there and yet here we are, surrounded by men with 'battle axes'".

Surprisingly, Stella Mae wasn't put off. She opened her car door and moved closer to the fray.

We sat together for awhile and watched in utter fascination as armored men took stabs at each other with foam weapons a la 7-year-old boys. In typical 9-year-old fashion, Stella Mae asked me a million questions about the spectacle before us. (The funniest was, "Are they playing Lord of the Rings?!") Unfortunately, I couldn't answer a single one.

So to fulfill both of our curiosities, I went home and did a little research. I discovered that this wasn't just a play club for nerds, but a highly organized National Medieval Combat Society called "Belegarth". The actual name for what they do is "LARP" which stands for Live Action Role Play. Apparently, these people create character personas and interact in a fictional version of the Dark Ages.

In case you ever want to partake, you can learn how to fashion vampire fangs out of denture material here and can buy your perfect LARPing garb here. By the way, according to one website, "LARPing isn't just a game, it's a way of life." (And to find out how much of your life LARPing has consumed, you can take the purity test here.)

After overhearing a middle aged man screech, "INCOMING ARCHER", Stella Mae proclaimed, "I think these people are a little weird...I bet they didn't have many friends when they were in school."

Wow. She probably doesn't know the half of it.

Pooptastic

2007-03-06T13:06:00.000-06:00

After glancing out my office window this morning, I couldn't help but notice a filthy red car in our neighbor's parking lot:

Upon closer inspection, I realized that the white spots were not unfortunate paint splatters, but rather a shitload of bird poop. (Pardon the pun.)

Whoever drives this mess either a) lives in the middle of a bird conservatory or b) is a lazy slag who hasn't washed their car since the Reagan administration.

It made me laugh, so I thought I'd share.

Death by Saccharine

2007-03-05T16:11:00.000-06:00

Last night, after a marathon spring cleaning session, I collapsed happily on the couch just in time to catch a minute of Grease: You're the One That I Want.

Dear God, this show is absolutely awful. Basically, dippy wannabe actors and actresses are vying for starring roles in the new version of Grease! on Broadway. A good percentage of them are half-witted middle class Americans who quit their day jobs as nannies and mechanics for a shot to be famous.

Despite their plastic smiles and chipper personas, I KNOW their 1982 Datsun's are sadly filled with cigarette butts, Egg McMuffin wrappers and dated high school playbills.

Granted, Grease! in itself is a little cheesy, but this reality show competition is like The Mickey Mouse Club on crack. You don't believe me? Here's a snapshot:

If you can stand anymore, THIS contestant definitely wins the cheese prize:

My only "vote" is that this Austin fellow needs a swift kick to his dangly bits.

Sock Shock

2007-02-28T23:18:00.000-06:00

Since today showed the tiniest hint of spring, some friends and I decided to ring in our lunch breaks on the deck of a popular tex mex eatery in Nashville.

In the midst of gabbing and soaking up the sunshine, a guy friend of mine casually mentioned that he needed to start going to the tanning bed to get a “base tan” before summer officially starts.

I almost choked on my queso-covered chip.

Firstly, because this carefree guy is the last person on earth I’d imagine gracing the threshold of a tanning salon. Secondly, because…I don’t know…he has a penis?

Because I’m naturally curious and don’t often think before I speak, I blurted out, “When you go, do you cover up your junk?” (Eloquence personified.)

He informed me that after one bad burning experience, he now uses a SOCK.

I know I’m being sexist to think it’s strange/creepy for men to lay in tanning beds, but the mental image of a man lying bathed in blue light, wearing tiny baby goggles, rocking a 1990s Red Hot Chili Peppers cock sock makes me giggly…and a little ill.

Unavoidably from now on, whenever I see overly tan guys at the gym, I'll be suspicious as to exactly WHERE their socks have been...

Can You Hear That? I Think It's a Calling.

2007-02-27T00:26:00.000-06:00

Since as far back as I can remember, I’ve been told that I have a “gift”. At first I brushed it off, but my own moment of self-realization came in the 7th grade when Mrs. Napolitano sobbed awkwardly in class after reading aloud a poem I’d written. And scared me.

Unfortunately, it’s taken me a long time to appreciate this so-called “gift”.

It actually started as something I resented. In middle school, I would’ve given anything to spend my summers flirting with boys at the neighborhood pool instead of attending writer’s camp with the most socially awkward, acne-ridden pre-teens my state had to offer. From there, it merely guaranteed me star English student status in high school...and then provided an extra income as paper-writer-extraordinaire in college.

Ironically, now that I’m officially done with school and the foolish mandatory writing assignments, I ache to write.

If I’m upset, it’s the only thing that truly soothes me. If I’m angry, it’s the best way I can express myself. If I’m joyous, I’m simply drawn to my computer to effervescently burble my thoughts.

The trouble is, the popular idiom says, “write what you know”. Well, that’s wonderful for the Augusten Burroughs’ and David Sedaris’ of this world. But despite being raised in a broken home, my childhood memories are filled with dance recitals, birthday parties and sunshine. I know comfort. I know love. I know a relatively charmed life.

Not long ago, while pouring through Me Talk Pretty One Day, for a split second I actually found myself wishing I’d been born with a debilitating lisp or a lazy eye; had a manic depressive mother or severe drug addiction…anything that would set me apart from the scores of middle class humdrums overtaking our country.

Sick, right? I know. But strangely, I can’t help it. I was born to be a writer and a writer I’ll be. My smooth-sailing past just ensures I’ll have to dig a little deeper to separate myself from the pack.

Hair lip or no, I’m determined to be brilliant.

Laugh Out Loud

2007-02-23T16:36:00.000-06:00

I saw this on my way to Knoxville yesterday and HAD to slow down to take a picture:

Who says truck drivers aren't gentlemen? At least he said please...

Ring Fever

2007-02-21T17:20:00.001-06:00

Several days ago, a girl I know from high school got engaged. She’s thrilled and I’m happy that she is…but the whole thing troubles me. Mainly because she has been so desperate for her boyfriend to propose that she booked a church in advance—twice. When confronted with the fact that by having to push him down the aisle, he may not be right for her, her response was, “But I don’t want to have to start over.”

Are you kidding me? A beautiful girl is scared to “start over” at the impossibly young age of 24? Is she so scared of being ringless for a little while longer that she’d sacrifice the rest of her life’s happiness by settling for the wrong man?

I honestly don’t know what it is with young women in this country—especially those south of the Mason Dixon. Too many seem to be operating under the misconception that their life will officially begin or that they will have “arrived” as soon as they have a ring on their finger.

Reality check: your life is happening in the here and now and by focusing your hopes and dreams on a fictional fairytale marriage in the future, not only are you setting yourself up for major disappointment, you’re wasting what precious time you have here by not enjoying it to the fullest.

A good friend of mine called off an engagement the summer after we graduated. Thankfully, she had the maturity and decisiveness to see that the relationship wasn’t right and ended it before they got in too deep. It takes a strong woman to openly admit a mistake and then fix it—and I have nothing but respect for her as a result.

Considering the scary statistics about marriages lasting in this day and age, I can’t figure out why anyone would want to rush into it.

Right now, marriage is so far off in my future it’s almost laughable—the thought of planning a wedding makes me break into hives. At this point, all I know is that I’m going to hold out until someone incredible comes along…someone who makes me unable to imagine my life without them.

Bottomline: it’s just a ring. Granted, a pretty, sparkly ring…but still just a ring. What sense does it make to sacrifice your independence, happiness and future for something you can easily buy for yourself?

Home, Sweet Home

2007-02-17T20:33:00.000-06:00

In light of my friend’s recent loss, I decided to come home for the weekend to spend a little time with my family. I don’t get to see them often so it’s always a treat…and always interesting…when I do.

Priceless highlights of this trip:

1) My mom definitely said (in front of several family members), “Now, I don’t mean to pry into your personal life…but I’ve seen so many news stories about the bad side effects of the birth control patch that I hope you’re not using it!”

Wow, thanks mom. My sex life is exactly what I want brought up in front of my grandfather.

2) This afternoon I was drug to a women’s luncheon at our church and forced to make small talk against my will.

While sitting with my grandmother and some of her friends, the topic inevitably turned to my love life and lack of husband. (Since they were all happily married by the ripe old age of 19, my singledom at 23 makes me seem “adventurous” and “saucy”.) Because she rarely monitors what comes out of her mouth, my grandmother asked at top volume, how many "young bucks" I’d "seduced" lately.

The fellowship hall fell silent as everyone turned and looked at me. I tittered nervously, proclaimed that “seduce” was a very strong word and wondered how long I could hide under the table without being missed.

3) At dinner tonight, my dad told me a funny story about his experience in the waiting room at the local Ford dealership. He said he was sitting on the couch next to several men, feeling like he’d walked straight into an episode of King of the Hill, when the “white trashiest” woman he’d ever seen walked in wearing a lace top…with no bra. To quote, “You’d think those poor men had been in lockdown for 25 years the way they reacted over Bobbi Jo’s saggy nipples. I had to excuse myself to the restroom so I wouldn’t throw up in my mouth.”

I laughed so hard that I choked on my beer. And then desperately hoped to never hear my dad utter the word “nipples” ever again.

Reasons to Be Dateless on Valentine's Day

2007-02-15T16:19:00.000-06:00

Reason #1:
Good Friends

Reason #2:
More Good Friends

Reason #3:
Free Pitchers of Beer

Reason #4:
Acting Like Goobers in Public...

Reason #5:
...And It Being Acceptable

Reason #6:
You Don't Have to Choose Just One. Holla!

Valentine, Schmalentine.

2007-02-14T16:30:00.000-06:00

As awkward as this is to admit, this is my first official Valentine's Day without a boyfriend/admirer since uh, high school.

Truthfully, I've never cared much for this holiday, even when I had a suitor. I think the root of my dislike started in the 2nd grade when a wretched little boy named Trey gave every single person in our class a Thundercats Valentine BUT me. (And now he's fat, so...in his face.)

Because of the absence of a beau this year, I'd been dreading the big V-Day a little more than usual. But when my alarm went off this morning and I stumbled into the bathroom, I met my own gaze in the mirror...and GRINNED. And then laughed out loud because I'd fully expected to feel dread.

And it's been uphill ever since. I've gotten flowers, cards, candy and my email has been flooded with sweet messages. Granted, no boyfriend...but I've never felt so loved. (Life lesson perhaps?)

To top things off, as soon as I get off work I'm heading out to celebrate with an amazing group of friends over trivia and 2-for-1 beers.

Because when you get right down to it, nothing says "Happy Valentine's Day" quite like fried food, free pitchers and whipping ass with your random knowledge...

Gramnation

2007-02-12T23:27:00.000-06:00

Like the rest of the pop-culture crazed country, I sat through hours of last night's Grammy entertainment. Not to be insensitive, but when it came to the long-winded tributes and boring performances (read: James Blunt), thank God for Tivo!

The only thing that truly struck me (in between fast forwarding) was the uncanny resemblance between certain Grammy stars and other famous faces.

Exhibit A:
The drummer for The Police (who sounded like they were performing karaoke at a dive bar):
...looks like a strangely anorexic version of THIS man:
Exhibit B:
While some might argue that this man was hot during his "Your Body is a Wonderland" days, now...notsomuch:

...he unfortunately resembles this freak-of-nature:

Exhibit C:
Personally, I'd rather listen to my landlord's porn tapes than James Blunt:
Which is why I cackled gleefully upon discovering his resemblance to Napoleon Dynamite:

Slightly uncanny, no?

The only other thing I took away from watching the Grammys was the burning desire to see Justin Timberlake perform live. So in a fit of ill-repressed longing, my roommate and I impulsively purchased tickets to his March 16th show in Nashville.

Which means that in a little over a month, I'll be among the sea of irritatingly rabid females vying for a place in his pants as he does this:

The groupie whores can scream, salivate and storm his tour bus all they want. The only reason I'm going is to watch that boy DANCE.

The Grass is Blue

2007-02-08T00:12:00.000-06:00

Naively, I’ve always assumed that my parents would be here indefinitely. I’ve never existed without them…I wouldn’t know how to begin.

The past week has been nothing but a lesson in how much I personally take for granted. In the last several days, two of my friends’ fathers have died. My inner self rages at the fact that I’m not old enough to have friends with dying parents…but I am. Strangely, I am.

When did this happen? When was the exact moment where I turned from a blissfully comfortable youth to an adult who’s expected to say the right things when a friend calls, lost and brokenhearted over someone I’ll never be able to replace?

I’m driving to Memphis today to scoop up a shattered friend and hold her close to my heart. And I’ve never felt so helpless in my life. I’d give anything in this world to make things okay for her, but I can’t. All I can do is be there. To listen, to hold her, to stand with her at the graveside as she says goodbye to the most important man in her life.

I can’t even begin to fathom what she’s going through. And I’ve tried…but it’s like trying to imagine being colorblind or paralyzed. You can’t comprehend until you yourself have been there.

I just can’t dream up a life without my wonderful father. To not be able to call him when I hear a funny noise from my car. To not be able to tell him a joke I know will make him belly laugh. To not have random phone calls from him just to "check on his favorite big city girl". To not be able to run to him if a stupid boy is careless with my heart. To not have him walk me down the aisle when I meet that one boy who isn’t.

The song that’s been constantly running through my head says it better than I could ever hope to try:

I just can’t make it one day without you
Unless I pretend that the opposite’s true
Rivers flow backwards
Valleys are high
Mountains are level
Truth is a lie
I’m perfectly fine
I won’t miss you
And the sky is green
And the grass is blue

Blind(ish) Date

2007-02-02T14:31:00.000-06:00

My mother is officially a nutjob.

Yesterday, she calls me at work and the first words out of her mouth are, "I hope you don't hate me for this one..."

Never good.

She then proceeds to tell me that a young guy in her office saw my picture on her desk and asked if I was her daughter. She told him yes and that I live in Nashville, am gorgeous, intelligent and witty (I'm assuming the last part...)

He then tells her that he has brother-in-law in Nashville who is amazing and somehow single...

And now the two are in cahoots to set us up on a blind date.

After being informed of this fact, I emitted a loud groan and told her that if she wanted to try her hand at becoming a yenta, she should visit the nearest synagogue and leave me out of it.

Being my typical mother, she ignored my complaints and told me to hear her out. She goes on and on about this fabulous guy who is in his late 20s, has a loft downtown, loves dogs, yada yada yada.

Then, almost as an afterthought, she adds, "Oh, and he plays hockey...for the preda...?"

"You mean the PREDATORS? As in, the team holding the top spot in the NHL western conference?"

"Yep! That's the one! We've already emailed him your picture!"

Lawd. My mother's done gone and set me up with a bonafide professional athlete. It's unsettling.

Being a hockey player, I'm just hoping he has all of his teeth. If he has less than two thirds, I swear I won't speak to my mother for a week.

Danger Zone

2007-01-30T00:34:00.000-06:00

This new MacBook might be a bad thing.

It's almost 1:00 in the morning and I'm laying on my bed, happily humming along to Ben Taylor while playing on the internet.

For the last hour, my dog has given countless exasperated sighs because I'm keeping her up. But who needs sleep when they have wireless internet? That you can access while being horizontal?

(If I begin to look like a meth addict in withdrawal, please intervene. I may come at you like a spider monkey, but I'm sure I'll thank you...someday.)

Spotlight Hog

2007-01-28T21:15:00.000-06:00

I'm not sure why, but after three adult beverages, I am magnetically attracted to stages and microphones. They're like homing beacons. My peripherial vision completely shuts down and all I can see is the magnificent stage before me, cast in an angelic glow (cue trumpets).

Last night was no exception. The minute I walked into Wannabe's, I burned with desire to get behind that karaoke mic. Luckily, the DJ bumped me up and I didn't have to wait long, but it felt like an eternity.

When I'm in this mind frame, I also tend to make friends with everyone. Which is why I found myself singing multiple songs with random people like I'd known them forever. All it took was a simple finger crook from someone singing and I was on that stage in a heartbeat. (Several times without an invitation.) I sang some cheesy country song with a bachelorette party, a rap song with a group of college dudes and a power ballad with a gay black man. And loved every minute of it.

This morning, some friends and I were laughing about the previous night's adventures when someone brought up something I had no recollection of. Confused, I asked where I'd been when it happened. The response back was something to the effect of, "Um, I think you were singing that John Mellencamp song with that old dude."

Niiiiice.

I've decided that I need to ease up on this chummy performance behavior. Because it's just plain not nice to take over when someone has been waiting patiently for their favorite song to be played.

It just makes it hard when despite crashing his song, the gay black man begged me to stay and sing the "Summer Nights" duet from Grease with him.

Fuel to the FIRE.

The Computer Elite

2007-01-27T13:56:00.000-06:00

This is officially my first post on my brand new MacBook. And it's amazing.

Last night, I went into the Apple store, found the nearest hipster dude and told him that I was going to buy a computer from him. His face lit up at the easy sale and he walked me through the specs. Fifteen minutes later, I left the store excitedly clutching my (gulp) $1,500 investment.

In true geek fashion, we had some friends over last night, but I spent most of my time sitting at our dining room table gasping in delight and yelling at them to "come look at what my fabulous Mac can do!"

This MacBook has pretty much made my life. It's got everything I could ever need...including Photoshop. (Which means that there might be some hysterically altered pictures of my friends floating around the internet soon.) After playing on it for several hours straight, I can't see why anyone would intentionally choose a PC. Blech.

I had a conversation with a guy several weeks ago that pretty much sums it up. I mentioned that I was in the market for a new Mac and he straight up said to my face, "Oh...you're one of those."

THOSE? Excuse me?

So I straight up said to his face, "Oh, do you mean cooler than you? Because yeah, pretty much."

Note to Self

2007-01-24T15:40:00.000-06:00

I will never go to the grocery store drunk ever again.

Last night, after having my fair share of free beers at a Junior Chamber meeting, I decided to swing by Kroger for a "few things". Which somehow turned into $103 worth.

I happily hummed as a pushed my buggy through the aisles and apparently grabbed anything that appealed to me in the moment.

Which is why I now have a family-size jar of queso and several boxes of Little Debbies sitting in my pantry. Sweeeeet.

I did manage to make friends with the guy next to me at the self-checkout station though. Together, we made fun of the automated lady's robotic voice and laughed out loud when she screwed up. I think he was secretly impressed to discover an attractive female with enough junk food to feed a fraternity house.

Too bad I didn't get his number. I could have had him over for more chicken wings and snack cakes than he could possibly handle.

Public Service Announcement

2007-01-23T14:51:00.000-06:00

What is it with men who wear their work socks at the gym? Every single time I work out, there's guaranteed to be at least one male sporting dress socks with their running shoes.

It baffles me.

Granted, I'm never the most fashionably dressed person at the gym (mainly because I work out at the posh Green Hills Y and there is always at least one breast-implanted housewife in ridiculous amounts of matching spandex), but at least my attire is "gym appropriate".

Argyle socks, on the other hand, don't belong anywhere near a treadmill.

I've yet to figure out if these men are simple fashionably ignorant or they just plain don't care. Whatever the reason, it's downright impossible to look hot doing hammer curls in the full-length mirror when you're sporting merino dress socks.

So men, I know it's hard to remember to throw a pair of gym socks into your gym bag before you leave for work in the mornings...but make the effort. Please.

Or else I just might be forced to snicker openly at you.

Dream, Realized.

2007-01-22T15:05:00.000-06:00

Much to my delight, Stacy got us free tickets to last night's Dancing with the Stars TOUR.

Don't get me wrong, I'm typically the last person to get excited about such lameness, but this was a tad bit different. Namely, because Joey Lawrence was being featured.

After laughing hysterically (and constantly rewinding the Tivo) for three months straight, I just HAD to see him (and his flamboyant dance moves) in real-live action.

It was everything I dreamed it would be...and more.

He (and his butterface partner) quickstepped, jived, tangoed and mamboed their little hearts out:

Fortunately for you, since his glory can't be fully captured in a picture alone, I also made a little video on my digital camera (I know it's a little blurry and he sort of looks like a talented Mr. Clean, but you get the idea):

Every single time he took the stage, uncontrollable laughter would bubble up inside me. I couldn't help but wonder what my 12-year-old self would've thought had she been sitting in my place. Guaranteed, she would have been at first elated to actually be breathing the same air as Joey...and then increasingly horrified as he started up his hip gyrations to "Crazy In Love".

So, after watching him for several hours, I've decided three things:

Joey should never be handed a microphone without a script being involved--his dorky ramblings and ill-timed jokes were downright embarrassing to watch;
Every time Joey buys a button-down shirt, he must snip off the top three buttons. (I mean, what's the point of waxing your entire body if you can't show off the handiwork?);
I will never, EVER date a man who can do the splits. It's unnatural and downright disturbing to behold. No matter how great he is, that particular talent is a definite dealbreaker. Period.

Satisfaction

2007-01-17T15:53:00.000-06:00

I made a huge step into adulthood today: for the first time ever, I filed my own taxes online.

Can I get a hell yes?

Truthfully, I was a little nervous at first. When my w-2 arrived last week, I glanced at it and then promptly shoved it in a desk drawer, where it might've stayed (until April 14) had a friend not sent me a link to an easy do-it-yourself tax filing site.

Figuring it was something that had to be done eventually (my feisty grandmother has always said, "The only things I HAVE to do are die and pay taxes!"), I decided to bite the bullet.

The website led me through a series of simple questions and bada bing! My hefty check is now on its way...

Shiny, new MacBook, here I come.

One interesting observation: after a few initial background questions, a text box appeared that read, "Click here if you are blind."

Um, seriously? Because if you really are blind a) how did you navigate the website far enough for the text box to appear and b) how would you read it to click on it?

Anybody have a clue?

I was honestly tempted to click it just to see what would happen...

Neckfest 2K7

2007-01-15T16:21:00.000-06:00

In a moment of true inspiration, some friends and I decided to grace Silverado's with our presence Saturday night. Granted, it's not a place we frequent often (or ever), but you really can't beat $7 all-you-can-drink longnecks.

Before we'd even gotten INTO the bar, we witnessed a woman screaming hysterically and slapping a barrel-chested man in the parking lot. (I dared Greg to roll down his window and politely ask if they were leaving and could we have their spot, but no dice.)

Once in the bar, beer in hand, the fun ensued.

The best possible way to amuse yourself at a dive like Silverado's is to have a "Redneck Photo Scavenger Hunt". Yes, you read that right. The object is to come up with a list of the funniest, most stereotypically redneck things and take pictures of them once found. But this requires extreme stealth.

All in all, we didn't do too badly. We found a solid 6 out of 10:

1) A man in jeans so tight, he has a permanent wedgie:

2) Tackiest dressed person (yes, that is in fact a prom dress with cowboy boots):

3) Little man in a big hat:

4) Big man in a little hat:

5) Least hygienic person (yes, that is definitely back sweat...and Chad's loving it):

6) A non-Hispanic minority (this man's presence impressed us):

For whatever reason, we couldn't seem to find: 7) a pregnant lady smoking, 8) a mullet 9) huge female hair and 10) a couple who shouldn't procreate (mainly because we couldn't agree on a winner for it).

In between photo ops, we tried our hand on the dance floor...where we managed to piss some folks off with our complete lack of coordination. Several hours later, after laughing our heads off and sweating profusely, we decided to brave Decades.

Let me tell you, after the redneckness of Silverado's, I've never in my life felt more at home dancing to a Michael Jackson song while holding a fishbowl.

Despite the fact I was still wearing shit kickers.

Only the Lonely

2007-01-11T15:47:00.000-06:00

Several months ago, a singles hotline service moved into the office space next door.

Admittedly, my coworkers and I shared a few giggles when their sign went up. We spent weeks speculating with our neighbors about whether it was actually for legit matchmaking, or just a classy escort service. (Our suspicions were further raised upon discovering that their office didn't open until mid-afternoon.)

I tried peering through their window several times in an attempt to figure out what kind of operation they were running. I had images of fat, chain-smoking, pimply-faced women lined up, moaning heavily into phones. But all I ever saw was a classy-looking waiting area with fresh flowers and an overstuffed leather couch.

Not satisfied, my coworkers and I decided we had to get to the bottom of things. So in a mature, but brilliant fashion, we prank called them.

Of course.

Several of us gathered in one office and dialed the number. It rang several times before an overly-chipper man answered. His perky, feminine voice almost caused us to lose our cool, but we forged ahead.

We pretended to be "Tiffany" who just wanted to find herself a "decent man". Chipper McChipperson informed us that we'd come to the RIGHT PLACE! He started his spiel about their dating service: they're a quality company that operates with discretion and ensures total safety.

"And how is that?" we asked.

Come to find out, not only do they run mandatory background checks on every applicant, but you also have to be cleared by your doctor as being "STD free" before a match can ensue. (We punched the mute button a split second before exploding in laughter.)

After regaining composure, we thanked the man and told him we'd consider booking an "in-person goal match meeting and video interview" at a later date.

Now, whenever I pass by their office and one of the hotline workers is outside smoking, I have to resist the urge to slink past without making eye contact. A small part of me feels like they KNOW that we called...even though my rational side tells me that's ridiculous.

So I paste on a bright smile and make friendly chatter.

Don't judge, but I'm secretly hoping to befriend one of them enough so that we can get drunk and watch all the weird interview tapes together. I'm pretty sure we'd stumble upon at least one of the creepy dudes who's hit on me in bars.

Or even my landlord.

Holy Mess

2007-01-08T16:19:00.000-06:00

Yesterday, my roommate and I decided we'd put an end to our long-running hedonistic streak and actually went to church. (We definitely high-fived as we pulled out of the driveway for being both up and dressed at 10:45 on a weekend morning.)

Not having a clue where to go, we decided to try a newly-built church located several blocks from our house.

Surprisingly, I loved it. Especially once I saw the church's motto emblazoned on a sign near the door: "We welcome you to join us in our journey of faith, regardless of age, race, gender, sexual orientation, economic or family status, ethnic background, mental or physical disabilities."

In my opinion, that's exactly how a church--and it's congregation--should be.

As we were waiting for the service to start, an attractive middle-aged man slid into the pew next to me. He flashed me a smile and asked me my name. So I told him.

Halfway through the service, he leaned over to ask me a question. Two minutes later, he asked another one. I politely told him that I didn't know much about the church, being it was my first time there. But that only shut him up temporarily.

Not five seconds after the service ended, he bombarded me with the typical questions: where are you from, how long have you lived here, blah, blah, blah.

We discovered that we lived within a block of each other and that he was a first-time church visitor as well.

Before I could politely excuse myself to follow my retreating roommate, he said (and I quote): "I was a member at another church for 10 years, but recently got excommunicated. Long story...it has to do with my psycho ex-wife. Hey! Since we live so close, why don't we get together sometime?"

I paused for a few seconds, staring at him in utter disbelief.

The first response that rushed to mind was, "Um...do you have a mental illness? Because what came out of your mouth just now was crazy talk."

Due to my holy location, I put my sassypants attitude in check and managed, "Or...maybe I'll just see you around church sometime..."

Or...maybe not.

Easy There, Badass

2007-01-06T16:16:00.000-06:00

New New Year's resolution:

Stop taking straight shots of whiskey.

Because the end result is never a good thing. Ever. No matter how amazing the idea seems at the time. Or how much peer pressure you're getting.

All I can say is, it's a really good thing I don't embarrass easily. If I did, the good ole JD would've put me in a world of pain...

A Wii Bit O'Fun

2007-01-04T15:12:00.000-06:00

I know this might qualify me as a card-carrying member of the geek squad, but I've discovered that I really like to play party games. Board games, drinking games, you name it...if it involves a group of friends and my competitive spirit, I'm all over it.

Wednesday has become one of my favorite nights of the week due solely to trivia at Sam's. There's just nothing like drinking pitchers and firing off random knowledge with friends to make an evening magical.

Last night, eight of us showed up early to a) ensure we got a good booth and b) gorge on chicken tenders. A short while later, the judges arrived and started setting up their equipment. We'd already decided on a fabulous team name ("Dick-in-a-Box": both funny and timely!) and were ready to rock the house right.

8 o'clock came and went. About ten minutes past, I marched myself up to the judges' table and inquired as to the delay. They informed me that Sam's had just barred everyone from playing because it would "interfere" with the damn Sugar Bowl.

Well, I wasn't having that. I'd shown up ready for some trivia and damnit, trivia was going to happen. So I rounded up the crew and we headed back to my house for a makeshift game of our own.

After setting up the Trivial Pursuit board, rigging up the karaoke mic and dividing into teams, we were all set for a little healthy rivalry. Which turned into a solid three hours o'fun. So "game night" just might become a regular occurrence.

(Yes, I do realize I sound eerily like a 75-year-old woman living in a mobile home retirement community in Central Florida. Shuffleboard, anyone?)

Speaking of games (and since I've already let slip a little of my inner geekiness), I kind of want a Wii.

No lie.

Because it honestly looks like a lot of fun...AND you can get exercise at the same time! (At least enough to warrant this.)

The only drawback? Feeling like an idiot in your own living room while you do this:

There. It's out. I'm officially a dork.

Next up: World of Warcraft and the quest for The Sword of a Thousand Truths.

Sketchwads

2007-01-03T15:49:00.000-06:00

For some reason, unbeknownst to me, I tend to attract the creepiest people in bars. Guaranteed. It's like I give off their pheromones.

And it's getting ridiculous. Just recently I've had:

A socially awkward guy pull quarters "out of my ears" to pay for a drink;
A guy try to convince me that he was Elvis in a past life and that I was most certainly Ann Margaret;
An old man serenade me with a George Jones ballad...while on his knees.

But that's just scratching the surface.

I've actually got photo documentation of one of these oddballs in action.

Last week, I took my roommate out for her birthday and we ended the night with a little stage action at Wannabe's. There we were, happily singing our hearts out when a strange man approached with a camera. Being a natural ham, I decided to play along with it.

BAD Idea:

Because he appeared in EVERY SINGLE ONE of our pictures...from DIFFERENT ANGLES:

As soon as we left the stage, he stopped us to ask if we'd be in his "video":

And this was our response (note my roommate "hiding" by pressing her face into the wall):

Question #1: WHY does this man want 25 pictures of random girls singing?
Question #2: WHAT is he planning to do with them?

I can't figure out whether I should be semi-flattered (as in, it's only because I'm attractive, approachable, etc.) or devastated (do these creep shows actually think they have a chance?!)

Whatever it is, I'm definitely switching my perfume.

So She's a Jolly Good Feller

2007-01-02T16:12:00.000-06:00

It's hard to believe that it's already 2007. Part of me still feels like it's 2005.

I usually feel wistful about saying goodbye to an old year, but this year I feel ambivalent. 2006 was...interesting. To say the least. Some parts were amazing, and some were...not so amazing.

In the past year, I stumbled upon incredible new friendships and rekindled some old ones. I also lost a friend or two, but found myself along the way.

I got my heart broken. But because of it, I learned to love myself completely.

I discovered (the hard way) that being a good human being doesn't always guarantee good fortune. But that you should still strive to be one anyway.

I proved to myself that I could stand on my own two feet, alone. But had a mild panic attack or two in the process.

I realized that it rarely matters what anyone else thinks.

I learned that true happiness has nothing to do with your circumstances.

I became me.

So, my goals for 2007, blah, blah, blah:

Become a banjo prodigy (shoot for the stars, right?)
Practice selflessness on a daily basis.
Try something new that scares me to death. (Sky dive? Write a regular column for a major publication?)
Stop making snap judgements.
Invest in one of these.
Write a book.

Here's hoping that 2007 proves fantastic.

Or at least a little more even keel.

Hold Onto Your Panties Nashville...

2006-12-29T19:36:00.000-06:00

It's finally happened. I got a banjo for Christmas...and am completely in love with it.
I'd mentioned to my dad that it was on my life list to eventually learn one day and he took it upon himself to speed up the process. (I'm pretty sure I squealed in giddy delight when he produced it from the bed of his truck.)

Last night, I tried out the instructional DVDs that came with it. Let's just say that this is going to be some serious hard work. Mainly because I was cussing within the first 15 minutes. And my fingers definitely cramped up.

Luckily, I'm all set to take lessons from a local banjo prodigy. Which means I'll (hopefully) be able to bang out "Rocky Top" in no time.

The one thing I lack is a suitable name for my new instrument. It needs to be both 1) feminine and 2) hickish. So far, I've thought of Tallulah, Annabelle and Faylene. But none of those seem quite right.

So I'm opening the floor for suggestions. If your entry is the one that I choose, I'll dedicate my first album to you. Swear.

Family Ties

2006-12-27T19:08:00.000-06:00

To be completely honest, I'd been dreading being back home for five solid days over the holidays. I just knew I'd be climbing the walls within the first few hours. But much to my surprise, I found myself feeling wistful as I merged north onto I-24 today.

This Christmas, I discovered a new found appreciation for my family. They're definitely not perfect, but they're incredible in their own way and...they're mine.

My dad's family is goofy, yet amazing. Several years ago, we decided we needed to spice up our bland Christmas dinner and that's when the Dirtiest Santa tradition began. In a slight twist, the object of our game is to pick out the absolute worst gift you can find to exchange. This year was unparalleled...we belly laughed as my outdoorsy dad opened a glittery Precious Moments figurine and my cousin got a year's supply of cough drops.

But the funniest moment of the night was when my great uncle Alan grouped us together for a family photo and shouted, "On the count of three say...SEX!" (Needless to say, the resulting picture was priceless.)

On Saturday, as my mom's family gathered for the annual Evans clan Christmas dinner, a group of us arrived early to help cook, set tables, etc. In the boisterous spirit of my family, we cut up while we worked. At one point, I looked around at the three generations of women hooting in shared laughter and my heart swelled. In that moment, it hit me how fortunate I am to have been raised in their incredible shadows. And how amazing it feels to now be privy to their inside jokes and stories.

Maybe it has to do with getting older and gaining maturity, but in the last year, it's really hit home how important my family is to me. They've been there through my hard times and have made me laugh along the way. They are who I call when I'm sad and lost...or when I'm bursting with exciting news. Their open arms have provided more support and assurance than I'll ever be able to repay.

Plus they're downright hysterical and have taught me the meaning of a good time. For example, several of my aunts decided to go for Mexican before attending the Christmas Eve church service. Three pitchers of margaritas later, they were feeling great...and were primed to ham up some Christmas carols. I shook with silent laughter as they (loudly) spiced up the songs in the middle of the church service. Joy to the World (WOO!!), the Lord has Come (WOO WOO!!)

Later that night, we gathered back at my aunt's house and amused ourselves by taking hysterical, deformed pictures with a program on my cousin's new iMac. Here are some of the gems:

We're threatening to feature one of them as next year's Christmas card. We just have to figure out how to pull it off without causing my grandmother to have a minor seizure.

So...I hope you had as fabulous of a holiday as I did. And that your family is half as special (in more ways than one) as mine...

But somehow, looking at these pictures, I highly doubt it.

Under Pressure

2006-12-22T11:00:00.000-06:00

I'm too susceptible to peer pressure.

Last night, some coworkers and I decided we'd grab a "quick" drink at Acorn after work to celebrate an ex-coworker being home from New York City.

My original plan had been to grab a drink, do laundry, give my dog a bath, wrap presents and pack.

Ha.

Five hours later, we'd progressed to a new bar and picked up an entire crew of people--one of whom regaled me with stories of Tokyo and taught me dirty phrases in Japanese. (Zakennayo baka yaro!)

After 5 hours spent swilling mojitos and eating tapas, I decided I had to go home. Where I proceeded to pass out on my bed in a blurry exhaustion.

This morning I woke up with a slight headache and a hint of guilt. I'm supposed to be leaving for home after work today, but I'm nowhere near being ready. Which means I might be forced to drag dirty laundry home like a destitute college student.

The problem is, my boss informed us this morning that we're shutting down the office at noon for a holiday lunch/drinking celebration. Which will make my packing/expedition home quite interesting...

You'd THINK I Was Making This Up

2006-12-19T14:45:00.000-06:00

Just when I decide the landlord situation can't possibly get any weirder, it does.

Last night, I'd been home from work less than ten minutes when there was a knock on our back door. When I opened it, lo and behold, the landlord was standing there looking both smug and tan.

I managed, "Oh...you're back," in the most monotone, shoot-me-in-the-face voice I could possibly muster.

He grinned, told me he wanted to show my roommate and me something and presented us with a shopping bag of jewelry that he'd just bought for "his new babe in Naples".

(Apparently, when not serving time, he met a "German veterinarian with platinum hair down to her ass" and has decided that she's "the one". And just in case you were curious, he doesn't yet "know her in the Biblical sense, but judging by her dance moves, she'll be extremely athletic in the bedroom".) BLECH.

He then insisted on showing us her picture in his email. Not knowing how to avoid it, we begrudgingly followed him into his side and stood silently while he booted up his computer.

All of the sudden, the desktop wallpaper appeared.

And it was definitely a picture of the ex-fiance, topless, in some crazy, dominatrix-style stirrup getup, bent over their kitchen counter.

Honestly, everything gets a little blurry at this point--which is apparently what happens when you go into shock. I do remember him muttering, "Oh shit! I'm sorry! You weren't supposed to see that!" and me shielding my eyes in horror.

After regaining my wits and saying, "On that note, we have to get to the grocery store," we fled to the safety of our side.

We'd barely closed our door before dive bombing onto my roommate's bed and dissolving into hysterics. We lay there and shook with laughter until tears streamed down our faces. Once we finally regained our ability to breathe, we decided that a) that was singlehandedly the most awkward moment of our lives and b) our friends might not believe us.

I keep thinking it can't get worse, but it inevitably does. So what could possibly be next? Discovering him in the backyard with a prostitute? Him getting hammered and knocking on our door naked? Oh, to think what the future might hold...

On a positive note, the creepo is (thank God) planning to move to Naples in January. He asked us if we would help find a renter, so if anyone is interested in renting out his side (after a good bleach dousing), please inquire within. If I have my say, the screening process will be quite extensive.

Recap

2006-12-18T15:36:00.000-06:00

This weekend was...interesting (but fabulous). I don't think "random" even begins to describe it...

Friday evening, Stacy and I found ourselves trolling the city for tacky Christmas sweaters. Goodwill had unfortunately been picked over, but we struck gold at Burlington Coat Factory. (Can you say 3-D padded Christmas bears with sequined scarves?)

For some reason, the checkouts were swamped and we were forced to wait 15 minutes in line by a display of men's thongs...and shook with silent laughter as we saw selections being made by 1) a 300 pound man and 2) a Mennonite-looking grandmother.

Several hours later, we showed up at the party fully bedecked in our holiday tackiness, gorged on Jello shots and howled at the horrible outfits. Sometime before midnight, we decided it'd be a great idea to progress (still tackily bedecked) to the bar to meet friends. After a brief stop at Code Blue (never again), we found ourselves at Tin Roof.

Let me tell you, there's nothing like wearing a chintzy mom sweater to meet people...we were high-fived and bought shots all night. Which caused the dance floor action to be incredible, but blurry.

Saturday, my dad came in town for a family friend's Bluegrass Pickin' Christmas Shindig. There was a bonfire, the wine flowed freely, and I met some truly interesting people. In the span of several hours, I made friends with a traveling Spanish teacher, a land conservationist, a Medieval reenactor and a lasso expert. And despite our obvious differences, we got along famously.

But the best part of the evening was--hands down--the music. The host of the party was apparently pretty well connected in "the industry" because I hung out with several members of Old Crow Medicine Show, who just showed up to "pick". It was incredible. I honestly could've sat happily by the fire and listened to them for hours...

Despite the long night, Sunday morning found me rounding up cattle on my aunt's farm in White Bluff. Where everything went smoothly until a steer ran me up a fence.

The important things I've taken away from this weekend:

Just because I love animals, it doesn't always mean they'll love me back.
I must learn to play the banjo (maybe one of my new OCMS buddies can help...)
Unattractive people buy skanky lingerie too. Which they'll hopefully keep to themselves.

For Heaven's Seiko

2006-12-15T10:20:00.000-06:00

There is a new commercial on TV that makes me livid. I have to change the channel whenever it comes on. The ad is for Seiko and the tagline is, "It's your watch that tells the most about who you are".

Could they be more blatantly materialistic if they tried? All a fancy watch says about you is that you dropped some cash for it. Which anyone can do. There are no personality traits involved in that kind of retail exchange. And I have a great story to prove it.

Yesterday evening, I was a tad upset and therefore found myself wandering the Davis Kidd bookstore. There's something about being among crisp, unopened books with their colorful covers and distinct smells that tends to soothe my soul. I meander aimlessly through aisles, imagining that my book will someday be among the decorative displays...and the mere thought uplifts me.

Last night, after meandering and thumbing through books for a good hour, I spotted a Christmas tree in the corner covered in paper ornaments. Upon closer inspection, I discovered that each ornament had a kid's name and reading level. There was a small sign indicating that if you bought a book for the intended child, they would not only deliver it for you, but give you 20% off your total purchase as well. Thinking it was a great idea, I chose a 1st grade girl and headed to the kid's section.

After much perusal on my part, I settled on a book about a cow named Minnie and headed to the register.

There was an elderly woman behind the counter who looked quizzically at me when I handed her my book. She asked if it was all I was getting. A little confused, I hesitantly told her it was.

Her face lit up and she said, "You know, it's amazing how many people walk right past that tree because they're only concerned about what they're buying for themselves. And yet you didn't get a single other thing."

Slightly embarrassed, I stammered that it wasn't a big deal, just $5. But she stopped me and said, "Just in case you haven't been told lately, you're a wonderful human being."

Tears flooded my eyes and I thanked her. And told her how much her kind words meant to me in that moment.

I left that store with a new perspective. Most people know that in this so-called "Season of Giving", it's important to give what you can to those less fortunate than you. But in the busyness of the season, we often forget to express our appreciation as well.

That checkout lady could have rung me up without saying a word, but instead, she chose to make me feel valued. And in that moment of feeling down, those simple words meant the absolute world to me. Those simple words told me so much about who she is.

And I guarantee she wasn't wearing a Seiko watch.

T.M.I.

2006-12-14T14:52:00.000-06:00

As I was leaving the house this morning, I ran into the landlord's ex-fiance in the hallway. I attempted to slip back into my side for "something I forgot", but she'd already cornered me.

She held up a pair of women's pajama pants she'd found in his side and demanded to know if they were mine or my roommate's. They weren't.

With that awkwardness out of the way, I inquired as to whether she'd heard from her ex and whether or not he posted bail.

He apparently has, but can't leave the county until his court date. So, according to her, he's currently in Naples "living like a playboy" until then.

Being an obvious glutton for punishment, I asked her what she meant.

She informed me that he sent her a picture message several days ago of him at a Swinger's Club. And there were "many bare breasts" in the picture. (Which he'd sweetly captioned with "You're sure missing a good time!")

I'm assuming the shock/horror on my face was evident because the very next sentence out of her mouth was, "Oh, this shouldn't surprise you! When I still lived here, there'd be nights I'd hear his desk chair squeaking and find him jacking off to live internet orgies...it was a major problem in our relationship."

I. Was. Completely. Agog.

Granted, I've known he was a dirty pervert...but that's just not something you expect to hear spoken out loud at 8:30 in the morning.

I numbly mumbled some excuse about being late for work and scooted out the door. And tried to choke down my rising bile the entire way to the office.

If he ever returns from his lock down/swinger's vacation, there's no way I'll ever be able to look him in the eye.

Or hear the phrase "squeaking chair" without wanting to hurl.

Quandary

2006-12-13T14:56:00.000-06:00

I'm an eternal optimist. I always have been. I can find the positive in any situation and will forever think that the best is yet to come.

Most of the time, this serves me well. I'm the girl who can smile her way through any heartache, life disaster, gloomy day, you name it. I tend to view hardships simply as life lessons meant to bring us closer to complete self knowledge and unconditional self love.

Likewise, I try to see the best in people. While it can admittedly be hard to do, I believe we're the most beautiful when we're finding beauty in others. Call it naivete or gullibility if you must, but I automatically assume that a homeless man just wants some spare change. That the man collecting money for charity will really use it for such.

This goes twofold for those who are close to me. I expect a lot from the people I love. It's not harsh, I simply want them to live up to the good I see in them. I expect others to treat me as I treat them. It's not a conditional thing, merely a symbiotic relationship involving both affection and respect.

Unfortunately, this quality doesn't always serve me well. We're all human and therefore likely to both hurt and disappoint. The fact that I expect so much means my personal disappointment is oftentimes greater than it realistically should be.

But I'm stuck. Would it be better to expect a lot from people and occasionally be disappointed? Or to not expect much and occasionally be pleasantly surprised?

The latter seems so cynical. But the other invests you in something completely out of your control. Simply because I tend to hold myself to a high standard, is it fair to expect the same from others?

I have no clear cut answers. Hence the "quandary".

Time Marches On...

2006-12-05T16:01:00.000-06:00

Several minutes ago I'm sitting here, happily uploading pictures from my digital camera when something catches my eye. So I blow up one of the pictures to full-screen.

Lo and behold, I have tiny wrinkles radiating from the corners of my eyes.

When did that happen?

I mean, really! I'm only 23 and haven't set foot in a tanning bed in eons.

I wouldn't say these um, wrinkles (okay, that word is a skosh hard to say) bother me...I'm just slightly baffled. I figured I'd be at least 30 before these buggers showed up.

The thought of buying products for "fine lines" right now makes me want to laugh out loud.

My current feeling is very similar to the time the Student Health Center gave a free digital demonstration on what you'd look like as a smoker aged 20 years: shock mixed with awe. (But at least this time, my real wrinkles don't resemble those of a Waffle House waitress named Flo.)

Today, it's hit me. We spend our youth knowing we'll eventually age, but the truth of the matter isn't fully grasped until we see it firsthand. You're infallible until proven otherwise.

Looking on the bright side, I'd rather the wrinkles be around my eyes as opposed to my mouth or forehead. At least they prove that I smile a lot and have a good outlook on life.

OR...I could just blame it on a year's worth of stress caused by the landlord...

Jailbait

2006-11-28T15:54:00.000-06:00

The landlord drama has officially come to a head. (Drum roll, please.)

He's BEEN ARRESTED. As in cuffed and thrown in the slammer.

But it gets better. Not only is he in jail, he is in jail in NAPLES, FLORIDA. Because they think he was fleeing the country.

Let that soak in for a minute.

Apparently he's had a warrant out for his arrest for years now (which most definitely explains why he rarely left the house).

The only reason we know about this is because the ex-fiance broke into his side to find his financial information so she could post his bail. (And seemed quite irritated about this fact.)

When asked what specifically his warrant was for, she said (and I quote), "There's no telling. I actually wouldn't be surprised if it was for murder. Skeletons have just been coming out of his closet left and right these days."

Grrrrreat. That's just the kind of reassuring thing you'd like to hear about a man who has creeped you out since day one.

So now we're stuck. The last thing I want to do is move. But I also don't want him to post bail and we bump into each other in the hallway next week. Talk about some awkward conversation. "So, heard you spent a little time in lock-down. And how was that?"

The silver lining: maybe if he stays locked up for a bit, we won't have to pay rent for the month of December. Or maybe if he does manage to post bail, I can talk him out of it based on emotional trauma endured while worrying that he's an ax-murderer.

I just hope he paid the electric bill before being incarcerated. Because if our lights get shut off in two days because of his irresponsibility, I swear I'll cut a bitch...

Growing, Growing...Grown.

2006-11-17T14:36:00.000-06:00

Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever truly feel like an adult.

Don't get me wrong, I've grown up in leaps and bounds since leaving college. In the last two years of being on my own, my personality, belief systems and dreams have solidified. I know who I am...and I like her.

For the first time in my life, I feel perfectly content in my own skin.

But at the very same time, I have a hard time picturing myself as a glorified adult. Legally I am one, but the officialness of my age does nothing to change how I feel inside.

Sometimes I sit in professional business meetings in my professional business attire and feel like an impostor. Like someone playing dress-up. I worry that my colleagues and clients can sense my desire to be sleeping late or gabbing with friends instead of discussing important marketing strategies.

Admittedly, there's a big part of me that doesn't ever want to feel like an adult. I never want to lose my spontaneity and sense of adventure. I never want to lose my belief that people are essentially good and that our time here is too precious to be spent in mediocrity.

I long to someday be a 75-year-old lady who occasionally gets startled by her reflection because it doesn't coincide with her youthful, idealistic self. To have aged and matured, but not completely grown up, to not have lost my childlike delight in a world that can only be described as glorious.

In the last two years, I've unquestionably grown as a person. And I've learned a lot along the way. But I'm definitely not done yet. I truly believe that while our backgrounds and circumstances may have influenced who we are, we are solely responsible for who we become.

And that in the end, life is not about being anything. It's about becoming who you are.

In my case, I hope that that someone is nothing short of wonderful. In every sense of the word.

Tribute to Greatness

2006-11-16T12:44:00.000-06:00

Congrats Emmitt...you definitely showed America that tough guys can still dance like pretty girls. But let's be honest. Dancing with the Stars was never the same after the ousting of everyone's favorite closeted gay man, Joey Lawrence.

In an effort to fully capture Joey's essence, I've put together a small pictorial timeline of his career/grooming habits. Enjoy!

Career debut--a recurring role on Gimme a Break!:
Look at that chili-bowl of preciousness! (I think if you showed this little guy a picture of his future Dancing With the Stars self, he'd cry and run to mommy.)

--Temporary career hiatus. Most likely due to inevitable "gawky" stage.--

Bada bing! JL returns to the scene in the early 90s as heartthrob Joey Russo in Blossom. Don't laugh, but I actually had this poster hanging in my room:
Although, had I known this one existed, I would have had it as well:
After his stunning album debut (circa 1994), he disappeared again...only to be seen in the occasional made-for-TV movie and after-school special.

Hard to believe, but Joey popped back up (for a microscopic period of time) in the late 90s looking both handsome and masculine. Blink and you missed it:
But things went rapidly downhill from there... Not wanting to be completely forgotten in Hollywood, Joey would cleverly show up at random red carpet events sporting new (increasingly gay) looks:
It also appears that Joey developed an aversion to body hair. Notice the perfect arches of his freshly waxed eyebrows:
This one is downright frightening. Due mainly to the presence of a sparkly necklace, metallic shirt and (drumroll, please) purse strap:
Which brings us to his present-day glory:
I think this picture sums up his transformation perfectly:
Oh, Joey...I hope that despite your embarrassing loss on DWTS, your career will continue to skyrocket. Because I absolutely can't wait to see where you go from here. (Judging by the sailor dance alone, it will surely be magical.)

P.S. If Rascal Flatts ever needs an additional vocalist/backup dancer, your name should be FIRST on their list...

Woodland Warrior

2006-11-13T16:29:00.000-06:00

I've had one of the best weekends of my life and never entered a bar or touched my cell phone. The Social Director was temporarily out of commission--and it was fantastic.

My parents are divorced. As a result, I spend Thanksgiving with my mom in North Carolina and always feel a tad guilty about not seeing my dad. So we've started a tradition where several weeks before Thanksgiving, we ditch civilization and head for the hills for 48 hours of solid father/daughter bonding time.

Here's my cute Pops as we're starting out. He's super excited to be doing "boy things" with his only progeny:
My dad raised me to be a hardcore camper. We don't do piddly "drive your truck to the campsite and unload" camping. With him, you have to carry everything you need on your back. Which made our 10 mile trek feel more like 30. But it's honestly more fun that way...because you feel like you've actually accomplished something.
You definitely know you're in East Tennessee when...
...you stumble across an old moonshine still during your hike up the mountain. We both died laughing at the blatantly-realized stereotype (and half wished that it'd been operational).

Once we reached our destination and set up camp, we threw some steaks on the fire and settled in for the cold night. It wasn't long before my dad pulled out a Nalgene bottle of whiskey and we got to telling stories. He told me about all the bad stuff he did as a kid and I added my own "when I was 15, I used to take the car out for illegal joyrides and haven't told you until now" kind of tales.

Eventually our talk turned to politics, relationships and basic life observations. After half of the bottle disappeared, we made a pact. If the GOP wins the White House again in 2008, we're packing up and heading for some tiny Caribbean island to open a pottery/furniture workshop and live like kings. Mark our drunken words.

The next morning (after surviving the 36 degree night), we decided to nurse our hangovers with fresh air and a day hike to a little-known observation point. About halfway there, I honestly thought I was going to die...but somehow found the stamina to trek on. And was so glad I did:
The incredible bird's-eye view of the Tennessee River Gorge was spectacular. A picture definitely can't do it justice. As I stood there in awe, I couldn't help but feel grateful. For this beautiful world, for my amazing father, and for the instant clarity that my problems are insignificant in the grand scheme of things.
Overall, the trip was a monsterous success. We got sore muscles and dirty clothes, but we also got closer than ever before.

And this was just small time. Thanksgiving Trek 2K7 might land us in Colorado or Northern California. After that? Who knows. As long as we're together with a little Jack Daniels, it's sure to be a great time.

flab·ber·gast·ed (adj.): As if struck dumb with astonishment

2006-11-10T11:45:00.000-06:00

I've recently been informed that when you do a Google search for my name (not sure I want to know why this person did this), my blog is the first link to appear. Which apparently means it's the most-visited of the half-a-million-odd other sites.

Which completely floors me. And why some of my friends have now nicknamed me "The Nashville Carrie" (hell, at least it's not "Samantha").

I don't quite understand how so many people from across the country find my blog (shoutout to Joe, the Arby's PR Maven). I guess that's the magic of the world wide web...New York City slickers can follow my little ole Music City life without ever leaving their homes. Creepy, yet cool.

<Shameless Plug: I love to write. Love it. And getting paid makes it that much sweeter. Freelance could easily be my middle name. Just give me a topic and watch me go. So, Glamour, The New Yorker, hell...Reader's Digest: if you're reading this, just holla. I'll respond, pen in hand.>

And now picking up the shards of my remaining dignity, thanks for reading. It makes writing much more fun. In a nutshell, you're appreciated...and it truly thrills me that my blog is result numero uno.

...except that means that my computer-savvy grandmother has a good chance of stumbling upon it now. And the sheer repercussions of that happening puts fear deep into my soul.

You Give Love a Bad Name

2006-11-09T15:09:00.000-06:00

After standing in line for an hour and a half last Thursday to express my opinion through the polls, I feel a mite let down. For several reasons, but the main being Amendment #1.

I know gay marriage is a controversial topic. I know that people's opinions on it can run the gamut. And everyone is indeed entitled to their own.

But with that being said, the passing of this amendment (that marriage is only constituted as legal between a man and a woman) makes me incensed. Firstly, gay marriage is such a deeply moral and personal issue that it doesn't belong anywhere in the political arena. It's not something that can just be decided by a vote and then forgotten. Secondly, it's completely discriminatory. I am firmly in the camp that gay people don't choose to be gay, they just are. And have every right to be treated as equals in this country despite their sexual preferences. It's ludicrous to hate someone solely on who they love.

And please don't give me the "marriage is sacred" bullshit. Over the last 40 odd years, heterosexuals have been treating marriage as anything but sacred. Answer me this: if Britney Spears has already had two divorces by the tender age of 25, why can't the 25-year relationship of my mom's friends, Jeffrey and Mike, be legalized?

Makes me madder than a Baptist in a brothel.

I only hope that my children's generation will be much less bigoted than my own. But I'm climbing off my soapbox now...

Last night, in an effort to relieve my bad post-election mood, Stacy and I grabbed a bottle of wine and finally saw Borat.

While waiting for the movie to begin, I began digging in my purse for my cell phone. I felt someone watching me, and when I looked up, I was staring straight into the face of Jon Bon Jovi. Who was closely followed by Richie Sambora. They smiled and slid into my row.

I froze in disbelief. Because these weren't your run-of-the-mill Nashville stars. They were STAR stars. Legends, if you will.

The movie started and far exceeded my expectations. But I didn't like it near as much as JBJ did. There were parts where he'd literally be bent over, cackling like a banshee. Which caused me to laugh even harder.

When the movie ended, we were all standing in the aisle, waiting for the line to move. I got a little brave (mostly due to the wine) and said, "After you, Mr. Bon Jovi." And immediately felt like a goober. But he just nodded and grinned.

So, I've officially watched a movie with half of the band Bon Jovi. I'll apologize in advance to all my friends who'll be forced to hear this amazing story retold again and again. At least you'll know what my (hopefully bigot-free) grandkids will someday feel like.

CMAwful

2006-11-07T22:39:00.000-06:00

So, there's been a scandal with the Faith Hill reaction at the CMA Awards last night. Blah, blah, blah. Yes, it was entertaining. Yes, we rewound it several times on the Tivo for a good laugh. But in my opinion, her faux pas (intended or not) was only First Runner Up in the chuckle department. What took the crown, you ask?

The FASHION (or rather, the complete lack thereof).

As of late, male country stars seem to be striving harder and harder to look like West Coast rockers. But the end result is more "let's get these farmboys drunk and let them loose in David Bowie's dressing room for shits and giggles"...less "badass musician". It's horrifying.

Exhibit A. Brooks and Dunn:
Now, Ronnie Dunn looks okay. Granted, he's sporting several pounds of gold in the form of 12 necklaces...but his bling is nothing in comparison to Kix Brooks' gold lame'-ish suit. If the tech-guys can't shine the spotlight directly on you for fear of starting a small fire, you might consider a wardrobe change. Just a suggestion.

Exhibit B. "Wait, is that guy still alive?":
Oh, Billy Ray... It looks like he took full advantage of Keith Urban's rehab stint to get a little media attention. He clearly figured he could trade in his signature mullet for Keith's highlighted, flat ironed hairstyle, throw on some incognito sunglasses and no one would know the difference. Sorry, Billy...we've got your number. The giant flavor savor gave you away.

Exhibit C. Rascal effing Flatts:

I know the quality isn't great, but there's too much train-wreckage going on with this band to be fully captured by a picture alone. Thank God for YouTube.

I almost don't know where to start. The lead singer (who is a dead-ringer for Wayne from The Wonder Years) obviously decided he needed some gold as well. In the form of a leather jacket. Which he's wearing over a rhinestone-studded t-shirt. Which he accessorized with approximately 3 necklaces AND a pair of shades...despite being inside at night.

The lone brunette dude decided he'd go more "Prince circa 1987" route with the two-toned leather blazer. Which he sasses up with dogtags, an additional necklace and extremely gelled hair.

And that brings me to the young one. Who proudly rocks a hip, highlighted, soccer mom haircut. He obviously decided he'd go for the "sexy" look with the sheer, black button down shirt that's barely buttoned. In order to maintain a small amount of decorum (read: hide his nipples), he tops it off with a shiny, snakeskin vest. (Rrrrrrr.) And for a final touch, he not only sports two necklaces...but also a "sparkle charm chain" attached to his jeans.

When the realization of this mysteriously-purposed chain dawned, I literally hooted. And rewound the Tivo. And hooted again.

In my opinion, Rascal Flatts started the costume-party-rocker look in Music City and continues to push the envelope.

Exhibit D:
1) Vest made for a small child, 2) random armband, 3) leather snakeskin, 4) gold velvet.

Exhibit E:
1) Different gold leather jacket, 2) "I'm too cool for country" Converse sneakers, 3) Purple iridescent coat, 4) dragon vest, 5) side-tasseled jeans, 6) Cindy Brady-esque hairdo.

I repeat, HORRIFYING.

And the moral of the story is: if you have testicles and I can utter the phrase "sparkle charm chain" in regards to your outfit...your stylist needs to be fired. Immediately.

Life Lesson

2006-11-02T17:14:00.000-06:00

As most people who know me know, I am a complete sucker for a dare and rarely get embarrassed. Which always makes for an entertaining combination to those around me.

Sunday morning, in direct response to our costume party festivities, several friends and I decided we had to have some Arby's (for obvious reasons). Stacy dared me to actually wear the amazing "I'm Thinking Arby's" headgear I'd acquired at the Big Brothers Big Sisters picnic into the restaurant. And the gauntlet was officially thrown down.
The minute I walked in, every employee's face lit up and they all started laughing. To the point where I worried that a rather large black lady was going to have to be resuscitated.
Needless to say, I was a hit and took requested pictures with some of the employees.
Every single person in that restaurant stopped to talk to me, give me high fives and chuckle over my stupid headband. Several people actually told me that I'd made their entire week.
I even got stopped by people waiting in the drive-thru line on our way back to our car. One guy laughed so hard he had to wait to catch his breath before he could pull up to the window. But when he did, he gave me a two-thumbs-up.

Not only did this random little dare make people smile, it helped solidify in mind the fact that people are inherently warm and friendly. A goofy foam hat alone managed to break down barriers and helped us see each other as kindred human beings, not just faceless customers in a crowd. I know I'm a bit of a goober, but as we belly laughed, I felt a true kinship with every person in that restaurant.

Several days later, a friend and I ran an errand on our lunch break and she asked if I'd drive her through Arby's. Thinking nothing of it, she ordered and I pulled around to the window. The man standing there gave me a puzzled look and then exclaimed, "Hey! Aren't you the girl with the great hat?!" Before I knew it, four or five employees were crowding the window to say hello. They asked if I would bring them copies of the pictures so they could post them in their breakroom...and I agreed. And I have every intention of bringing individual copies to Decarlos, Catherine and Willie when I do.

As we pulled away, I couldn't help but grin. Several days ago, I probably wouldn't have looked twice at the elderly man who handed me food from the drive-thru. But a stupid dare made me some unexpected new friends.

If we could all manage to let loose, laugh and see each other for who we truly are, I think this world would be a much better place. It almost makes me want to wear "conversation-starters" on a daily basis.

Well, almost.

Boo.

2006-10-31T15:33:00.000-06:00

Our Halloween Costume Party Extraordinaire was Saturday and I'm sadly just now getting around to making this post. Probably because it's taken me this long to recover.

After spending all Saturday afternoon decorating our house (no corner was safe from spider webs), making food and picking up the keg, we were anxious for our guests to arrive. And arrive they did. All in all, we had around 30 people from different friend groups...which made it that much more fun and interesting:

"The GPS" and a hovering creepo (whom we heart):

Just a fraction of the beautiful, costumed ladies present:

The hills were alive with the sound of...Bone Thugs n' Harmony:
The lives of the party:

After spending several hours swilling beverages and dancing in the fog, a little magic happened. Out of nowhere, a party bus full of nuns pulled up in front of the house...and invited us to take a ride. Folks, when opportunity knocks, sometimes you have no choice but to take it:
Fortunately, Greg had the foresight to grab a tray of Jello shots and bring them on board as party favors. Which absolutely thrilled the nuns and won us at least ten cool points.

Our bus rattled all over town as we danced, sang and chatted up our new friends. At one point, we got out to dance in the street in the Gulch and then finally disembarked for good on Demonbruen. (And that's where things get a little fuzzy. And where my cell phone more than likely got "misplaced".)

The next morning, I woke up to a cup littered floor and sleeping bodies on the couches. I sleepily let Madden out and was standing in the doorway waiting on her when the landlord appeared. He apparently had been lying in wait.

I realized too late that I was wearing only a tank top and my lacy costume bloomers (and flushed a deep crimson as a result). He grinned lecherously at me and said, "So...fun party last night, huh?" I gave him a tight-lipped smile and nodded. He then pulled something from behind his back and said, "I found something of yours in the neighbor's yard."

And lo and behold, he was holding the jello shot tray which had apparently been tossed out of the party bus window as we pulled away from the curb.

Never have I wished harder for the earth to immediately swallow me whole.

Three questions:
1) What was he doing poking around in the neighbor's yard anyway?
2) Was it imperative that he return the missing tray at 7:30 in the morning?
3) Is it possible to obtain a restraining order against someone who technically lives at your own address?

"WOAH!"

2006-10-26T15:30:00.000-05:00

It is official. An iconic figure from my childhood has tragically been shattered and I've been left standing in the swirling abyss of my rapidly vanishing girlhood dreams.

Let me explain.

Back in the day, I had a serious thing for Joey Lawrence. And I do mean S-E-R-I-O-U-S.

I purchased BOP magazines solely for the pictures of him. Blossom was my LIFE and I (unfortunately) bought one of those terrible sunflower-clad denim hats as a result. I even watched the short-lived Brotherly Love because both he and his look-a-like siblings starred (three for the price of one!!)

But all of that was nothing in comparison to his stunning album debut. One word: glorious.

JOEY LAWRENCE (clever title, no?) was the second CD I owned, falling shortly behind Ace of Base. And it definitely got some serious wear. For six months, it was the only CD that played in the car as my mom shuttled me to and from school...poor thing. (Aside: I actually still have this CD and several years ago, played it for my mom...who can still sing along to every word. We laughed for a good 20 minutes upon discovering this fact.)

This is the Joey Lawrence I know and love:

And THIS is the horror which he has become:

Why, Joey? Why? Why must you shave your head to look like a bouncer at a trendy gay club...and then airbrush tan it? Why must you cut the arms out of your flamboyant silk shirt? Why must you wear stretchy little suit pants that show your every hip thrust? WHY?!?

The strangest part is that he's actually married. To a woman. Who is fairly good-looking. Who sits in the front of the audience and claps her little heart out while he's dancing.

While Mrs. Lawrence may be putting on a happy, supportive face, I KNOW deep down she's choking back sobs and wondering if she'll ever be able to sleep with him again (at least without either weeping or gagging).

She HAS to be. Because not only does that video clip destroy my girlish fantasies, it makes my woman parts recoil in horror.

And will surely haunt my dreams.

So...Funny Story....

2006-10-23T15:30:00.000-05:00

Yesterday afternoon, when most respectable people were in church, Stacy and I found ourselves in quite a different place of worship: HOOTERS. (That's right, Hooters.)

While the food is quite good (mmmm...wings), Hooters is not exactly an establishment my girlfriends and I frequent. But since our Halloween Costume Party Extraordinaire is quickly approaching, Stacy decided she needed a pair of industrial-strength Hooters tights to complement her highway patrol "uniform".

The website said we could purchase them at every restaurant, so we packed up and headed to the nearest one. Now, I'm definitely not a Hooters connoisseur...but I have a feeling that this particular establishment is sub-standard. For several reasons (including, but not limited to the existence of a waitress twice my size. No lie.)

After being escorted to our table by a busty Butter Face, we scanned the restaurant for a t-shirt stand. But there wasn't one. So I made a visit to the ladies room just to make sure they didn't distribute them out of a machine a la French Ticklers and off-brand cologne. But nada.

Determined we wouldn't leave the restaurant empty-handed, I asked our waitress where she purchased her tights since she obviously couldn't buy them in-house. She grudgingly admitted that they bought their tights (and tube socks!) at the Mexican market down the street. So we paid our bill and headed out.

NO TIGHTS

TIGHTS (???)

As soon as we entered the doors of the Super Mercado Latino, it felt like we'd been transported to another country. Everything was brightly colored, cantina music was blaring and hordes of small, dark-headed children were running amok--it couldn't have felt more authentic if live chickens had been clucking underfoot.

We browsed for awhile before finally asking an employee where they kept the tights. He got a gleam in his eye and exclaimed, "Ah! Hooters girls?!" Deciding it'd be less complicated to just go with it, we nodded. Sure, Pedro...whatever you want to think...

Stacy paid for her 1950s-boxed tights and we managed to make it to the car before erupting in laughter at the sheer absurdity of the situation. Then Stacy opened the tights...only to discover they had no feet. Just a terrible banded ankle. Which sent us even further into hysterics.
We left as soon as I regained enough breath to drive...but didn't get far before discovering the surprising and fantastic mural painted on the backside of the building. It pretty much summed up our entire tights-hunting experience, so I had to have my picture taken with it:
We then managed to make about 40 more feet before losing it again. The reason? This sign:
All told, there really are just three appropriate words to adequately sum up our day: Ay yi yi.

PimpSpace

2006-10-20T14:09:00.000-05:00

Myspace has always been a tad sketchy, but in the past few days it's gotten completely out of control.

Simply being both a member of Myspace and a female means you'll get the standard lame requests from lame guys who are looking for hookups. (D E R R E K and Da Snake: please stop trying.) But in the last 24 hours, I've gotten two messages from Nashville males that go above and beyond the usual pathetic attempts.

The first was from a 36-year-old divorced photographer who specializes in "adult oriented modeling and online videos". Apparently, he thinks I have the "fresh-faced look" he's been searching for and told me to message him back if I was interested in the "opportunity."

I definitely did not.

The next message was from a 31-year-old owner of a local escort service. Again, I apparently have the "look and personality that his clients look for" (which made me laugh). The message was so hysterically out there, I just couldn't resist messaging the guy back to ask for more details.

He responded within ten minutes:
It's pretty simple...men or women contact us seeking a date for a specified period of time. Based on what they are seeking, we match them with a suitable escort. It's pretty similar to most dates, really...usually dinner or somethign along those lines. Sex is often involved...but it does pay $350 per hour! You choose your own days and hours. Benefits include professional photos and a dependable driver.

Having had my curiosity satisfied (and my stomach repulsed), I didn't respond back. Thirty minutes later, he wrote me again:
You got quiet...

So I responded back:
Probably because you asked me to be a glorified prostitute...and the LAST thing I need in my life is a pimp.

Thankfully, I haven't heard from him since.

No freaking wonder The Today Show does 27 segments a week on "the dangers of Myspace."

It's terrifying...

[Land]lord Help Us All

2006-10-19T15:26:00.000-05:00

I just realized it's been quite a while since I've made any postings about my creepo of a landlord. Mainly because things became normal (or as normal as possible) when the psychotic, skunk-haired "fiance" moved back in the spring. My roommate and I were almost convinced they'd actually get married. Especially after "The X-Files" box mysteriously disappeared...

But our reprieve from drama ended several weeks ago when the screaming started back up from the air vents. Heated accusations were made about torrid affairs and before we knew it, she was dragging armloads of clothes to her car. And things have taken a dizzying turn downhill ever since.

Because he has no job and sits in his side of the house for up to 72 hours straight, he's become desperate for social interaction. To the point where he knocks on our door to ask us random questions and then stays for half an hour. My trick of pretending I'm on my cell phone when I pass him is no longer working. He'll talk to me until I "hang up". Which wouldn't be that big of a deal provided he had even a single ounce of social skill.

Last Friday, he was washing his car in the driveway as I was leaving for the Y.
Landlord: "You're going to workout, huh?"
Me: "It appears that way, yes."
Landlord: "I've noticed you leaving for the gym before the sun comes up some mornings."
Me: "Ummmmm, yeah." (Avoiding eye contact because I'm thoroughly creeped out at the thought of him peering through his blinds at 6:00 a.m.)
Landlord: "Way to keep that little body of yours in shape! Let me tell you, the payoff is obviously worth it!"

I swear I got into my car and gagged.

But it gets worse.

Yesterday, he started asking my roommate questions about her love life and whether she considered herself "exclusive". And in a sudden turn for the weirder, inquired as to the status of one of our close guy friends. Whom he called "handsome" and "dapper".

I'm almost positive that "The X-Files II" is going to appear downstairs any day now. The only real question now is about WHAT kind of porn it'll contain.

All in favor of Man Handlers IV, say "aye".

Child's Play

2006-10-16T15:48:00.000-05:00

After a slight blip in the match process, Stella Mae and I are officially up and running in the Big Brothers Big Sisters program of Middle Tennessee. Not to be arrogant or anything, but I think we're the best dang match in the entire program...possibly ever.

Mae and I spent all afternoon on Saturday at the city-wide BBBS picnic and had an absolute blast--especially considering that the three elements for a good time were present: 1) free food 2) hysterical head gear and 3) a karaoke/dance off competition. (I most definitely saved my sweet "I'm Thinking Arby's" headgear and plan to pull it out for special/relevant occassions. )
For four solid hours, I got to pretend I was a kid again. Stella Mae and I dominated in tug-of-war, ran sack races, got our faces painted and played numerous games of Twister:
Then she discovered the pile of hula hoops and challenged me to duel...which she most definitely won. (Odd considering the person with hips should have a distinct edge.)
My favorite part of the entire afternoon was the dance-off. They divided us up into "Bigs" vs. "Littles" and made us shake our groove thing until they called us out. I swear I hadn't laughed that hard in weeks. Especially once I saw the eventual grand-prize winner do her thing (and finally understand the benefit of having a digital camera that also takes videos). This little girl definitely watches her fair share of BET:

All joking aside, the picnic was great fun....and it was so rewarding to see little kids with rough home lives let loose and play for a change.

In fact, the only sad part was that the event was dominated by females simply because BBBS has over 200 little boys on the waiting list for mentors in the Nashville area alone. So if you're a male who likes kids and wants to do a little something to give back, I implore you to sign up.

I promise you'll get just as much out of it as they will.

Sad. Sad. Sad.

2006-10-15T18:07:00.000-05:00

For the first time in my life, I've discovered the true definition of "pathetic". And it wasn't pretty.

Saturday night, some friends and I hit the town for dinner, drinks and (hopefully) dancing. While having a drink at the bar as we awaited a table, the gentleman sitting next to me struck up a conversation. He was eating something spicy and jokingly dared me to try a bite. He promised that if I could stomach it, he'd buy our group's next round of drinks. Being a complete sucker for a dare, I took him up on it.

As the aforepromised drinks were distributed, his buddy, who looked like he walked straight out of a Scorsese film, joined us. They were drunk, but seemingly innocent...so we chose to humor them. (Read: Bad. Idea.)

While talking, we discovered that they both graduated from UT in 1993 and were business partners, but the mobster look-a-like wouldn't go into details. As we excused ourselves to our table, they begged us to meet them at The Boundry with promises of an unlimited bar tab and limo ride if we showed up. We gave a vague answer about being lucky and felt confident we'd seen the last of them...

...until they showed up at our table an hour later. (Apparently they "couldn't forget us".) Mr. Mob immediately informed my (brunette) friends that blondes were hotter and announced that he had "first dibs" to the entire bar. Which made me absolutely indignant...and must be why he chose that precise moment to take out a money clip and flip through a wad of $100 bills. After forcing down the bile in my throat, I icily informed him that he did everything BUT impress me.

Instead of having the desired effect, Mr. Mob told me he "liked 'em fiery" and proceeded to latch himself to me like a stripper to P. Diddy. He even suggested we fly to Vegas and get married so he could "give me the world". I decided to call his bluff, so I told him to go ahead and buy me a ticket. In two seconds, he'd pulled out his American Airlines card and dialed the number...and then bought two tickets (for one lonely plane ride).

He ordered a round of drinks to celebrate our "impending nuptials" and after making a snide comment to our waitress, pulled out pictures of his CHILDREN and started passing them around the table. If his arrogant behavior had pissed me off before, the thought of him being a little boy's daddy while acting like a sleazeball with young women in bars made me see RED.

I'd had enough...so I politely asked our waitress to close us all out. When she came back with the check, I peeled three bills from his money clip and told her to keep the change. My friends and I then gathered our belongings and made for the door. Amid the creepos' protests.

I honestly hope Mr. Mob showed up at the airport and waited on me. He deserved to stand there and look outwardly what he is on the inside--utterly pathetic.

I also pray that no young women fall for his flashy, arrogant ways in the future. But sadly, when Benjamins are involved, some bitches will always come running...and deserve exactly what they get when they arrive.

The Glorious Golden Road

2006-10-13T09:52:00.000-05:00

Bittersweet October. The mellow, messy, leaf-kicking, perfect pause between the opposing miseries of summer and winter.
~Carol Bishop Hipps

I truly can't think of a better word to describe autumn than "bittersweet". The entire month of October (and oftentimes November) feels like a suspended moment in time where the world is achingly beautiful and peaceful, yet tinged with melancholy...because we know that dead-looking skies and diminishing daylight are within reach. That the golden road to winter is fleeting, yet glorious all the same.

Fall always has the same effect on me, year after year. The very moment the air turns crisp and the leaves begin their inevitable change, I ache to be outside doing cliche autumnal things. I want to take long walks down desolate country trails. I want to constantly listen to bluegrass. I want to drive to the mountains and watch the stars by campfire. I want to visit farmer's markets and bake homemade pies. I want to learn to play the banjo. I want to drink hot cider and watch the sky's sunset bleed into the very same colors as the trees which touch it.

There's something about fall that also brings out the little girl in me. A childlike excitement bubbles up at the mere sight of colorful leaves. I want to carve as many pumpkins as possible, eat candy corn and run through piles of leaves until my cheeks turn red. I get sentimental for days past of trick-or-treating with the neighborhood gang and playing Kick the Can in knee-deep leaves until our parents called us home.

At this very moment, on this perfect fall day, I'm standing paused on the blurry edge of two distinct seasons...and feel content. I hate that the long, lazy days of summer are drawing to a close. That pools have been closed up and grills put away. That fireflies have been replaced by frost-covered lawns. But at the same time, I'm breathlessly excited to revisit Thanksgiving traditions and hear cheesy Christmas music on the radio. For first snowfalls and nights by a fireplace. For scarves and mittens and old, comfortable sweaters. At this very moment, I feel...

bittersweet.

Crashtastic

2006-09-05T15:43:00.000-05:00

I haven't been in the office in the last five days. Which has been glorious. I'll take drinking beer on a sandy beach over desk sitting any day of the week. (If you wouldn't, you're crazy. Seek help.)

One of my best friends and I took some days off work and headed down to her beach house in Gulf Shores to ring in one of the last true weekends of summer. We drove all night (insert cheesy Celine Dion background track) and arrived right before sunrise. And crashed just until the UV rays were strong enough to burn us.

After spending a solid 5 hours on the beach, we cleaned ourselves up and headed to our favorite local bar (formerly known as "The Happy Hooker"). To our supreme delight, it was Karaoke Night and the request line was quite short. I sang a (very moving) duet with an old man named Frank...
and danced The Macarena with a crazy lady who proudly sported rhinestone bra straps.

But the fun had that night was nothing in comparison to the fun had Saturday. That morning, we woke up to find that a giant white tent had been erected on the beach directly in front of our house. And knew it could only mean one thing: WEDDING. And we knew that we had to go.

We eyed the preparations all day from the beach and wrestled with how we'd pull it off. Then lo and behold, the DJ needed an extra power source for his equipment, so we let him use an outlet at the house...and a "you should drop by" invitation was extended as a result. We needed no additional encouragement.

Once the reception was in full swing, we grabbed a couple of beers and headed over. It was so easy to just smile and slip into the crowd unnoticed. And was it ever fun! Everybody there was from Baton Rouge and were super friendly. It didn't take long to feel like an actual invited guest. To the point where I pinned a $20 on the groom's jacket during the money dance and started up a conga line. People were actually yelling "Hey wedding crasher!" and high-fiving me on the dance floor.

Despite the fact that we'd previously decided to get up at 5:00 a.m. to drive back to Oxford for the Ole Miss-Memphis game, I accompanied the entire wedding party to the local bar for some post-wedding karaoke fun. We sang (and I of course played the tambourine on stage) until 2 a.m.

But it was well worth it. Talk about a serious story for the grandkids...

High Roller

2006-08-25T15:39:00.000-05:00

For some reason, this week has drug by. I honestly feel like I'm sitting at my desk on a Saturday and that's not an okay feeling. This morning, I barely managed to roll out of bed, throw my hair up and leave the house. Which is why I'm proudly rocking the Liz Phair glasses (and my lack of clear peripheral vision is currently irritating the mess out of me.)

The week definitely started out with a bang, but seemed to fizzle as the days drug on. Yet it's all been very interesting.

Monday, our entire crew went to the Goo Goo Dolls & Counting Crows concert which was a-maz-ing. There's nothing that quite compares to the feeling of belting out intensely familiar lyrics while holding a 24 ounce can of beer, surrounded by good friends in a misty rain.

Tuesday, after a 7 hour staff meeting in which I almost started climbing the walls and cursing my boss, we went to Mafiaoza's and then Mercy Lounge...where John Rich proceeded to buy the entire bar several rounds of shots in an obvious effort to live up to his last name.

Yesterday, I got a call from Decades saying that I'd won my very own Friday Night Dance Party (and about laughed myself out of my chair.) I apparently put my business card into something when we were there last weekend for Stacy's birthday. I have no recollection of doing this, but it obviously paid off. So if anyone is interested in a little retro action on the evening of September 8, head on down to Decades, say you're with me and they'll waive your cover and serve you $2 liquor drinks.

But you must PROMISE to high five me and call me a high-roller at some point during the night. Capice?

Fairest of the Fair

2006-08-23T16:16:00.000-05:00

After twenty-three years, I've finally completed the trifecta of redneck "sporting entertainment"...and attended my first ever tractor pull. (I could already proudly claim a pro-wrestling match and demolition derby.) We're talking a big accomplishment here. Pat on the back, anyone?

Saturday night, Charlie and I braved the Wilson County Fair in search of both solid comedic entertainment and corn dogs. And I have to say, the whole experience far exceeded our expectations--we're talking ten times better than the Faith & Tim concert. (Although it might have been a push had Faith & Tim served funnel cakes.)

The entire evening was magical. We ate terrible (for us, but delicious) fair food, cheered on the manic tractor pullers, played carnival games and rode one very intense ride.

We definitely spent a good four hours just walking around, trying to absorb all of the gloriousness that is the Wilson County Fair. But it's something that's almost impossible to describe with words. It has to be experienced to be fully appreciated.

Here's what I can tell you though:

It smells like a heady mixture of B.O., Livestock nastiness, fried food, and Coolwater cologne;
Wifebeaters and/or jean shorts are must-haves;
If they technically CAN fry it, they will (ex: Twinkies);
It is apparently completely acceptable to dogcuss the child that's attached to your arm by way of leash;
It is the place to be if you're on a date with your high school sweetheart/future baby daddy.

All kidding aside, it was honestly the most fun I've had (without any form of alcohol being involved) in a long time.

Luckily for you...there's still four days left. So you too can experience a little slice of deep-fried country heaven.

Get 'er done.

Family Ties

2006-08-14T15:49:00.000-05:00

I spent part of last week at something that most people dread: the good ole family reunion. Which crazily, I love. There's just something so comforting about being around people that have known you all of your life, yet love you anyway.

There are about 30 of us that get together in the North Carolina mountains every summer. We rent several houses and do cheesy things like themed shrimp boils and game nights. And I love every minute of it. Mainly because I feel so blessed to have such a wonderfully loud, close-knit family. As much as they can irritate me at times, I wouldn't trade them for the world.

Madden also attended the family reunion and probably got more attention in 3 days than she'll get in the next 3 months. Not only were my younger cousins scratching each other's faces for a chance to hold her, there was a summer camp for foster kids right down the road. Which caused our daily walks to feel bizarrely like brushes with the Vietcong. Little people would literally hurl themselves at us from behind trees, guerrilla warfare-style. Which was cute, but startling.

My favorite part of the entire trip was when several of my cousins and I got tipsy on margaritas, crashed a barn dance and square danced for three hours straight. Which sounds terrible, but was actually loads of fun. I promenaded, do-si-doed and twirled to my heart's content.

Don't laugh, but I'm seriously considering finding a square dance club in town. I might be the only member under 65, but hey...that'd make it even more fun.

But if the gramps started playing grab ass, I'd be out of there before you could say "two step".

MyStalkers

2006-08-09T13:29:00.000-05:00

**WARNING: Bitch Factor is HIGH**

Several months ago, I swore up and down that I'd never participate in the madness that is Myspace. But it inevitably sucked me in with it's sweet promise of office-boredom relief, so I signed up, jazzed up my profile and commenced looking up middle school crushes.

While I've reconnected with countless of old friends and flames, I've managed to stick to a strict "friend request" policy. If I've never seen your face in person, I won't accept your request. Period. No matter how hot you are or how many shirtless pictures you have displayed. Nothing personal.

The logic here is simple, folks. If we've never had any interaction, we can't be considered "friends". Even internet ones.

It never ceases to amaze me how people can have 796 Myspace friends. Really? Because gosh, you must be super popular and maybe we SHOULD be friends so that a little of your coolness might rub off on me. Or...I could just laugh and click the "deny" button.

And don't even get me started on the horrible (and somewhat hysterical) messages that flood my inbox. Sometimes I feel like my profile has a huge banner on it that reads: If you're a semi-illiterate, 30-something reeking of desperation, you NEED to message this girl!!

Here are clips from some of my favorites:

Wow your gorgous... VERY nice.. So, do you like a tall man in uniform? ;o)

(Do you have testicles? Then why are you using smiley face with noses?)

You are just too cute. 5'2 huh? I would have to be careful to not step on you if we ever met. :) Tell me about yourself...

(There we go with the smiley faces again...why don't YOU tell ME how many times a day you get rejected for being completely lame?)

Lovin what i saw and read. Sound like we might have some things in common. Would like to get to know more if u r interested.

(Common, huh? Considering you probably couldn't form a complete sentence to save your life...I really don't think so.)

So...to all of you MyStalkers out there who might be reading this...don't even try it. I won't be your friend and I won't respond to your messages.

P.S. The word "hot" is only spelled with one "t". (Or did they not cover that in your GED practice course?)

Goner

2006-08-02T15:36:00.000-05:00

I've fallen dizzyingly, achingly in love. In just four days. Which I never thought possible...until now.

After wrestling with the idea for several months, I finally broke down and adopted a stray puppy. She melted my heart the instant I saw her and I just couldn't say no. I named her Madden (which unfortunately for you fellas, is not after John. "Madden" is the Celtic word for "little dog" and fits her quite well.) She's only 8 weeks old and is absolutely perfect.
Surprisingly, the whole "puppy thing" hasn't been hard. She's already housebroken and thankfully sleeps through the night (pressed against my neck if I'll let her). She only barks when she's playing and LOVES to sit in laps.

I miss her so much when I'm at work and can't wait to get home to her excited, wriggling little body. If I could take her everywhere with me, I would (although I definitely draw the line at using a special "dog purse").

This is the first time in my life that I've had something completely dependent on me (besides a goldfish, which doesn't really count). But I love the feeling. Especially because that "something" has such a precious face...and a fat, spotted belly.
Even my crotchety, pervert landlord had nothing bad to say when he met her.

Which just might be a sign of the apocalypse. Be forewarned.

Oh, Nashville...

2006-08-01T13:55:00.000-05:00

As embarrassing as this is to admit, I went to the Faith Hill & Tim McGraw concert Saturday night. (Don't judge. A friend had a free ticket and I figured it might be hugely entertaining...which it was.)

The people-watching atmosphere was almost too much to handle...I could barely process all the snarky comments running through my head. As soon as I saw the middle aged couple wearing homemade "Real Life Tim & Faith" t-shirts, I'd spot a fanny-pack-wearing, mullet-sporting man in the distance.

It was astounding.

Due solely to the fact I had on neither a) cowboy boots or b) a black concert tee, I was quite a minority in the concert-goer population. The plethora of cowboy boots in attendance had been paired with everything from denim halter tops to Carhartt overalls (the black concert tees on the other hand, had mainly been paired with DD breasts and/or beer guts.)

After seemingly hours spent pushing through hordes of near hysterical, redneck fans, we finally found our seats and settled in to wait for the show to begin.

Halfway through typing a text message, I noticed the group of young women sitting directly in front of us. And about dropped my cell phone.

Each and every one of them had gotten prom updos (circa 1997) for the occasion.

NO. FREAKING. LIE.

I burst out laughing. I couldn't help it. I so badly wanted to tap one on the shoulder and inquire about their fancy dos, but didn't think I could make it through with a straight face. So I just sat, quietly gasping for air behind them.

I'd finally calmed myself enough by the time the concert started to reasonably enjoy the show. Which was admittedly quite good. They've both got great voices and are natural performers. And look damn cute together while doing it (singing, that is).

But despite Faith & Tim's prowess on stage, I couldn't help but be distracted by the very drunk women three rows down. They were excited...and bound and determined to prove they knew EVERY word to EVERY song performed. And Lawd, when the first few bars of "Don't Take the Girl" started up, you'd think the rapture was upon us.

I wish I had a video...but one that also included a shot of one of the very same ladies puking out of a Yukon parked on Broadway several hours later. I think it'd make for quite the inspiring YouTube montage.

Second Fiddle

2006-07-26T14:19:00.000-05:00

Note to self: if the bartender at Mafiaoza's makes you take two shots before 5:30, you're going to be in for a rough morning.

But all in all, last night was stupendous. We stayed at Mafiaoza's for a good three hours, swilling beers and swapping snarky stories (love me some alliteration). But one-by-one, our crew slowly started heading for home and their "jammies".

Jenn and I weren't having it. (We'll act 40 when we are 40, thank you.) So we called some friends and headed out to 12th and Porter. The Tuesday night crowd there was...interesting. And the musical lineup even more so. The opening act was some kind of Yiddish band with a flapper girl playing a washboard. Entertaining, to say the least.

I struck up a conversation with a young guy at the bar who is reportedly quite the musical aficionado. He was telling me how he'd recently moved here from the Big Apple and was forced to change his title from "violinist" to "fiddler". And seemed quite baffled by this fact.

I threw my head back and laughed. I couldn't resist adopting my best southern twang and telling him, "Darlin', down here, 'violinist' makes us think of a foreign exchange student vying for first chair. But 'fiddler', now that conjures up pictures of a sexy man sweating in tight jeans on a stage in front of thousands of fans. So...I think you should go with it."

He bought me a drink to show his appreciation.

Proof positive that southern women can teach those New York City boys a thing or two.

Wedding Bliss

2006-07-24T14:22:00.000-05:00

I love weddings. Actually, let me rephrase that. I tolerate weddings, I LOVE receptions.

Last weekend, a gaggle of sorority sisters and I were reunited in Birmingham for the nuptials of a friend. It was absolutely great to see everyone (and to stay on the same hotel floor). Especially under such fun circumstances.

The actual wedding ceremony was beautiful. But I tend to get a little fidgety during those kinds of things. Must be the 8th grader in me.

The reception was...freaking amazing (three words: OPEN MARTINI BAR.) There were close to 600 people there. They had great food and an even better live band. A group of us immediately claimed a table, got into a martini line and pretty much took over. Just like the good ole days.

It wasn't too long before my date wanted to hit the dance floor (and my jaw almost hit the floor). I've never experienced a guy wanting to dance before me! For almost 10 minutes, we were the only couple out there. I guess we looked so good doing our thing that the spectators couldn't resist...it was packed in no time and we were wishing we were still flying solo.

It was after several more martinis and hours spent on the dance floor that things start to get a little fuzzy. Funny how that happens. Luckily I have plenty of pictures to refresh my memory.

Here's the Ole Miss crew on the dance floor (I'm dead center, martini in hand):
Here I am, another martini in hand, eavesdropping on the groomsmen (I'm sure it was a dare):
Here's my favorite picture of the night, with my favorite person in the world:
And finally, here's one of me and my date (looking like we stepped right out of a magazine). I think this picture was taken to commemorate the fact that we dubbed ourselves "Wedding King and Queen" due to our popularity on the dance floor.
I'm sad that it's over. I wish I could go back and replay the entire weekend (minus the late-night Jager Bombs and pool eviction. But that's definitely another story for another time...)

Modesty, Schmodesty

2006-07-20T13:44:00.000-05:00

I've been feeling a little shitty for several days now. (But just a little. Not enough to keep me from Mafiaoza'sing or Body Sculpting with Daniel.) I just figured that with a little extra sleep last night, I'd be back to my 100% sunny self today.

WRONG. The first thought that ran through my half-awake mind this morning was, "I'm going to track down whoever gave this to me and kick them between the shoulder blades...as soon as I muster the energy."

My throat ached, my mouth tasted chalky and my limbs felt heavy. But being the diligent employee that I am, I hauled myself into the shower where I proceeded to lean against the wall and pray for a swift death.

After spending several minutes staring blankly at my computer screen once I got to work, I sucked it up and called my doctor. The receptionist who answered the phone must have taken pity on my croaky voice and promised she'd rush me to the head of the morning wait list.

Upon arrival, she greeted me warmly and told me not to even bother with signing in. Then she asked, "Now when was the last time you've been in?" I sheepishly muttered, "Monday"...but caught myself before adding, "I'm the one that couldn't figure out the gown and flashed Dr. C. I'm sure you probably heard."

A nurse ushered me to an examining room and told me that Dr. C would be with me shortly. Sure enough, it wasn't five minutes before he poked his head in the door and grinned. "Back so soon?"

"Yeah, I figured it was about time I showed you my left boob." (So, I tend to get a little bit snarkier when I don't feel good...)

He threw his head back and laughed. And grinned the entire time he prodded and swabbed me. He then winked at me and chuckled on his way to the lab. (I think I just might have inadvertently rocketed myself to "new favorite patient" status.)

The lab results came back negative for strep, which is good. But I apparently have an ugly throat infection caused by "over exertion." He said the best and quickest thing he could give me was a shot. But at that point, I hardly cared. I just wanted to feel better for this weekend's wedding festivities.

And then he said the dreaded words: "I'll need you to bend over."

So Dr. C has now officially been introduced to both my right boob and right ass cheek.

Hell, at the rate we're going, he'll probably see my full naked self within a week.

Muchas Gracias

2006-07-18T15:03:00.000-05:00

I must slow down my constant weeknight revelry. It's gotten a little out of hand. Lately, there's been too many late nights and too many beers consumed. But lawd, has the fun been worth it! (Especially when you now have a story that involves "dough bombs".)

Since today is Tuesday and our regular table for 14 awaits at Mafiaoza's...my new resolution will have to begin tomorrow. But then Thursday won't count because it's a bachelorette party that can't be missed. So, I guess that leaves Monday then. So sad.

I'm not sure how to go about this, and I don't want to be cheesy, but I just wanted to say a quick thank you for all the "fan" (which is probably not the best word) emails I've received recently about this blog. I'm quite flattered (and very flabbergasted). I really started this as a means for my college friends to keep up with my life, but it seems to have grown from there. I really like to write and it's nice to know that people actually like to read what I've written. Basically, your comments mean a lot...

So keep 'em coming!

Cringe

2006-07-17T14:43:00.000-05:00

Normally, it takes a lot to make me embarrassed. I'm the type that can completely face plant, laugh out loud, and continue on. But strangely, I've had two mortifying moments in the last 24 hours...which might be my all-time record.

1) Yesterday afternoon, I went to the mall in search of the perfect "sexy single girl" dress to wear to a friend's wedding in Birmingham this coming weekend. After stumbling upon THE Dress only 10 minutes into the trip (my date won't know what hit him), I decided to spend some time browsing aimlessly before hitting the gym. I poked around the makeup counters, tried on killer expensive shoes, and on my way out the door, thinking nothing of it, sprayed myself with designer perfume (those "tester" bottles are completely irresistible to me. Free perfume?! Sure!).

After an impromptu gym-change in the car wash (multi-tasking, baby), I arrived at the Green Hills Y completely oblivious to my impending faux pas.

After a solid 10 minutes on the elliptical, I started to REEK. As my skin heated up, my freshly-sprayed perfume literally permeated the air (the only word I can come up with to accurately describe the smell is "cloying"). My eyes literally started to water. And every person within a 10-foot radius started looking around for the culprit--several of them even sneezed. The old man directly next to me figured it out, shot me a dirty look and got off his machine.

Thank goodness my tomato-red face could simply be passed off as "exertion while running".

But it gets worse...

2) I had my first annual physical with my new Nashville doctor this morning (and didn't bother wearing perfume, thank you). It was all going swimmingly--I sailed through the medical history questions, found out I'm actually TALLER than I've been telling people all along--until the nurse told me to change into the flimsy gown. She left me alone in the room with no further instructions...and I struggled. (Which admittedly sounds quite pathetic.)

There were multiple little ties and holes to thread things and it vaguely reminded me of my bathrobe at home. Since no configuration felt quite right, that's ultimately how I decided to put it on.

After 20 more minutes of waiting, the doctor came in and commenced asking more questions. It wasn't long before I noticed that he was a tad flustered. I looked down...and sure enough, my right boob was poking out of the haphazardly-fixed gown.

The next thing out of his mouth was, "Um, yeah...for future reference, we normally recommend that the gown opening is toward the BACK."

Ugh! Now, I know he's a medical professional and has seen thousands of breasts in his lifetime...but I still wanted to crawl under the examining table and die. Because he'd seen MY breast and didn't even HAVE to.

And I'm sure I'll forever be known around the office as "peek-a-boob" or "frontsy" or something equally horrifying.

Summa Summa Summatime

2006-07-14T13:22:00.000-05:00

The past week has been an absolute whirlwind of social activity. I guess that's just what summers are like in the big city. There are always things to do, people to see, and patios to drink on.

This week boasted both Mafiaoza's and Thirsty Thursday experiences. Both are quite dear to my heart and to fit them both into a three-day period is ideal. There's nothing quite like being surrounded by friends, sitting outside (possibly yelling) with a beer in your hand. That, my friends, is the quintessential summer experience.

Hopefully the weekend will bring more of the same...

Yesterday, Stella Mae and I met for the first time and I can already tell we're going to be great together.

She lives in a pretty rough neighborhood that I was a little uneasy to drive through (mainly due to the jean short-clad man standing across the street leering at me over his dragon neck tattoo).
But once I found her house and parked my car, my nerves started to settle. As I approached the house, the cutest little blonde girl came flying out of the front door asking if I was her new sister.
Upon confirmation of this fact, her next words were, "You are SO pretty and you have straight hair and I love you already!!"

She had me in the palm of her hand from that moment forward.

Especially when I saw, upon closer inspection, that she'd smeared on pink Bonne Belle lipstick for the occasion.

Her social worker, legal guardian and I went through all the necessary background information (which is quite sad) and signed numerous legal papers...and then I was finally left to visit with Stella Mae by herself. She showed me all her school pictures and oohed over my shoes and asked if I could do her hair like mine. Then she insisted she show me her room (which she's in the process of making more "4th gradish").

At this point, I'd already suspected that we were going to get along famously...when I saw the ultimate sign:

Stella Mae has her very own karaoke machine too.

I think I've found my miniature soulmate.

Sincerest of Apologies

2006-07-10T16:01:00.000-05:00

Let me just begin by saying that I sincerely have nothing against Liz Phair glasses-wearing girls. I actually own a pair of said glasses myself. I'm just embarrassed to be seen in them outside the house (or Kroger) because I feel like my face looks monstrously fat. I really have a deep-seeded jealousy for the hip girls (with narrow faces) who rock them proudly.

Sorry to have riled everyone up with my snarkiness. :)

New topic: After an extensive month-long background check process, I've been cleared and finally been assigned a Little Sister...and am THRILLED.

I recently decided that I wanted to do something more with my life than just go to work and hang out with friends. Due to the fact that I absolutely love kids, I decided that getting involved in the Big Brothers Big Sisters program would be the perfect way to give back.

I got the call from the social worker today that they've found my pint-sized "match". Her name is Stella May (freaking cute) and she just turned nine. In her own words, she's "dying to eat buttered popcorn at the movies with me and braid my hair".

I've already compiled a list of fun activities we can do together. Everything from trips to the zoo to skating to movie nights. Maybe even some Dollywood. By the sound of things, she probably has her own personal "to-do" list as well...which means we'll be pretty busy chicas for the next year (so you best get plugged into our social calendars early.)

It's going to be incredible.

Blonde Blogger Extraordinaire

2006-07-07T15:12:00.000-05:00

Watch out world, this "blogger" is about to become famous.

Well, sort of.

Yesterday, I got a call from WKRN in Nashville...saying they've read my blog and want to do a TV news story on my "rattlesnake encounter". (Which at first I thought was a huge joke.) I laughed for a bit, then quickly realized the call was legit. They want an on-camera interview at the spot where we found the snake, including all the digital pictures I took that night.

I was so stunned that a) they read my blog and b) they actually wanted to put me on TV that it took me a while to come up with an answer. I finally settled on, "Um...okay..."

I may really regret this. Especially if random people begin stopping me and asking if I'm the "Snake Lady". But it could also be fun and hugely entertaining. It's not every day you get asked to be on TV, after all.

I also got invited to a "Meet & Greet" for a select group of accomplished Nashville bloggers (said in snooty voice) taking place at Wolfy's that very night. Knowing it was probably too much to handle by my lonesome, I drug Godfrey with me.

And it was surprisingly fun. Let's just say it was a very eclectic group of people. Lots of role players, a handful of Elijah Wood look-a-like hipster-writer dudes...and one man in a Darth Vader helmet (I about shot bourbon out of my nose when he arrived).

I couldn't help but feel they were all looking at me like, "Who invited the blonde?" I'm sure a majority of that was in my head...but I definitely stood out like a Tri Delt in a drum line. Which is okay by me. Because at the end of the day, you don't need a pair of Liz Phair glasses and pigtails to write well. Bitches.

First up, TV appearance. Next stop...book deal.

Just watch me.

Not for the Faint of Heart

2006-07-05T12:26:00.000-05:00

Let me preface this by saying I have mixed feelings about this post. Because I know it'll paint me as a beer chugging, wrasslin' watching redneck (which is the farthest thing from the truth).

With that being said, I killed and skinned a rattlesnake yesterday.

Yes, you read that right. There's nothing like celebrating America's birth with a little wild game hunting.

This activity wasn't exactly planned. I went out to my aunt's farm for an impromptu 4th of July cookout...and stumbled upon this vile creature behind the barn. And had no choice but to smash it with a shovel.
After my panicky, light-headed feeling subsided, my granddad and I took it back to the house to show everybody. Amid screams of revulsion, my aunt proclaimed she wanted to save it's skin (for what purpose, I'm still not sure).

In a complete out-of-body experience, I heard myself say that I'd try my hand at it. Nothing like putting your big girl panties on and facing your fears, right?

Lucky for you, I have pictures of the entire process (and they're quite a cross between Jack Hannah's Wild Kingdom and The Beverly Hillbillies if I do say so myself.)

Here I am, getting prepped for surgery. (Don't let the manic expression on my face fool you. My body is having a hard time deciding whether to hyperventilate or vomit or both.)
Here's what the inside of a snake looks like. (It was about ten seconds after this picture was taken that I hit some kind of nerve and the dead thing reflexively curled up...and I high-tailed it off the porch, screaming at the top of my lungs. Because big girl panties aren't completely scare-proof.)
Here's my precious granddad and me nearing the end of the process. THIS manic look is due sheerly to the fact that we're almost done and I haven't died, wet myself or both.
Ta-da! Here's what a snake's skin looks like sans snake:
Pretty impressive, huh? I'm thinking of getting business cards made to read "Rattlesnake Skinner Extraordinaire" or even "G.R.I.T.S. Badass".

So, okay. I have a streak of pure "neck" in me. I can already feel the jokes forming. Let me also say that I accomplished this task with freshly manicured hands, wearing pearl earrings and J. Crew flip-flops.

Because despite the Ole Miss sorority influence, my East Tennessee roots run DEEP.

"The Hills" are Alive

2006-06-27T12:47:00.000-05:00

Two posts in two days. I know, I know. Please contain your excitement.

Our boss has been out this week (translation: we have way more fun and get to wear jeans). Due to the fact that we've been working closely with Disney on the CARS premiere the past few months, the bossman has gotten pretty tight with some big-time Disney execs. But I won't mention any names. As a result of this budding friendship, he was given VIP tickets and treatment for the Pirates of the Caribbean premiere in Hollywood last weekend.

About 15 minutes ago, he paused in his vacationing just long enough to send us an email outlining every famous person he's met since they've been there. Upwards of 30 people.

Which makes me want to stamp my feet in childish jealousy.

They ranged from Johnny Depp and Kiera Knightly to Kate Bosworth and Arnold Schwarzenegger.

But the one that made me truly gasp in excitement was none other than LC of "The Hills" fame.

I just don't know what I would have done in his place! (Besides drunkenly telling her that Jason is a douche and asking her to be my best friend...)

Yes, I realize this falls into the "you know you need a life when" category. But at least it's acceptable for my age/gender to watch the show. Just ask Godfrey what HE does every Wednesday night at 9:00...

Reformed Blogger in the Hizzouse

2006-06-26T15:07:00.000-05:00

You know it's been too damn long since you've written on your blog when you forget your password. I spent a good five minutes plugging every single conceivable password I've had since 8th grade (including "zachipoo83") before I could break into my own account.

Speaking of false security measures, you want to read something that will guarantee make you laugh? This literally had me doubled over gasping for air.

I am so glad that summer has finally come to Ca$hville. The rainy days are far behind us and there is sun for miles...just the way I like it. Bar patios are finally open and just waiting for tan bodies to fill them with sex appeal.

Too bad I have this pesky job thing going on. It's really cramping my summer style.

But despite my bitching, my steady job situation is far better than the waste-of-space's next door. Because the landlord's new job lasted all of 3 weeks. Not sure if he quit or got fired (my guess is the latter). So lucky for us, that means he's back to constant cigar smoking and marathon ball scratching sessions.

I'm tempted to start filling out applications from local fast food joints with his information and leaving them in his mailbox.

Guilt Post

2006-05-24T16:02:00.001-05:00

It's definitely time to write something. I've gotten almost as bad as Godfrey. For the past week, I've felt like the convenient little "Blogger" button on my web browser has been giving me the evil eye. Like it knows it's being neglected and it doesn't like it.

My birthday was last week and being the very popular person that I am, I got TWO separate nights of celebration and TWO birthday cakes. And wouldn't have had it any other way. Because turning 23 is so unspectacular, it needs all the fun help it can get.

Despite being absolutely brain-dead in the blog posting department, I'm in a fantastic mood. For no one particular reason--it's been a cumulative effect.

1) It's actually SUNNY in Nashville for the first time in 45 days. (No one bothered to inform me that this damn city is the Seattle of the South.);
2) I found an abandoned unopened 20 oz Diet Coke at the back of our fridge at work;
3) The gay man standing in line behind me at Kinko's told me I had a fabulous haircut;
4) Our boss informed us that we actually DO get Memorial Day off;
5) Jenn and my flight leaves for Charlotte in T minus 40 hours...more about this tomorrow....

Stalkee

2006-05-10T16:14:00.000-05:00

Our secret is out... Nashville was recently ranked the BEST city to live in by Kiplinger's Magazine. So now the rest of the country can take their "guitar slinging yokels" perception of us and shove it up their asses. We may be a little country, but now our city officially beats everyone else's city hands down. So, booyah.

Here's the article.

On an entirely different topic, my office traveled to Knoxville to assist at a client's board meeting and got put up in a Hilton (my room had a king-size feather bed!) this week. After attending Monday night's sit-down dinner and reception, several of us decided to head back to the hotel and prop the bar up.

The hotel had a massive inner courtyard, with a bar being the focal point of attention. There were a number of hotel rooms that looked out onto the courtyard--but most had their curtains closed.

Jenn and I were sitting there with our boss when we noticed a man standing at a window three floors above us, staring at us behind a single sheer curtain. All the sudden, he peeks a camera out between the curtain and starts taking pictures...he obviously thought we couldn't see him. I waved at him, which seemed to startle him a bit. He then disappeared into his room and we resumed our conversation--mainly about what kind of perv he must be.

Several minutes later, our boss spotted the creep-o descending in the glass elevator and I got chills. He walked in and sat down several feet away from us. And just sat there--on his cell phone--and stared at us.

I briefly considered taking out my camera and snapping pictures of him, but didn't want to be found cut into pieces in my hotel bathtub. So Jenn and I calmly finished our drinks and went back to our rooms--where I proceeded to lock both padlocks and checked that the phone line was still working.

I'd obviously never cut it in Hollywood...