Friday, November 15, 2013
Why dogs are the superior animals
A cold morning here in Atlanta, tucked in the house reading the news online when I came across this and loved every word of it. This is why dogs are the superior animals. No, not because I believe they can actually text. But if they DID, this is what they would say. Our boxer, Nixon, was a sassy spitfire of a dog so I found these a much better read this morning than how Joe Biden screwed up traffic in Atlanta last night for hours. If you are a dog lover AND you love to laugh, enjoy this as you kick off your Friday. From Sad and Useless.
Monday, November 11, 2013
Reading about war and sacrifice is not the same as living it...
In honor of this day and the individuals impacted globally, I am sharing a poignant memory of meeting a soldier. Again, there are thousands of people willing to go and do what I am not willing to go and do. Reading about war and sacrifice is not the same as living it. For those that stand up, suit up, show up and brave up, I am thankful. I am not brave enough to do what you do. Happy Veteran's Day.
________
Excuse me, ma'am," he offered as he nodded toward the window. I didn't notice until I stood to let him pass and he tucked into the seat next to me. The lower half of his leg built by cosmesis rather than what he was given at birth. He wore his standard issue fatigues but the pant leg on one side revealed an artificial limb. His persona seemed old soul. And the fatigues and limb would lend an older, more seasoned appearance than his face ever could.
He didn't look old enough to buy cigarettes. We were flying to Seattle from Atlanta. He had recently returned to the US from a third consecutive tour in Iraq. This time, with a permanent injury coupled with an honorable discharge. As we shared a conversation, I was astounded at the level of calm and ease he used to talk about the real-life scenarios that seemed brutal and surreal to me. When he revealed he had just turned 22, I sensed the formidable sadness in his voice that his "career" as he hoped it would develop, was terminated. It wasn't the loss of part of his body that disenchanted him, but that commitment to the Armed Forces had been prematurely disrupted. His willingness to serve, to stand, to sacrifice could no longer be engaged by the United States Military.
I asked him how he maintained not only the enthusiasm to rise to be assiduous every day in such an extreme environment, but also the belief that the war was the right action in the grim and very real face of death. He said everyone doesn't. War and the caustic realizations of what it truly means is not the same as reading about it in the news. But he felt he had no alternative.
Once you enlist, you are committed for life. He followed with, "Or until you have no choice," indicating his leg. I certainly could not compare notes or offer anecdotes about "I know how you feel." My greatest imagination could not conjure up what a single and real day in that environment would be like. "How do you feel about returning home?" I asked. He was contemplative before answering, "A little lost." Death could have taken him. Another name on a long roster that goes beyond this war into every corner of every country. While he did sacrifice a limb, he certainly never forfeited his valor, or his ambition. And hopefully that ambition would become bigger, and broader to help him navigate his way. A way beyond feeling irrevocably displaced.
In baggage claim at SeaTac, I saw her before she saw him. The face washed with what only comes from holding your breath for three tours of duty. The look of impatience and searching superimposed over a very real foundation of frantic. She could only be at peace perhaps when she could see him, and hug him with her own arms. When she saw him, she pulled on the arm of the man with her. He couldn't get to the boy fast enough. His son.
When he introduced me, I saw in his parents the awe of having their child back. They were proud. And they were relieved. And the force of it made me relieved for them. A force I would not even begin to appreciate in some microcosmic way until I had a child of my own.
Yesterday was Veteran's Day in the US. Originally called Armistice Day in 1919, the day intended to recognize WWI vets. The holiday changed to "All Veterans" in 1945. And this holiday is pertinent to almost 30 million veterans in the United States. I have my own opinions about war, and its cost. But the freedom that affords me to have and vocalize such opinions was freedom paid for by people willing to go to war. And I have gratitude for that gift.
At 22, Corporal Foster was the youngest veteran I had ever met. Wherever you are, I hope you are finding your way.
________
Excuse me, ma'am," he offered as he nodded toward the window. I didn't notice until I stood to let him pass and he tucked into the seat next to me. The lower half of his leg built by cosmesis rather than what he was given at birth. He wore his standard issue fatigues but the pant leg on one side revealed an artificial limb. His persona seemed old soul. And the fatigues and limb would lend an older, more seasoned appearance than his face ever could.
He didn't look old enough to buy cigarettes. We were flying to Seattle from Atlanta. He had recently returned to the US from a third consecutive tour in Iraq. This time, with a permanent injury coupled with an honorable discharge. As we shared a conversation, I was astounded at the level of calm and ease he used to talk about the real-life scenarios that seemed brutal and surreal to me. When he revealed he had just turned 22, I sensed the formidable sadness in his voice that his "career" as he hoped it would develop, was terminated. It wasn't the loss of part of his body that disenchanted him, but that commitment to the Armed Forces had been prematurely disrupted. His willingness to serve, to stand, to sacrifice could no longer be engaged by the United States Military.
I asked him how he maintained not only the enthusiasm to rise to be assiduous every day in such an extreme environment, but also the belief that the war was the right action in the grim and very real face of death. He said everyone doesn't. War and the caustic realizations of what it truly means is not the same as reading about it in the news. But he felt he had no alternative.
Once you enlist, you are committed for life. He followed with, "Or until you have no choice," indicating his leg. I certainly could not compare notes or offer anecdotes about "I know how you feel." My greatest imagination could not conjure up what a single and real day in that environment would be like. "How do you feel about returning home?" I asked. He was contemplative before answering, "A little lost." Death could have taken him. Another name on a long roster that goes beyond this war into every corner of every country. While he did sacrifice a limb, he certainly never forfeited his valor, or his ambition. And hopefully that ambition would become bigger, and broader to help him navigate his way. A way beyond feeling irrevocably displaced.
In baggage claim at SeaTac, I saw her before she saw him. The face washed with what only comes from holding your breath for three tours of duty. The look of impatience and searching superimposed over a very real foundation of frantic. She could only be at peace perhaps when she could see him, and hug him with her own arms. When she saw him, she pulled on the arm of the man with her. He couldn't get to the boy fast enough. His son.
When he introduced me, I saw in his parents the awe of having their child back. They were proud. And they were relieved. And the force of it made me relieved for them. A force I would not even begin to appreciate in some microcosmic way until I had a child of my own.
Yesterday was Veteran's Day in the US. Originally called Armistice Day in 1919, the day intended to recognize WWI vets. The holiday changed to "All Veterans" in 1945. And this holiday is pertinent to almost 30 million veterans in the United States. I have my own opinions about war, and its cost. But the freedom that affords me to have and vocalize such opinions was freedom paid for by people willing to go to war. And I have gratitude for that gift.
At 22, Corporal Foster was the youngest veteran I had ever met. Wherever you are, I hope you are finding your way.
Thursday, October 31, 2013
Why Halloween is like a child's version of a wedding.....
First, WOW, its been 4 weeks since I posted which is the longest in-between on record since I started this blog. I took a great new job within my corporation on October 1 so there is the reason. But, what better day to post than Halloween because I like treats and a few tricks here and there. I am working from home today because 1. I can and 2. its the worst traffic day of the year in Atlanta. Why? Because if you have little kids, you have been celebrating some aspect of Halloween for the entire month. Halloween is basically like a child's version of a wedding. There is planning, decorating, orchestrating, parties, invites, wardrobe check, many costume changes, scrutiny over who looks the best, always, always someone in inappropriate attire (grown man in diaper carrying a pacifier for example), so much food, so many sweets, and photos galore. Can we talk about the photos for a moment. I am as guilty of over-photo'ing just like a wedding photog. Seriously, last year we had 100+ photos for 30 minutes of trick-or-treating. Oh, look, there is MiniMac walking to the door. Now there he is climbing the steps. Oh, yeah, there he is ringing the bell! Look, he is smiling at the stranger inside the door! SUPER. I know these times have a limited span but maybe I will trim it down to 75 photos this year.
The only component missing from Halloween is alcohol. Correction, we all know the coffee cups the parents are carrying are filled to the brim w/ grown up elixirs. MiniMac is pretty thrilled to be dressing as Wolverine. Which will be more joyful to look at then the 1000 girls who will dress like Miley Virus this year. I did see that even Paris Hilton dressed up to mock Miley's VMA performance. Guess what? If Paris Hilton is mocking you, your stock has fallen to the curb or what I like to think of as 'your sh*t could not go any further south'.It makes me wish we could bring back Bieber Fever and well, that is a sad, sad statement.
So, we embark on Halloween frenzy and because MiniMac does not by nature consume a lot of candy, he thinks it is a BIG DEAL if he gets two pieces in the same night. HOORAY. He did recently inform me that he 'does not care for' whole wheat pasta so it is not all wins around here.
I am the room parent for his classroom and we are decorating cookies with his entire class today. Do you know how 6 year-olds handle sprinkles? They empty half the container in their hands, pour 1/100th of them on their cookie and the rest end up on 1. their laps 2. the floor. But my word, you show kids an array of containers with sprinkles? Stand back for the cheering. Seriously. It's like grown women and wine. I did clear the cookie bonanza project with the teacher. However, she is a sub while his teacher is on maternity leave, rather elderly and quite stern. This means she has likely never allowed a sprinkle bedecked cookie to be made in her house so she will be quite displeased when she is finding sprinkles in that classroom for the next six weeks. No, no amount of sweeping retrieves them all easily.
For those celebrating, hope your ghosts and pumpkins have a great time. Last year, one house had a giant bowl of candy for the littles AND a galvanized tub full of beer for the bigs. Genius. I love parents who have a sense of verve. And speaking of verve, I saw this earlier today. Must share:
The only component missing from Halloween is alcohol. Correction, we all know the coffee cups the parents are carrying are filled to the brim w/ grown up elixirs. MiniMac is pretty thrilled to be dressing as Wolverine. Which will be more joyful to look at then the 1000 girls who will dress like Miley Virus this year. I did see that even Paris Hilton dressed up to mock Miley's VMA performance. Guess what? If Paris Hilton is mocking you, your stock has fallen to the curb or what I like to think of as 'your sh*t could not go any further south'.It makes me wish we could bring back Bieber Fever and well, that is a sad, sad statement.
So, we embark on Halloween frenzy and because MiniMac does not by nature consume a lot of candy, he thinks it is a BIG DEAL if he gets two pieces in the same night. HOORAY. He did recently inform me that he 'does not care for' whole wheat pasta so it is not all wins around here.
I am the room parent for his classroom and we are decorating cookies with his entire class today. Do you know how 6 year-olds handle sprinkles? They empty half the container in their hands, pour 1/100th of them on their cookie and the rest end up on 1. their laps 2. the floor. But my word, you show kids an array of containers with sprinkles? Stand back for the cheering. Seriously. It's like grown women and wine. I did clear the cookie bonanza project with the teacher. However, she is a sub while his teacher is on maternity leave, rather elderly and quite stern. This means she has likely never allowed a sprinkle bedecked cookie to be made in her house so she will be quite displeased when she is finding sprinkles in that classroom for the next six weeks. No, no amount of sweeping retrieves them all easily.
For those celebrating, hope your ghosts and pumpkins have a great time. Last year, one house had a giant bowl of candy for the littles AND a galvanized tub full of beer for the bigs. Genius. I love parents who have a sense of verve. And speaking of verve, I saw this earlier today. Must share:
Thursday, October 3, 2013
Give a damn
I just read a snippet in the news that made my morning. A 82-year-old retired man named Anthony Cymerys keeps his skills, wits and love for people intact on the daily by offering haircuts to the homeless people or others who might be in a slump in Hartford, CT. He pops a lawn chair up at Bushnell Park and 'customers' fill park benches waiting for their turn. Price? A hug.
Why was this compelling to me? Because I love stories with good endings. I envision this man as one who holds the door open for others, says hello to strangers, gives a hurried person his place in line. I also like that his courtesy and generosity extend to a population of people that might not be recipients of courtesy and generosity as frequently as other people OR as often as they need it. This story is very simple and it reminded me how easy it is to embrace and execute on the simple concept of giving a damn about others.
I read numerous other tidbits of goodness like 1. a rookie Wildlife officer saves a baby fawn from a river or how a 10-year-old girl opted for donations in lieu of birthday gifts to buy a police dog a bulletproof vest.
And how a dying soldier in NC was surprised by over 40 individuals who showed up to help his family move.
And how Allyson Ahlstrom started Threads for Teens as a 14-year-old and now, at age 18, took her boutique on the road via a giant moving truck. What is the purpose? To give free head-to-toe outfits to teenage girls in need. Awesome.
So many people are inherently good and one of the components that connects all of these individuals together is that simple concept of giving a damn about others. Every holiday season, we compile a list and then take MiniMac to do acts of service for others. These posts have motivated me to kick that into October this year so we will plan some activities for the week to come. The truth is, we can do kind things everyday.
Go give a damn. Shine your light. I know you will do something great.
Why was this compelling to me? Because I love stories with good endings. I envision this man as one who holds the door open for others, says hello to strangers, gives a hurried person his place in line. I also like that his courtesy and generosity extend to a population of people that might not be recipients of courtesy and generosity as frequently as other people OR as often as they need it. This story is very simple and it reminded me how easy it is to embrace and execute on the simple concept of giving a damn about others.
I read numerous other tidbits of goodness like 1. a rookie Wildlife officer saves a baby fawn from a river or how a 10-year-old girl opted for donations in lieu of birthday gifts to buy a police dog a bulletproof vest.
And how a dying soldier in NC was surprised by over 40 individuals who showed up to help his family move.
And how Allyson Ahlstrom started Threads for Teens as a 14-year-old and now, at age 18, took her boutique on the road via a giant moving truck. What is the purpose? To give free head-to-toe outfits to teenage girls in need. Awesome.
So many people are inherently good and one of the components that connects all of these individuals together is that simple concept of giving a damn about others. Every holiday season, we compile a list and then take MiniMac to do acts of service for others. These posts have motivated me to kick that into October this year so we will plan some activities for the week to come. The truth is, we can do kind things everyday.
Go give a damn. Shine your light. I know you will do something great.
Friday, September 20, 2013
Because you have already started your weekend...
I read this yesterday in a car to the airport and laughed so much and so loud, the driver thought I was 1. spirited or 2. drunk. For those of you of have not seen Kelly McLean's article on HuffPost called Surviving Whole Foods, prepare to laugh your arse off and hope you meet this girl one day.... In its entirety:
_________________
Whole Foods is like Vegas. You go there to feel good but you leave broke, disoriented, and with the newfound knowledge that you have a vaginal disease.
Unlike Vegas, Whole Foods' clientele are all about mindfulness and compassion... until they get to the parking lot. Then it's war. As I pull up this morning, I see a pregnant lady on the crosswalk holding a baby and groceries. This driver swerves around her and honks. As he speeds off I catch his bumper sticker, which says 'NAMASTE'. Poor lady didn't even hear him approaching because he was driving a Prius. He crept up on her like a panther.
As the great, sliding glass doors part I am immediately smacked in the face by a wall of cool, moist air that smells of strawberries and orchids. I leave behind the concrete jungle and enter a cornucopia of organic bliss; the land of hemp milk and honey. Seriously, think about Heaven and then think about Whole Foods; they're basically the same.
The first thing I see is the great wall of kombucha -- 42 different kinds of rotten tea. Fun fact: the word kombucha is Japanese for 'I gizzed in your tea.' Anyone who's ever swallowed the glob of mucus at the end of the bottle knows exactly what I'm talking about. I believe this thing is called "The Mother," which makes it that much creepier.
Next I see the gluten-free section filled with crackers and bread made from various wheat-substitutes such as cardboard and sawdust. I skip this aisle because I'm not rich enough to have dietary restrictions. Ever notice that you don't meet poor people with special diet needs? A gluten intolerant house cleaner? A cab driver with Candida? Candida is what I call a rich, white person problem. You know you've really made it in this world when you get Candida. My personal theory is that Candida is something you get from too much hot yoga. All I'm saying is if I were a yeast, I would want to live in your yoga pants.
Next I approach the beauty aisle. There is a scary looking machine there that you put your face inside of and it tells you exactly how ugly you are. They calculate your wrinkles, sun spots, the size of your pores, etc. and compare it to other women your age. I think of myself attractive but as it turns out, I am 78 percent ugly, meaning less pretty than 78 percent of women in the world. On the popular 1-10 hotness scale used by males the world over, that makes me a 3 (if you round up, which I hope you will.) A glance at the extremely close-up picture they took of my face, in which I somehow have a glorious, blond porn mustache, tells me that 3 is about right. Especially because the left side of my face is apparently 20 percent more aged than the right. Fantastic. After contemplating ending it all here and now, I decide instead to buy their product. One bottle of delicious smelling, silky feeling creme that is maybe going to raise me from a 3 to a 4 for only $108 which is a pretty good deal when you think about it.
I grab a handful of peanut butter pretzels on my way out of this stupid aisle. I don't feel bad about pilfering these bites because of the umpteen times that I've overpaid at the salad bar and been tricked into buying $108 beauty creams. The pretzels are very fattening but I'm already in the seventieth percentile of ugly so who cares.
Next I come to the vitamin aisle which is a danger zone for any broke hypochondriac. Warning: Whole Foods keeps their best people in this section. Although you think she's a homeless person at first, that vitamin clerk is an ex-pharmaceuticals sales rep. Today she talks me into buying estrogen for my mystery mustache and Women's Acidophilus because apparently I DO have Candida after all.
I move on to the next aisle and ask the nearest Whole Foods clerk for help. He's wearing a visor inside and as if that weren't douchey enough, it has one word on it in all caps. Yup, NAMASTE. I ask him where I can find whole wheat bread. He chuckles at me "Oh, we keep the poison in aisle 7." Based solely on the attitudes of people sporting namaste paraphernalia today, I'd think it was Sanskrit for "go fuck yourself."
I pass the table where the guy invites me to join a group cleanse he's leading. For $179.99 I can not-eat not-alone... not-gonna-happen. They're doing the cleanse where you consume nothing but lemon juice, cayenne pepper and fiber pills for 10 days, what's that one called again? Oh, yeah...anorexia. I went on a cleanse once; it was a mixed blessing. On the one hand, I detoxified, I purified, I lost weight. On the other hand, I fell asleep on the highway, fantasized about eating a pigeon, and crapped my pants. I think I'll stick with the whole eating thing.
I grab a couple of loaves of poison, and head to checkout. The fact that I'm at Whole Foods on a Sunday finally sinks in when I join the end of the line...halfway down the dog food aisle. I suddenly realize that I'm dying to get out of this store. Maybe it's the lonely feeling of being a carnivore in a sea of vegans, or the newfound knowledge that some people's dogs eat better than I do, but mostly I think it's the fact that Yanni has been playing literally this entire time. Like sensory deprivation, listening to Yanni seems harmless at first, enjoyable even. But two hours in, you'll chew your own ear off to make it stop.
A thousand minutes later, I get to the cashier. She is 95 percent beautiful. "Have you brought your reusable bags?" Fuck. No, they are at home with their 2 dozen once-used friends. She rings up my meat, alcohol, gluten and a wrapper from the chocolate bar I ate in line, with thinly veiled alarm. She scans my ladies acidophilus, gives me a pitying frown and whispers, "Ya know, if you wanna get rid of your Candida, you should stop feeding it." She rings me up for $313. I resist the urge to unwrap and swallow whole another $6 truffle in protest. Barely. Instead, I reach for my wallet, flash her a quiet smile and say, "Namaste."
_________________
Whole Foods is like Vegas. You go there to feel good but you leave broke, disoriented, and with the newfound knowledge that you have a vaginal disease.
Unlike Vegas, Whole Foods' clientele are all about mindfulness and compassion... until they get to the parking lot. Then it's war. As I pull up this morning, I see a pregnant lady on the crosswalk holding a baby and groceries. This driver swerves around her and honks. As he speeds off I catch his bumper sticker, which says 'NAMASTE'. Poor lady didn't even hear him approaching because he was driving a Prius. He crept up on her like a panther.
As the great, sliding glass doors part I am immediately smacked in the face by a wall of cool, moist air that smells of strawberries and orchids. I leave behind the concrete jungle and enter a cornucopia of organic bliss; the land of hemp milk and honey. Seriously, think about Heaven and then think about Whole Foods; they're basically the same.
The first thing I see is the great wall of kombucha -- 42 different kinds of rotten tea. Fun fact: the word kombucha is Japanese for 'I gizzed in your tea.' Anyone who's ever swallowed the glob of mucus at the end of the bottle knows exactly what I'm talking about. I believe this thing is called "The Mother," which makes it that much creepier.
Next I see the gluten-free section filled with crackers and bread made from various wheat-substitutes such as cardboard and sawdust. I skip this aisle because I'm not rich enough to have dietary restrictions. Ever notice that you don't meet poor people with special diet needs? A gluten intolerant house cleaner? A cab driver with Candida? Candida is what I call a rich, white person problem. You know you've really made it in this world when you get Candida. My personal theory is that Candida is something you get from too much hot yoga. All I'm saying is if I were a yeast, I would want to live in your yoga pants.
Next I approach the beauty aisle. There is a scary looking machine there that you put your face inside of and it tells you exactly how ugly you are. They calculate your wrinkles, sun spots, the size of your pores, etc. and compare it to other women your age. I think of myself attractive but as it turns out, I am 78 percent ugly, meaning less pretty than 78 percent of women in the world. On the popular 1-10 hotness scale used by males the world over, that makes me a 3 (if you round up, which I hope you will.) A glance at the extremely close-up picture they took of my face, in which I somehow have a glorious, blond porn mustache, tells me that 3 is about right. Especially because the left side of my face is apparently 20 percent more aged than the right. Fantastic. After contemplating ending it all here and now, I decide instead to buy their product. One bottle of delicious smelling, silky feeling creme that is maybe going to raise me from a 3 to a 4 for only $108 which is a pretty good deal when you think about it.
I grab a handful of peanut butter pretzels on my way out of this stupid aisle. I don't feel bad about pilfering these bites because of the umpteen times that I've overpaid at the salad bar and been tricked into buying $108 beauty creams. The pretzels are very fattening but I'm already in the seventieth percentile of ugly so who cares.
Next I come to the vitamin aisle which is a danger zone for any broke hypochondriac. Warning: Whole Foods keeps their best people in this section. Although you think she's a homeless person at first, that vitamin clerk is an ex-pharmaceuticals sales rep. Today she talks me into buying estrogen for my mystery mustache and Women's Acidophilus because apparently I DO have Candida after all.
I move on to the next aisle and ask the nearest Whole Foods clerk for help. He's wearing a visor inside and as if that weren't douchey enough, it has one word on it in all caps. Yup, NAMASTE. I ask him where I can find whole wheat bread. He chuckles at me "Oh, we keep the poison in aisle 7." Based solely on the attitudes of people sporting namaste paraphernalia today, I'd think it was Sanskrit for "go fuck yourself."
I pass the table where the guy invites me to join a group cleanse he's leading. For $179.99 I can not-eat not-alone... not-gonna-happen. They're doing the cleanse where you consume nothing but lemon juice, cayenne pepper and fiber pills for 10 days, what's that one called again? Oh, yeah...anorexia. I went on a cleanse once; it was a mixed blessing. On the one hand, I detoxified, I purified, I lost weight. On the other hand, I fell asleep on the highway, fantasized about eating a pigeon, and crapped my pants. I think I'll stick with the whole eating thing.
I grab a couple of loaves of poison, and head to checkout. The fact that I'm at Whole Foods on a Sunday finally sinks in when I join the end of the line...halfway down the dog food aisle. I suddenly realize that I'm dying to get out of this store. Maybe it's the lonely feeling of being a carnivore in a sea of vegans, or the newfound knowledge that some people's dogs eat better than I do, but mostly I think it's the fact that Yanni has been playing literally this entire time. Like sensory deprivation, listening to Yanni seems harmless at first, enjoyable even. But two hours in, you'll chew your own ear off to make it stop.
A thousand minutes later, I get to the cashier. She is 95 percent beautiful. "Have you brought your reusable bags?" Fuck. No, they are at home with their 2 dozen once-used friends. She rings up my meat, alcohol, gluten and a wrapper from the chocolate bar I ate in line, with thinly veiled alarm. She scans my ladies acidophilus, gives me a pitying frown and whispers, "Ya know, if you wanna get rid of your Candida, you should stop feeding it." She rings me up for $313. I resist the urge to unwrap and swallow whole another $6 truffle in protest. Barely. Instead, I reach for my wallet, flash her a quiet smile and say, "Namaste."
Tuesday, August 20, 2013
To my oldest friend on your saddest day
I met my best friend from childhood the first week of 4th grade. She had a gold velour shirt on and that shirt was tucked into her underwear which were slightly above the top of her jeans. She denies this but I am quite confident. This was in the late 70's and not a Sir Mix A Lot song so underwear out of your pants was taboo. One day, a boy in our class yelled at her and she marched her tiny self (she still is tiny) right over to his desk and broke every single of one of his crayons. TAKE THAT. He cried like a baby for about 20 minutes and well, I knew this girl had sass and verve. We became the best of friends. That friendship created some serious shenanigans and adventures. Including the time we decided to make chocolate chip cookie dough and then hide the entire mixing bowl in my room so we could eat it raw. Bowl of raw cookie dough + no refrigeration + two little girls weighing in about 45 pounds each = well, you know that story doesn't yield a pleasant ending. PS: Sorry Mom, because you had to be on medic/clean up duty.
We were at Kelly's grandpa's house one day and decided "Let's have fun!" How? Well, we can jump off the roof of the garage onto a mattress! This is brilliant! Her Mom drove up the driveway and jumped out of the car before she even put it in park. She wasn't delighted by our daredevil-ish ways, I assure you. A question was shouted at us 'What in the HELL are you doing?!?! followed by GET DOWN IMMEDIATELY. Once down from the roof, we went down to the river and decide to have mud fight. For hours. We were covered scalp to toes and her Mom made us stand outside and get sprayed down with a giant garden house. We should have opted to stay on the roof!
We had:
matching sleeping bags (super cool gynmastics themed)
matching overalls (Osh Kosh B'Gosh!)
matching roller skates and skate covers (Uber fierce!)
matching parachute pants (Super FLY)
matching haircuts in 4th-6th grade (Super UGLY. It looked like Madge from Golden Girls sheared us and not like cute pixie style like Olympic skaters but rather like boys. Or prisoners.)
We once opted to have a water fight at her house. We filled tiny Dixie cups with water and placed them throughout the yard. It is easy to go through those quickly and one of us grabbed the hose and the other ran in the house. Well, dummy in the house DO NOT open the kitchen windows and sass out statements like "HAHAHA. I am in the house!" because the hose can SPRAY into the house. Which is what happened. Many times. It was not a good story to explain but it was awesome at the time. Did we ultimately rot the kitchen floor? Perhaps. I know we did a terrible job of clean up.
One day her Mom bought us Hostess Tiger Tails. Remember these? Basically, a Twinkie but w/ the added ingredients of jelly and coconut. I have never liked the dreaded coconut. Kelly loves coconut and did not want to share this with me. She knew my disdain and explained to me, I could not have the Tiger Tail because it was covered in coconut. "I will pick it off," I say. She replies, "You can't. There won't be anything left." But she gives it to me and after spending about 30 minutes picking it off, she is only getting more and more irritated with me. At minute 32, I give up as the Tiger Tail has been demolished in my coconut removal process. I simply say, "I don't actually want it now." She picks up the mounds of coconut and what happens next? She throws the entire pile in my face. I deserved it. Tiger Tails? Shudder.
There were dance parties, slumber parties, skating parties. We got older and added our 3rd lifelong best friend, Taz, to the mix. We saw each other through crushes, boyfriends, breakups, moving, fights with parents, car wrecks, cheerleading practice, lip syncing to Push It and hot tub parties w/ boys at my Dad's house when he was out of town. We drank wine coolers, bad beer and one time only: Tequila. We tried smoking, Lee Press On nails, Sun In. Even when separated by college and hundreds of miles, we were best friends, bridesmaids, present for the birth of babies. We have laughed in that really great, from the soul kind of way on countless days and nights.
And today we cry. Kelly's Mom died unexpectedly yesterday. She was found at her home with her suitcase packed to fly to Kelly's house this morning. I have known both of these women since age 9. The news gave me that crinkly numbing feeling. Kelly lost her Dad years ago and spent yesterday afternoon twisting and turning on how to tell her own children the news.
I thought about those many laughter provoking moments throughout my entire childhood and that recall, in the context of death, makes your sadness widen out and push on you. There is no 'sorry' big enough to cover the gap this death has left. As she told me herself yesterday, "It is my mom." I know exactly what she means. After I spoke to her, I immediately called my own Mom. Kelly spent so many nights at our house, of course my Mom called her immediately. And because my own Mom is so good, she offered all that love and support that maybe only parents know how to give when kids are hurting. And aren't we still kids? It wasn't too long ago we were roller skating through mud puddles and prank calling Scooter Peterson, right?
Being supportive and loving your friend through life-changing moments are aspects you would gladly trade if in fact, you could actually do something to alter the outcome of the situation. I want to wrap her entire day in every great caper, every laugh, every Tiger Tail so all of those minutes counterbalance all of her minutes feeling sick hearted. I can't but I definitely attempted last night via text. To which she replied, "How dare you take off those coconut flakes!" Exactly.
Kelly, you and your Mom loved each other. You both knew the depth of it and for that, I am so very glad. It does not make today easier, but one day it might. Thinking of you, my oldest friend, on what is truly your saddest day.
We love you. And because we love you I am refraining from including a pic of us in grade school with our despicable haircuts.
We were at Kelly's grandpa's house one day and decided "Let's have fun!" How? Well, we can jump off the roof of the garage onto a mattress! This is brilliant! Her Mom drove up the driveway and jumped out of the car before she even put it in park. She wasn't delighted by our daredevil-ish ways, I assure you. A question was shouted at us 'What in the HELL are you doing?!?! followed by GET DOWN IMMEDIATELY. Once down from the roof, we went down to the river and decide to have mud fight. For hours. We were covered scalp to toes and her Mom made us stand outside and get sprayed down with a giant garden house. We should have opted to stay on the roof!
We had:
matching sleeping bags (super cool gynmastics themed)
matching overalls (Osh Kosh B'Gosh!)
matching roller skates and skate covers (Uber fierce!)
matching parachute pants (Super FLY)
matching haircuts in 4th-6th grade (Super UGLY. It looked like Madge from Golden Girls sheared us and not like cute pixie style like Olympic skaters but rather like boys. Or prisoners.)
We once opted to have a water fight at her house. We filled tiny Dixie cups with water and placed them throughout the yard. It is easy to go through those quickly and one of us grabbed the hose and the other ran in the house. Well, dummy in the house DO NOT open the kitchen windows and sass out statements like "HAHAHA. I am in the house!" because the hose can SPRAY into the house. Which is what happened. Many times. It was not a good story to explain but it was awesome at the time. Did we ultimately rot the kitchen floor? Perhaps. I know we did a terrible job of clean up.
One day her Mom bought us Hostess Tiger Tails. Remember these? Basically, a Twinkie but w/ the added ingredients of jelly and coconut. I have never liked the dreaded coconut. Kelly loves coconut and did not want to share this with me. She knew my disdain and explained to me, I could not have the Tiger Tail because it was covered in coconut. "I will pick it off," I say. She replies, "You can't. There won't be anything left." But she gives it to me and after spending about 30 minutes picking it off, she is only getting more and more irritated with me. At minute 32, I give up as the Tiger Tail has been demolished in my coconut removal process. I simply say, "I don't actually want it now." She picks up the mounds of coconut and what happens next? She throws the entire pile in my face. I deserved it. Tiger Tails? Shudder.
There were dance parties, slumber parties, skating parties. We got older and added our 3rd lifelong best friend, Taz, to the mix. We saw each other through crushes, boyfriends, breakups, moving, fights with parents, car wrecks, cheerleading practice, lip syncing to Push It and hot tub parties w/ boys at my Dad's house when he was out of town. We drank wine coolers, bad beer and one time only: Tequila. We tried smoking, Lee Press On nails, Sun In. Even when separated by college and hundreds of miles, we were best friends, bridesmaids, present for the birth of babies. We have laughed in that really great, from the soul kind of way on countless days and nights.
And today we cry. Kelly's Mom died unexpectedly yesterday. She was found at her home with her suitcase packed to fly to Kelly's house this morning. I have known both of these women since age 9. The news gave me that crinkly numbing feeling. Kelly lost her Dad years ago and spent yesterday afternoon twisting and turning on how to tell her own children the news.
I thought about those many laughter provoking moments throughout my entire childhood and that recall, in the context of death, makes your sadness widen out and push on you. There is no 'sorry' big enough to cover the gap this death has left. As she told me herself yesterday, "It is my mom." I know exactly what she means. After I spoke to her, I immediately called my own Mom. Kelly spent so many nights at our house, of course my Mom called her immediately. And because my own Mom is so good, she offered all that love and support that maybe only parents know how to give when kids are hurting. And aren't we still kids? It wasn't too long ago we were roller skating through mud puddles and prank calling Scooter Peterson, right?
Being supportive and loving your friend through life-changing moments are aspects you would gladly trade if in fact, you could actually do something to alter the outcome of the situation. I want to wrap her entire day in every great caper, every laugh, every Tiger Tail so all of those minutes counterbalance all of her minutes feeling sick hearted. I can't but I definitely attempted last night via text. To which she replied, "How dare you take off those coconut flakes!" Exactly.
Kelly, you and your Mom loved each other. You both knew the depth of it and for that, I am so very glad. It does not make today easier, but one day it might. Thinking of you, my oldest friend, on what is truly your saddest day.
We love you. And because we love you I am refraining from including a pic of us in grade school with our despicable haircuts.
Saturday, August 17, 2013
Take A Bite Of: Sea Salt Caramels (also known as "yum, yum, give me some."
I make them in the exact format learned from Ina Garten. From my kitchen to yours, enjoy every bite.
Sea Salt Caramels:
Ingredients
1 1/2 cups sugar
1/4 cup light corn syrup
1 cup heavy cream
5 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 teaspoon fine fleur de sel, plus extra for sprinkling
1/2 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
Directions
Line an 8-inch-square baking pan with parchment paper, allowing it to drape over 2 sides, then brush the paper lightly with oil or spray with nonstick spray.
1 1/2 cups sugar
1/4 cup light corn syrup
1 cup heavy cream
5 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 teaspoon fine fleur de sel, plus extra for sprinkling
1/2 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
Directions
Line an 8-inch-square baking pan with parchment paper, allowing it to drape over 2 sides, then brush the paper lightly with oil or spray with nonstick spray.
Boil the sugar.
In a deep saucepan (6 inches wide and 4 1/2 inches deep), combine 1/4 cup water, the sugar and corn syrup and bring them to a boil over medium-high heat. Boil until the mixture is a warm golden brown. Don't stir -- just swirl the pan.
Heat the cream.
In the meantime, in a small pot, bring the cream, butter and 1 teaspoon of fleur de sel to a simmer over medium heat. Turn off the heat and set aside.
Finish the caramel.
When the sugar mixture is done, turn off the heat and slowly add the cream mixture to the sugar mixture. Be careful -- it will bubble up violently. Be careful also means WATCH IT. I left one pot unattended for a mere minute and bubbled over boiling caramel is a real headache to clean up. Then stir in the vanilla with a wooden spoon and cook over medium-low heat for about 10 minutes, until the mixture reaches 248 degrees F (firm ball) on a candy thermometer.
Fill your prepared pan slowly and carefully. It is HOT. I also then sprinkle the top with sea salt before refrigerating. Pop in fridge for a few hours, until firm. When the caramel is cold, pry the sheet from the pan onto a cutting board. Cut the square in half. And then you can opt for small rectangle or square size pieces. It's easier to cut the caramels if you brush the knife with flavorless oil like corn oil. Wrap the candies.
Friday, August 9, 2013
5 Types of Drunk....
Years ago, we arrived on the front-end of a party at a friend's house. Walking in, I saw another friend who laughingly told us, "I just saw Rick. He is really drunk."
"What kind of drunk?" I asked. She paused, "Ummm, the drunk kind of drunk."
My question was not that off-base. Think about it, it was approximately 7 pm. The party had started minutes before. How can anyone be drunk unless they were inhaling them via beer bong circa 1990 fraternity party style or they were working on it since early afternoon. For those of you who don't imbibe, good for you. Alcohol is a trouble-maker. However, for those of us who do imbibe, cheers to us because there are many compelling reasons to have a sip or two at night, especially when its red wine or what I like to call "daily fruits." The reality is, there are different kinds of drinking and there are different kinds of drunk as you well know. Let's review them, shall we?
1. I-am-finally-legal-to-drink-drunk: Remember this girl? And boy? Oh, you do. This is the person so excited to finally use real vs. fake id, they go big on the big night. And by 'go big' I mean, watch the f------ out. It is not that this person can finally have alcohol because you know that has been going on for years but it is the reality that the taste of wine coolers or Malibu rum drinks are completely legal. This person is easy to identify at the beginning of the night: For girls: she is the one wearing a "I'M 21" sash yelling "THIS IS MY SONG" at the beginning of every song on the jukebox. For boys: He is the one with the hat on sideways (God love you if its flat-brimmed) calling everyone 'Bro" which sounds like "Bra" and "Dude" which sounds like "Duuuuuuuuuuuuude." Later in the night this person is even easier to identify as the girls will be saying "I love youuuuuu. You are my bessssssst friendddddd forevvvvvver: (God love you if you use the word "bestie" which is one of the worst fake words in the English language and hopefully only used by 21 year olds who have been consuming wine coolers ALL night.) You want to warn them, uh oh, you are going to see something you have never witnessed before: Your hair swirling in the toilet as it hangs down both sides of your face as you hug the commode like you just hugged 1. all your friends. 2. the bartender 3. the street sweeper before you lost your shoes, your iPhone and your dignity. For the fellas, well, he will be the one with his shirt off and doing all kinds of 'dares' his less wasted friends can dream up. His warning is: Have fun waking up in someone's yard covered in Magic Marker but sans clothing hugging an orange traffic cone and an empty bag from Crystals. This boy and girl will repeat these actions many, many times before learning any valuable lessons.
2. I-love-tailgating-drunk: WOW. We love football in this house and by 'we' I mean 'Mostly JMac and increasingly MiniMac'. I love a good time but tailgating is a completely different level. Why? Because people park at 9 am and begin the bonanza of beer guzzling and hotdog scarfing. I once made the foolish mistake of agreeing to go to a tailgate party for a WVU vs. Pitt game. Any college football fans know this is a huge rivalry. We arrived at the tailgate party w/ 150 rabid WVU fans at 11 am. Oh, only 150 you say? Yes, 150 in about a 20 foot area surrounded by oh, I dont know, maybe 80,000 other nutso cukoos. I then learned the game did not actually start until 7:05 pm. Do the math. And when you are done with that you will come to the conclusion "NOT a good use of time." 8 hour tailgate? Or what I like to call "Welcome to the Shit Show." What begins as friends happy to see each other in the mandatory dress code of: Everything on your body must proudly display school colors, mascot or symbol quickly turns into: beer funneling, the school fight song bellowed louder than goats in a megaphone on repeat for at least 100 iterations and sloppy drunk men tossing the football around the parking lot which is about as smooth and graceful as watching a dog react to getting a bee sting on the tail. Oh, you jammed your finger on the ball? Right, because you are 1. drunk and 2. old and 3. out of shape and 4. drunk. It ends with fans of the home field throwing beer cans (and bottles) onto their OWN field. Because that is what highly intoxicated rabid fans do. This theory applies to many, many stadiums in both college and professional arenas. "Tailgate Party" is code word for "Free-For-All" worse than Lake Havasu at Spring Break minus the sex.
3. Wedding-drunk: Weddings are almost like the female version of Tailgating. As much as many a gal loves her tailgate party, weddings bring out the fun in the ladies. Especially if you are in the wedding party. Why? It is awesome to be a part of someone's very special day and it is basically a weekend soiree with multiple other weekends dedicated to the wedding e.g. showers, bachelorette parties, dress shopping, shoe shopping, 'something blue' shopping. We have been to many incredibly tasteful and classic weddings. We have also been to weddings where the groom was drunk at the reception and claimed (on a microphone so even 90 year old grandma could hear) "Its my wedding and I am going to get drunk (check) and I am going to get laid (ummm, keep it up and you will be getting just about nothing later. Thank your whiskey dick. ) Wedding drunk is what causes people to RACE to the dance floor to do the Macarena and exclaim with glee: MMMMmmmmberrrr when we did this on the barrrrr in Lauderdale????? I LOVE this dannnnnce! Wedding-drunk also causes people to: Do 10 minute version of the Electric Slide, participate in the Chicken Dance, the Worm or (actually AND) Breakdance. Wedding-drunk also causes groomsmen to pat your buddy's Mother in Law on the keister and light a joint at the reception. NOT WISE on either count. At least the Worm is just an embarrassing photo of you on Facebook. Wedding-drunk also produces some incredible pairings of people connecting over similar qualities and interests also known as "Liquor-based-love." Liquor-based-love starts at high school parties in odd places you would never normally go like "The Quarry" or "The Dunes" or in our case "Top of the World." Liquor-based-love abounds throughout college, trips to Vegas, and of course, weddings. The only favorable part of Wedding-Drunk is when you are merely an observer. And outside of the part where you had sex with the groom's cousin who wore a Peter Pan collar dress to the wedding, get your act together people. This is someone's special, special day.
4. Girls-or-Guys-night-out-drunk: Basically, Girls or Guys Night Out (GNO) are amongst the most fun nights out but definitely nights you pay for the next day in increasing amounts of pain and agony contingent upon your age. For ladies: GNO in your 20s: Feather boas and hot pants, dancing on the bar and jello shots. GNO in your 30's is sassy off shoulder shirts, perfect lipstick, vodka tonic and wanting to dance on the bar but instead, dancing in a circle. GNO in your 40's is sassy dresses, killer heels, red wine and shake your ass like you are in your 20's dance party. GNO almost always involves dancing. For men: GNO in your 20's involves beer, hitting on women and discussions of sports, beer and women. In your 30's it involves better beer selection, looking at women, maybe hitting on them and discussions of sports, microbrews and women. In your 40's it involves: whiskey, gin or tequila, looking at women, maybe hitting on them and discussions of sports, whiskey/gin/tequila, children (for 2 seconds as in do you still have them? Yes. Move along) and women. These nights do cause you to think your liver is as healthy and productive as the day you were born so you will often consume a few sips too many, sing as loudly as possible to songs on the jukebox especially songs like: I Love Rock and Roll, Jack and Diane, Living on a Prayer, Funky Cold Medina or Ice Ice Baby. You will know the words to these songs for life so you might as well belt them out. Your spouse loves GNO because to them GNO means randy time or what JMac calls "No Pants Party." Well, sometimes its true and sometimes a few extra sips helps you only to barely undress and fall into bed without brushing your teeth. Don't judge. But oh, the dance party portion of the evening was AWESOME.
4. I-am-only-having-one-drunk sometimes known as I-am-managing-small-children-drunk: This version is hilarious because you came with the best intentions. You go to dinner with friends, you are only having one and uh oh, next thing you know you are all doing karaoke to PUSH IT. You planned on only one, right? This circumstance also it frequently in many a neighborhood. Typcially, on a 'school night' when your neighbors might be outside with there kiddos and everyone says hello and catches up and then someone brings wine and you say "no thanks" because it is 530 pm and then they insist so, well, ok. Then you sip that and it is tasty. So the bottle is open and well, you may as well have another splash. You don't think are you going down Buzz Boulevard because you clearly said only one. Right. Next thing you know, you are home making dinner and your child says "Let's skip vegetables at dinner tonight?" And you say GREAT IDEA. I know many, many a Mom and Dad managing little people who opt for the "only one" theory which rarely if ever works. The bad news is, children do not care what time you go to bed, their little internal alarm clocks ding at the same time every morning so have fun suffering if you go bananas. I have had one hangover in MiniMac's entire life because I learned my lesson. The hard way. And basically rocked myself to and fro on the bathroom floor petting my own head and crying. My child was far away in the house but really? No thank you. I am not sure what "I-have-surly-teenagers-drunk" looks like but I am years away from that discovery.
5. I'm-so-sad-drunk: Oh boy. This is a tricky one because it kind of goes down like this: Your friend has recently broke up with someone. As we know, break up sadness and lost pet, job, phone, dignity from your 21-run sadness are not the same types of sadness. So your friend has a break up. You decide to approach the night out in one of two ways. Either 1. Let's go get our swerve on! You are a hot commodity! This is a new lease on life! Let's help Stella get her groove back! so you get dolled up, shoes=sexy, hair=fierce and you go out to tear it up. Except whooooops, one or two glasses of Malbec later you notice the more grape juice in equals more water from the tear ducts out. So-sad-drunk is a drunk many of us know first-hand. The problem is not the sadness, it is the TALKING about the sadness over and over and over and over and over and over. (Girls, admit, you know WE love to reiterate our details. Over and over and over.) The more consumed, the more sad crying/talking that occurs until you are nasal toned and dripping from the eyes AND nose. It will get better but not this night bellied up to the bar. The other approach to the so-sad-breakup-back-in-the-saddle night out is 2, F him! You don't need him! He will RUE the DAY! This is also known as very sad AND angry drunk or very sad AND bitter drunk. Back away slowly. Here is what will happen: One or two glasses of Malbec later you notice the more grape juice in equals more water from the tear ducts out. Then that water turns to venom. Then you are telling stories about Bryan's gambling issues, affinity for kink and his small penis. The more liquor in the louder the volume on the voice box goes until everyone in the vicinity knows all about Bryan and his shortcomings. Once all the poison is out, you go back to crying and being really sad because you realllllllllllly looooooooooooved Bryaaaaaaaaaaan.
Now be good and let all of these examples be a warning to you.
"What kind of drunk?" I asked. She paused, "Ummm, the drunk kind of drunk."
My question was not that off-base. Think about it, it was approximately 7 pm. The party had started minutes before. How can anyone be drunk unless they were inhaling them via beer bong circa 1990 fraternity party style or they were working on it since early afternoon. For those of you who don't imbibe, good for you. Alcohol is a trouble-maker. However, for those of us who do imbibe, cheers to us because there are many compelling reasons to have a sip or two at night, especially when its red wine or what I like to call "daily fruits." The reality is, there are different kinds of drinking and there are different kinds of drunk as you well know. Let's review them, shall we?
1. I-am-finally-legal-to-drink-drunk: Remember this girl? And boy? Oh, you do. This is the person so excited to finally use real vs. fake id, they go big on the big night. And by 'go big' I mean, watch the f------ out. It is not that this person can finally have alcohol because you know that has been going on for years but it is the reality that the taste of wine coolers or Malibu rum drinks are completely legal. This person is easy to identify at the beginning of the night: For girls: she is the one wearing a "I'M 21" sash yelling "THIS IS MY SONG" at the beginning of every song on the jukebox. For boys: He is the one with the hat on sideways (God love you if its flat-brimmed) calling everyone 'Bro" which sounds like "Bra" and "Dude" which sounds like "Duuuuuuuuuuuuude." Later in the night this person is even easier to identify as the girls will be saying "I love youuuuuu. You are my bessssssst friendddddd forevvvvvver: (God love you if you use the word "bestie" which is one of the worst fake words in the English language and hopefully only used by 21 year olds who have been consuming wine coolers ALL night.) You want to warn them, uh oh, you are going to see something you have never witnessed before: Your hair swirling in the toilet as it hangs down both sides of your face as you hug the commode like you just hugged 1. all your friends. 2. the bartender 3. the street sweeper before you lost your shoes, your iPhone and your dignity. For the fellas, well, he will be the one with his shirt off and doing all kinds of 'dares' his less wasted friends can dream up. His warning is: Have fun waking up in someone's yard covered in Magic Marker but sans clothing hugging an orange traffic cone and an empty bag from Crystals. This boy and girl will repeat these actions many, many times before learning any valuable lessons.
2. I-love-tailgating-drunk: WOW. We love football in this house and by 'we' I mean 'Mostly JMac and increasingly MiniMac'. I love a good time but tailgating is a completely different level. Why? Because people park at 9 am and begin the bonanza of beer guzzling and hotdog scarfing. I once made the foolish mistake of agreeing to go to a tailgate party for a WVU vs. Pitt game. Any college football fans know this is a huge rivalry. We arrived at the tailgate party w/ 150 rabid WVU fans at 11 am. Oh, only 150 you say? Yes, 150 in about a 20 foot area surrounded by oh, I dont know, maybe 80,000 other nutso cukoos. I then learned the game did not actually start until 7:05 pm. Do the math. And when you are done with that you will come to the conclusion "NOT a good use of time." 8 hour tailgate? Or what I like to call "Welcome to the Shit Show." What begins as friends happy to see each other in the mandatory dress code of: Everything on your body must proudly display school colors, mascot or symbol quickly turns into: beer funneling, the school fight song bellowed louder than goats in a megaphone on repeat for at least 100 iterations and sloppy drunk men tossing the football around the parking lot which is about as smooth and graceful as watching a dog react to getting a bee sting on the tail. Oh, you jammed your finger on the ball? Right, because you are 1. drunk and 2. old and 3. out of shape and 4. drunk. It ends with fans of the home field throwing beer cans (and bottles) onto their OWN field. Because that is what highly intoxicated rabid fans do. This theory applies to many, many stadiums in both college and professional arenas. "Tailgate Party" is code word for "Free-For-All" worse than Lake Havasu at Spring Break minus the sex.
3. Wedding-drunk: Weddings are almost like the female version of Tailgating. As much as many a gal loves her tailgate party, weddings bring out the fun in the ladies. Especially if you are in the wedding party. Why? It is awesome to be a part of someone's very special day and it is basically a weekend soiree with multiple other weekends dedicated to the wedding e.g. showers, bachelorette parties, dress shopping, shoe shopping, 'something blue' shopping. We have been to many incredibly tasteful and classic weddings. We have also been to weddings where the groom was drunk at the reception and claimed (on a microphone so even 90 year old grandma could hear) "Its my wedding and I am going to get drunk (check) and I am going to get laid (ummm, keep it up and you will be getting just about nothing later. Thank your whiskey dick. ) Wedding drunk is what causes people to RACE to the dance floor to do the Macarena and exclaim with glee: MMMMmmmmberrrr when we did this on the barrrrr in Lauderdale????? I LOVE this dannnnnce! Wedding-drunk also causes people to: Do 10 minute version of the Electric Slide, participate in the Chicken Dance, the Worm or (actually AND) Breakdance. Wedding-drunk also causes groomsmen to pat your buddy's Mother in Law on the keister and light a joint at the reception. NOT WISE on either count. At least the Worm is just an embarrassing photo of you on Facebook. Wedding-drunk also produces some incredible pairings of people connecting over similar qualities and interests also known as "Liquor-based-love." Liquor-based-love starts at high school parties in odd places you would never normally go like "The Quarry" or "The Dunes" or in our case "Top of the World." Liquor-based-love abounds throughout college, trips to Vegas, and of course, weddings. The only favorable part of Wedding-Drunk is when you are merely an observer. And outside of the part where you had sex with the groom's cousin who wore a Peter Pan collar dress to the wedding, get your act together people. This is someone's special, special day.
4. Girls-or-Guys-night-out-drunk: Basically, Girls or Guys Night Out (GNO) are amongst the most fun nights out but definitely nights you pay for the next day in increasing amounts of pain and agony contingent upon your age. For ladies: GNO in your 20s: Feather boas and hot pants, dancing on the bar and jello shots. GNO in your 30's is sassy off shoulder shirts, perfect lipstick, vodka tonic and wanting to dance on the bar but instead, dancing in a circle. GNO in your 40's is sassy dresses, killer heels, red wine and shake your ass like you are in your 20's dance party. GNO almost always involves dancing. For men: GNO in your 20's involves beer, hitting on women and discussions of sports, beer and women. In your 30's it involves better beer selection, looking at women, maybe hitting on them and discussions of sports, microbrews and women. In your 40's it involves: whiskey, gin or tequila, looking at women, maybe hitting on them and discussions of sports, whiskey/gin/tequila, children (for 2 seconds as in do you still have them? Yes. Move along) and women. These nights do cause you to think your liver is as healthy and productive as the day you were born so you will often consume a few sips too many, sing as loudly as possible to songs on the jukebox especially songs like: I Love Rock and Roll, Jack and Diane, Living on a Prayer, Funky Cold Medina or Ice Ice Baby. You will know the words to these songs for life so you might as well belt them out. Your spouse loves GNO because to them GNO means randy time or what JMac calls "No Pants Party." Well, sometimes its true and sometimes a few extra sips helps you only to barely undress and fall into bed without brushing your teeth. Don't judge. But oh, the dance party portion of the evening was AWESOME.
4. I-am-only-having-one-drunk sometimes known as I-am-managing-small-children-drunk: This version is hilarious because you came with the best intentions. You go to dinner with friends, you are only having one and uh oh, next thing you know you are all doing karaoke to PUSH IT. You planned on only one, right? This circumstance also it frequently in many a neighborhood. Typcially, on a 'school night' when your neighbors might be outside with there kiddos and everyone says hello and catches up and then someone brings wine and you say "no thanks" because it is 530 pm and then they insist so, well, ok. Then you sip that and it is tasty. So the bottle is open and well, you may as well have another splash. You don't think are you going down Buzz Boulevard because you clearly said only one. Right. Next thing you know, you are home making dinner and your child says "Let's skip vegetables at dinner tonight?" And you say GREAT IDEA. I know many, many a Mom and Dad managing little people who opt for the "only one" theory which rarely if ever works. The bad news is, children do not care what time you go to bed, their little internal alarm clocks ding at the same time every morning so have fun suffering if you go bananas. I have had one hangover in MiniMac's entire life because I learned my lesson. The hard way. And basically rocked myself to and fro on the bathroom floor petting my own head and crying. My child was far away in the house but really? No thank you. I am not sure what "I-have-surly-teenagers-drunk" looks like but I am years away from that discovery.
5. I'm-so-sad-drunk: Oh boy. This is a tricky one because it kind of goes down like this: Your friend has recently broke up with someone. As we know, break up sadness and lost pet, job, phone, dignity from your 21-run sadness are not the same types of sadness. So your friend has a break up. You decide to approach the night out in one of two ways. Either 1. Let's go get our swerve on! You are a hot commodity! This is a new lease on life! Let's help Stella get her groove back! so you get dolled up, shoes=sexy, hair=fierce and you go out to tear it up. Except whooooops, one or two glasses of Malbec later you notice the more grape juice in equals more water from the tear ducts out. So-sad-drunk is a drunk many of us know first-hand. The problem is not the sadness, it is the TALKING about the sadness over and over and over and over and over and over. (Girls, admit, you know WE love to reiterate our details. Over and over and over.) The more consumed, the more sad crying/talking that occurs until you are nasal toned and dripping from the eyes AND nose. It will get better but not this night bellied up to the bar. The other approach to the so-sad-breakup-back-in-the-saddle night out is 2, F him! You don't need him! He will RUE the DAY! This is also known as very sad AND angry drunk or very sad AND bitter drunk. Back away slowly. Here is what will happen: One or two glasses of Malbec later you notice the more grape juice in equals more water from the tear ducts out. Then that water turns to venom. Then you are telling stories about Bryan's gambling issues, affinity for kink and his small penis. The more liquor in the louder the volume on the voice box goes until everyone in the vicinity knows all about Bryan and his shortcomings. Once all the poison is out, you go back to crying and being really sad because you realllllllllllly looooooooooooved Bryaaaaaaaaaaan.
Now be good and let all of these examples be a warning to you.
Monday, August 5, 2013
Hot Sh*t
At the gym yesterday, I overheard two guys discussing a particular female.
One guy: I don't really like her, she is kind of conceited.
Other guy: Me either, she thinks she is such hot sh*t.
Hmmmm. There are several phrases that make no sense to me and this is one. If someone is conceited, do they really think they are hot sh*t? Are there NO other phrases to employ that make more sense? Does anyone who actually is conceited look in the mirror pursing their lips, smiling at themselves and ask what do I remind myself of? A beauty queen? Madonna? A super model? Oh, I KNOW, warm feces. It does not make any sense. The only thing worse than a pile of sh*t would be a hot one. I was once out with girlfriends and one of them was getting hit on a man who most definitely did not lack in the confidence sector (see, a clearer way to describe someone who thinks they are hot sh*t) and she asked him, "When you get home, do you kiss yourself goodnight?" It was hilarious because we were on cocktail #3, but really, even that doesn't make sense and it is STILL better than 'hot sh*t' right?
I realize it is just a phrase but it is a pretty horrible one, you have to concur.
BUT, should you or someone you know suffer from classifying yourself as hot sh*t, do not worry. You know what will knock you down a peg from all your comingled self-love and poopy thoughts? A polaroid picture. Seriously. They make virtually everyone look ugly, especially the close ups. How do I know? Well, because a friend took one for me and when I gazed at it, I thought perhaps I was looking in a funhouse mirror. Except I was not. Yikes. Where is the Photoshop button on those archaic things?!? So, if you have a friend suffering from the disease, snap that polaroid. It will work. I promise.
So, if we can't deconstruct the phrase at least I have offered a cure for it.
One guy: I don't really like her, she is kind of conceited.
Other guy: Me either, she thinks she is such hot sh*t.
Hmmmm. There are several phrases that make no sense to me and this is one. If someone is conceited, do they really think they are hot sh*t? Are there NO other phrases to employ that make more sense? Does anyone who actually is conceited look in the mirror pursing their lips, smiling at themselves and ask what do I remind myself of? A beauty queen? Madonna? A super model? Oh, I KNOW, warm feces. It does not make any sense. The only thing worse than a pile of sh*t would be a hot one. I was once out with girlfriends and one of them was getting hit on a man who most definitely did not lack in the confidence sector (see, a clearer way to describe someone who thinks they are hot sh*t) and she asked him, "When you get home, do you kiss yourself goodnight?" It was hilarious because we were on cocktail #3, but really, even that doesn't make sense and it is STILL better than 'hot sh*t' right?
I realize it is just a phrase but it is a pretty horrible one, you have to concur.
BUT, should you or someone you know suffer from classifying yourself as hot sh*t, do not worry. You know what will knock you down a peg from all your comingled self-love and poopy thoughts? A polaroid picture. Seriously. They make virtually everyone look ugly, especially the close ups. How do I know? Well, because a friend took one for me and when I gazed at it, I thought perhaps I was looking in a funhouse mirror. Except I was not. Yikes. Where is the Photoshop button on those archaic things?!? So, if you have a friend suffering from the disease, snap that polaroid. It will work. I promise.
So, if we can't deconstruct the phrase at least I have offered a cure for it.
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