Recently my husband and I upgraded the security system in our house. It wasn't intentional -- just a knock on the door one evening last week led to an unplanned purchase. Two hours later, we had an upgraded security system for a security system that we never bothered to activate in the first place when we moved into our house six years ago. The sales guy wasn't particularly good at his job -- he just talked and talked and talked and asked random questions. He sat down on the couch and started watching the baseball game that we had on TV. His sales strategy seemed to be just to wear us down so that we were exhausted into compliance. I'm guessing that he'd still be sitting on our couch today, talking about whatever random topics he thought of, if we hadn't said yes. I think it was one of those situations where we were secretly delighted by his presence; a surreal break from what had been an exhausting week, providing an unintended comic relief that allowed us to have something to laugh about and look at each other with eyebrows raised, an implied What the hell is going on? bouncing back and forth between the two of us.
So we now have a security alarm. Originally intended to be a 60-month contract, we were able to get a 42-month contract instead -- only three-and-a-half years committed to. Not bad in the scheme of life, right? By the time the alarm contract is up, I'll be closer to 40 than I am to 30.
Now I have to remember not to trip the alarm. That is, I have to remember to turn it on in the first place when I'm at home or when I leave the house. Then I have to remember to disarm it when I either want to exit the house or I return home. Otherwise, I have less than a minute to enter my password before the bells and sirens go off and I receive a call from either the security company or the police -- I can't remember which. Hopefully I don't have to find that out.
I feel like don't trip the alarm has been a common theme in my life, and I'm trying to sort through all of the internal and external mess I've made that might require me to trip alarms when I need help. I'm currently reading a book, The Gifts of Imperfection, a self-help book that was featured on the Oprah network. (Well, that's what the sticker on the book told me when I was perusing the bookshelves at Target. I bought it on a whim, not intending to walk away from Target with a self-help book mixed in with my toiletries, new garbage can, and GoGurt. Something about the combination of self-help book, Target, and Oprah seem like I should be scoffing at it, but I'm trying to embrace this process I've started.) The book's central focus is on dealing with inner shame and letting go of the need to be perfect for everyone, for identifying your self-worth so that you can love yourself so that you can better love others. The author has a nice voice with her writing, and her concepts make sense to me. While she hasn't revealed anything that makes me weary of whether she totally understands what it's like to have soul-scorching shame that tears away at you until you feel like your innards are trying to eat your outside and you're paralyzed by your inner thoughts, feelings, and dreams (or lack there of). But sometimes it doesn't require an extraordinary event to find yourself crippled with that shame...sometimes it's just life unfolding in ways we couldn't imagine.
So while I'm trying to figure out this alarm thing of when I need to trip the alarm versus shut it off, I might be reading a self-help book or two (or dozen) that I might not have before. But at least I know that I have an upgraded security system at my house thanks to the guy who randomly showed up on my doorstep last week...
Sunday, August 31, 2014
Saturday, August 30, 2014
Gummi Bears on Crack
The other day at work, somehow the topic of conversation turned to the Gummi Bears, the Disney cartoon that was on from the mid-1980s to the early 1990s and featured a family of bears (with names like Sunni Gummi, Tummi Gummi, and Grammi Gummi) who lived inside a hollow tree. The Gummi family got into zany adventures that often found them being pitted against ogres and humans. They drank a homegrown potion called "Gummiberry Juice" to gain a superstrength that would make them bounce around crazily at enormous heights for a limited period of time. When too much Gummiberry Juice was drunk, it could have severe side effects.
So...essentially, the Gummi Bears were drinking liquid crack or, perhaps, ...? You know the writers giggled like 12-year-old boys laughing while practicing armpit farts when they came up with that plot point...
So...essentially, the Gummi Bears were drinking liquid crack or, perhaps, ...? You know the writers giggled like 12-year-old boys laughing while practicing armpit farts when they came up with that plot point...
Thursday, August 28, 2014
Dangerous Playground Equipment
In a recent conversation, a group of us started reminiscing about playing on the playground in elementary school. It's been a while since I thought of what it was like to be a kid, anxiously waiting for recess time to take a break from the confines of a small desk and run outside -- free, unrefined, unconstrained.
In elementary school -- second through fifth grade, to be precise -- many of us would make a mad dash to the northeast corner of the playground when the teacher released us. We would race past the foursquare court, past the swings, beyond the monkey bars and merry-go-round, to "The Giants": a 10-foot high metal pole with handlebars attached to equally as long metal chains. The sole purpose of The Giants: grab the handles on one of the extremely large chains, run in a circle around the pole, then leap into the air and soar as far you could until your feet hit the ground again.
The Giants induced an incredible adrenaline rush due to the ability to sail with it -- and a high probability that at least one child would limp away from it at the end of recess covered in blood or a large lump on the head. The Giants was surrounded by a circular pad of concrete, which allowed for maximum traction when running in a circle...or a natural exfoliate for your face, knees, and back when you fell to the concrete. As kids, we found all sorts of ways to maximize the height and air you could get when on The Giants. The best method was to wrap your chain over the top of everyone else's chains, run as fast as you could for a few minutes as a group, and then have everyone duck to the center but you, so that the tension of the chains and exertion of the forward movement propelled you through the air, screaming with joy and terror.
The number of ways we injured ourselves on The Giants was remarkable; I'm surprised no teachers or parents intervened. The most frequent injuries were due to our little hands getting slippery on the metal handlebars, losing our grips, and then sliding off. The child who lost his or her grip faced a possibility of numerous injuries as the child flew through the air and eventually landed hard: scrapes from the concrete, trampling by other little feet, broken limbs. And it was just as bad for those who didn't lose their grips and remained running with their own chains: bumps, bruises, and concussions from the rogue handlebars attached to the chain of the child who lost a grip. I was lucky: the worst injury I sustained was when I lost my grip, tumbled to the ground, and scraped the full width of my back from the small of my back to the top of my shoulders. It bled profusely, and it was painful to wear a shirt for the next week. But at least I walked away that day; many of the children crawled or leaned on each other as they made their way back to the school after a flight off The Giants. We even had a teacher come over to carry the girl who had plummeted to the ground and broke a bone.
After sharing my story of The Giants with others this week, the faces staring at me reflected disbelief and horror. They had a hard time picturing the contraption, and the next question was an obvious one: "Who on earth would allow such a piece of playground equipment to exist?" So I tried googling the term "The Giants" to show them the equipment. Nothing was returned. Knowing that perhaps we had referred to The Giants by a nickname passed along from generation to generation of schoolyard children, I refined my search to dangerous playground equipment.
And there it was: Giant Stride.
Giant Stride, in all of its shiny metal and glory. It was released and available circa 1910, a time when children didn't wear bike helmets, knee pads, and protective gear. When parents let their children run to parks and playgrounds, unattended. Back when they used to let children play on metal poles with chains that more often than not resulted in tears and injuries. It was fantastic.
The Giant Stride was eventually one of the first piece of equipment banned from public playgrounds, and my former elementary school was no exception. The school district removed the chains from the pole in the late 1990s. A few weeks ago I returned home to Iowa, and a friend of mine and I drove by the old elementary school, which closed a few years ago and now stands dark, quiet, and abandoned. The grass where the playground used to be located is overgrown, hiding the gravel and pavement where the swing set, monkey bars, and teeter totter used to be. However, there it was: rusty and aged by weather -- The Giants pole still stands. Slightly ominous, as if it's waiting for children to stop by for another whirl around it...and a few more drops of blood to fall.
In elementary school -- second through fifth grade, to be precise -- many of us would make a mad dash to the northeast corner of the playground when the teacher released us. We would race past the foursquare court, past the swings, beyond the monkey bars and merry-go-round, to "The Giants": a 10-foot high metal pole with handlebars attached to equally as long metal chains. The sole purpose of The Giants: grab the handles on one of the extremely large chains, run in a circle around the pole, then leap into the air and soar as far you could until your feet hit the ground again.
The Giants induced an incredible adrenaline rush due to the ability to sail with it -- and a high probability that at least one child would limp away from it at the end of recess covered in blood or a large lump on the head. The Giants was surrounded by a circular pad of concrete, which allowed for maximum traction when running in a circle...or a natural exfoliate for your face, knees, and back when you fell to the concrete. As kids, we found all sorts of ways to maximize the height and air you could get when on The Giants. The best method was to wrap your chain over the top of everyone else's chains, run as fast as you could for a few minutes as a group, and then have everyone duck to the center but you, so that the tension of the chains and exertion of the forward movement propelled you through the air, screaming with joy and terror.
The number of ways we injured ourselves on The Giants was remarkable; I'm surprised no teachers or parents intervened. The most frequent injuries were due to our little hands getting slippery on the metal handlebars, losing our grips, and then sliding off. The child who lost his or her grip faced a possibility of numerous injuries as the child flew through the air and eventually landed hard: scrapes from the concrete, trampling by other little feet, broken limbs. And it was just as bad for those who didn't lose their grips and remained running with their own chains: bumps, bruises, and concussions from the rogue handlebars attached to the chain of the child who lost a grip. I was lucky: the worst injury I sustained was when I lost my grip, tumbled to the ground, and scraped the full width of my back from the small of my back to the top of my shoulders. It bled profusely, and it was painful to wear a shirt for the next week. But at least I walked away that day; many of the children crawled or leaned on each other as they made their way back to the school after a flight off The Giants. We even had a teacher come over to carry the girl who had plummeted to the ground and broke a bone.
After sharing my story of The Giants with others this week, the faces staring at me reflected disbelief and horror. They had a hard time picturing the contraption, and the next question was an obvious one: "Who on earth would allow such a piece of playground equipment to exist?" So I tried googling the term "The Giants" to show them the equipment. Nothing was returned. Knowing that perhaps we had referred to The Giants by a nickname passed along from generation to generation of schoolyard children, I refined my search to dangerous playground equipment.
And there it was: Giant Stride.
Giant Stride, in all of its shiny metal and glory. It was released and available circa 1910, a time when children didn't wear bike helmets, knee pads, and protective gear. When parents let their children run to parks and playgrounds, unattended. Back when they used to let children play on metal poles with chains that more often than not resulted in tears and injuries. It was fantastic.
The Giant Stride was eventually one of the first piece of equipment banned from public playgrounds, and my former elementary school was no exception. The school district removed the chains from the pole in the late 1990s. A few weeks ago I returned home to Iowa, and a friend of mine and I drove by the old elementary school, which closed a few years ago and now stands dark, quiet, and abandoned. The grass where the playground used to be located is overgrown, hiding the gravel and pavement where the swing set, monkey bars, and teeter totter used to be. However, there it was: rusty and aged by weather -- The Giants pole still stands. Slightly ominous, as if it's waiting for children to stop by for another whirl around it...and a few more drops of blood to fall.
Tuesday, August 26, 2014
Duffy's Tavern
I have a weekly routine with my 91-year-old grandma. I call her on my drive home from work, typically on Monday or Tuesday. Every conversation starts the same way:
Grandma: "Hello?"
Me: "Grandma? Hi, it's Megan."
Grandma: "Megan? Oh, hi, Megan! How are you?"
Me: "Good! How are you?"
Grandma: "Good..." then she launches into her day's activities.
And every conversation ends the same way.
Grandma: "You must be near home."
Me: "I still have 10 minutes left."
Grandma talks for another two minutes.
Grandma: Interrupts herself. "You must be near home."
Me: "I'm still about 10 minutes from home."
Grandma talks for another two minutes. This sometimes goes on for a while depending on traffic. Eventually...
Grandma: "You must be near home."
Me: "Yep, I'm near home."
Grandma: "Well, come when you can."
Me: "I will, Grandma. I'm trying to figure out a weekend that will work."
Grandma: "Well, come when you can."
Me: "Absolutely. I'll let you know."
Grandma: "I love you. Come when you can."
Me: "I love you, too."
Grandma: "Adios."
Me: "Adios."
Grandma: Fumbling with the phone. "Adios."
During our calls, our conversations can occasionally have a new topic, but mostly there are a few recurring topics:
These conversations are simple, mostly just me listening to her talk. She lives in Minnesota by herself, in a town that she moved to when she was 17 to help her older sister, Mabel, with a luncheon that Mabel and my great-uncle Frank opened in the late '30s. My grandma met my grandpa a few years later; he was a med tech in the Army, rode a bicycle, and loved to jitterbug (he eventually won a jitterbug contest, which my grandma still proudly talks about). Their first date was to a dance. My grandpa kept her gloves so that she would have to see him again. They were married in a double wedding ceremony with my grandma's youngest sister, Katherine, and her husband, Roger; my grandma later submitted her wedding photo to a contest in Chicago, where she was deemed the most beautiful bride of the contest. My grandparents were married for 57 years, until my grandpa died in 2003.
My grandpa was my favorite person; more than 11 years after his death, my stomach still drops when I think about how he's no longer here. He was quiet and a man of few words, often due to his poor hearing that made it difficult for him to follow what was going on around him; a constant buzzing would emit from his hearing aid when people got too close to it. My brother and I caught on that he would turn off his hearing aid when he was around my grandma and her three sisters. I am soft spoken, so he often struggled to hear me. It pained both of us for me to yell so that he could hear me, so I often just sat at the foot of his recliner, my shoulder pressed into his leg, with him occasionally patting my head. When he had a question or wanted to share a story, he would raise a finger and begin with, "Say..."
My grandma was the opposite of my grandpa. My grandpa woke at 5:00 a.m. every morning and went to bed around 10:30, after the nightly news. My grandma stayed up until 2:00 a.m. so that she could watch Saturday Night Live or The Letterman Show; she typically woke after 10:30 a.m. There have been many trips where I've gone to see her, and she was still in bed by the time I had to leave for my drive home. Where my grandpa was quiet, she liked to talk. She is slightly like Rose Nylund from The Golden Girls, complete with her own variation of "St. Olaf" stories, love of cheesecake and sweets, and a slightly flighty demeanor. Despite their differences, my grandparents were best friends for more than 50 years. She liked to say that she never bought a cup of coffee...because she always sipped my grandpa's. I marvel at how easy they made marriage look.
The calls with my grandma are usually the highlight of my week. I know there will come a time when we won't be able to have them, that my weekly conversations will be replaced by a silence and a void. But, until then, I have 20 minutes of delightful discussion around the moments of my grandma's days that remind me how the little, often seemingly insignificant events of the day can have the most resounding impact.
Grandma: "Hello?"
Me: "Grandma? Hi, it's Megan."
Grandma: "Megan? Oh, hi, Megan! How are you?"
Me: "Good! How are you?"
Grandma: "Good..." then she launches into her day's activities.
And every conversation ends the same way.
Grandma: "You must be near home."
Me: "I still have 10 minutes left."
Grandma talks for another two minutes.
Grandma: Interrupts herself. "You must be near home."
Me: "I'm still about 10 minutes from home."
Grandma talks for another two minutes. This sometimes goes on for a while depending on traffic. Eventually...
Grandma: "You must be near home."
Me: "Yep, I'm near home."
Grandma: "Well, come when you can."
Me: "I will, Grandma. I'm trying to figure out a weekend that will work."
Grandma: "Well, come when you can."
Me: "Absolutely. I'll let you know."
Grandma: "I love you. Come when you can."
Me: "I love you, too."
Grandma: "Adios."
Me: "Adios."
Grandma: Fumbling with the phone. "Adios."
During our calls, our conversations can occasionally have a new topic, but mostly there are a few recurring topics:
- Her neighbor, who she refers to as "a kid". (He's in his 60s.) Topics with him routinely involve the police or speculation of marijuana use.
- Todd, the pastor at her church. I see him every time I visit her, but each time she mentions him, she asks him if I've met him.
- Fixing her teeth.
- The deer eating the bushes outside of her house.
- The same update on each of my cousins.
- How my cousin's wife's sister had a lung transplant.
- The most recent event to happen in the news, often being a pop culture event where she can only recall a fragment of the actor's name.
These conversations are simple, mostly just me listening to her talk. She lives in Minnesota by herself, in a town that she moved to when she was 17 to help her older sister, Mabel, with a luncheon that Mabel and my great-uncle Frank opened in the late '30s. My grandma met my grandpa a few years later; he was a med tech in the Army, rode a bicycle, and loved to jitterbug (he eventually won a jitterbug contest, which my grandma still proudly talks about). Their first date was to a dance. My grandpa kept her gloves so that she would have to see him again. They were married in a double wedding ceremony with my grandma's youngest sister, Katherine, and her husband, Roger; my grandma later submitted her wedding photo to a contest in Chicago, where she was deemed the most beautiful bride of the contest. My grandparents were married for 57 years, until my grandpa died in 2003.
My grandpa was my favorite person; more than 11 years after his death, my stomach still drops when I think about how he's no longer here. He was quiet and a man of few words, often due to his poor hearing that made it difficult for him to follow what was going on around him; a constant buzzing would emit from his hearing aid when people got too close to it. My brother and I caught on that he would turn off his hearing aid when he was around my grandma and her three sisters. I am soft spoken, so he often struggled to hear me. It pained both of us for me to yell so that he could hear me, so I often just sat at the foot of his recliner, my shoulder pressed into his leg, with him occasionally patting my head. When he had a question or wanted to share a story, he would raise a finger and begin with, "Say..."
My grandma was the opposite of my grandpa. My grandpa woke at 5:00 a.m. every morning and went to bed around 10:30, after the nightly news. My grandma stayed up until 2:00 a.m. so that she could watch Saturday Night Live or The Letterman Show; she typically woke after 10:30 a.m. There have been many trips where I've gone to see her, and she was still in bed by the time I had to leave for my drive home. Where my grandpa was quiet, she liked to talk. She is slightly like Rose Nylund from The Golden Girls, complete with her own variation of "St. Olaf" stories, love of cheesecake and sweets, and a slightly flighty demeanor. Despite their differences, my grandparents were best friends for more than 50 years. She liked to say that she never bought a cup of coffee...because she always sipped my grandpa's. I marvel at how easy they made marriage look.
The calls with my grandma are usually the highlight of my week. I know there will come a time when we won't be able to have them, that my weekly conversations will be replaced by a silence and a void. But, until then, I have 20 minutes of delightful discussion around the moments of my grandma's days that remind me how the little, often seemingly insignificant events of the day can have the most resounding impact.
Monday, August 25, 2014
Stairs Beware
I've been struggling with my balance recently. In the last few days, I've managed to fall down stairs twice and narrowly escape a third and fourth stair fall. Embarrassingly enough, both times it was just forgetting to look to make sure that I had reached the bottom of the steps; I missed the last step in both falls. The first spill was the worst -- I fell onto concrete. Hard. Two skinned and bruised knees, a skinned palm, a partially dislodged toenail, and two broken flip flops. The second time a wall broke my fall, saving me from toppling all the way to the bottom of the stairs. It only left me with a skinned and bruised elbow. I've also banged into more walls and door jams in the last several days then I have in the last two years. My hips and thighs look like someone took a meat cleaver to them.
I've always been a klutz, but it's never been quite like this. The unbalance. I think it's reflective of some of my recent inner thoughts...seeping out in physical aspects, each bruise representing a turbulent feeling I've dealt with recently. I started Pilates again after an extended sabbatical from it to not only help with my flexibility, but to try to restore some of my ability to center myself. It's the Mari Windsor 20-minute workout video, which I remember ordering from an infomercial roughly 10 years ago...you now can watch it for free on YouTube. (If only I could have seen into the future on that purchase...) I find that it's helping to ground me again, even if I still cannot master the two moves that require you to balance and roll (6:35 and 21:00 on the video). How is it that what appears to be the simplest moves during the 20-minute session -- essentially rolling back and forth in a ball on the floor -- is the most difficult for me? In the video, Mari Windsor talks about finding your "powerhouse" to help with breathing, control, and centeredness. My powerhouse might be struggling with a shaky foundation right now, but it's getting better. So hopefully by this time next week, my balance will have returned (both internally and externally) and I'll have stopped falling down stairs.
I've always been a klutz, but it's never been quite like this. The unbalance. I think it's reflective of some of my recent inner thoughts...seeping out in physical aspects, each bruise representing a turbulent feeling I've dealt with recently. I started Pilates again after an extended sabbatical from it to not only help with my flexibility, but to try to restore some of my ability to center myself. It's the Mari Windsor 20-minute workout video, which I remember ordering from an infomercial roughly 10 years ago...you now can watch it for free on YouTube. (If only I could have seen into the future on that purchase...) I find that it's helping to ground me again, even if I still cannot master the two moves that require you to balance and roll (6:35 and 21:00 on the video). How is it that what appears to be the simplest moves during the 20-minute session -- essentially rolling back and forth in a ball on the floor -- is the most difficult for me? In the video, Mari Windsor talks about finding your "powerhouse" to help with breathing, control, and centeredness. My powerhouse might be struggling with a shaky foundation right now, but it's getting better. So hopefully by this time next week, my balance will have returned (both internally and externally) and I'll have stopped falling down stairs.
Sunday, August 24, 2014
A Girl Walks Into a Bar...
...logs online, and realizes she hasn't updated her blog in almost six years.
I contemplated scrapping this blog and starting fresh. New site, new name, new beginning. But I like the historical aspect...even if six years can completely alter you, where you are in life, and your writing style. Fundamentally, I'm still Megs -- just slightly unsettled these days, trying to balance myself out. Writing has always helped me do that.
However, at the core, I still believe life is more fun pantsless. As emphasized by an experience last week. Recently, one of my coworkers and his wife had a baby girl. The other day, they brought her into the office. Holding babies has always made me slightly nervous, ever since the time I was eight years old and I accidentally dropped my cousin on her head when I was holding her. (Don't worry -- she bounced; my cousin turned out okay and is a fabulous young woman.) To this day, the trauma of watching my cousin slide out of my arms, off the couch, onto the floor still lingers whenever someone offers to let me hold their baby. To calm my nerves as I held this new baby, I focused on her outfit: a white onesie with pink polka dots and a giant pink bow on the shoulder. It occurred to me that a onesie is essentially like wearing a T-shirt with underwear. As her chubby little legs bounced against my arms, it further emphasized the point: even babies understand the philosophy that life is more fun without pants. Now if only I could find a fashionable adult-sized onesie...
I contemplated scrapping this blog and starting fresh. New site, new name, new beginning. But I like the historical aspect...even if six years can completely alter you, where you are in life, and your writing style. Fundamentally, I'm still Megs -- just slightly unsettled these days, trying to balance myself out. Writing has always helped me do that.
However, at the core, I still believe life is more fun pantsless. As emphasized by an experience last week. Recently, one of my coworkers and his wife had a baby girl. The other day, they brought her into the office. Holding babies has always made me slightly nervous, ever since the time I was eight years old and I accidentally dropped my cousin on her head when I was holding her. (Don't worry -- she bounced; my cousin turned out okay and is a fabulous young woman.) To this day, the trauma of watching my cousin slide out of my arms, off the couch, onto the floor still lingers whenever someone offers to let me hold their baby. To calm my nerves as I held this new baby, I focused on her outfit: a white onesie with pink polka dots and a giant pink bow on the shoulder. It occurred to me that a onesie is essentially like wearing a T-shirt with underwear. As her chubby little legs bounced against my arms, it further emphasized the point: even babies understand the philosophy that life is more fun without pants. Now if only I could find a fashionable adult-sized onesie...
Friday, September 19, 2008
Yas-No!
So, I'm not really sure why I was looking up Yasmine Bleeth on imdb.com, but I was surprised to see that she hasn't appeared in anything -- no slow-motion beach running, no melodramatic Lifetime movie, nada -- since 2003. I don't know if her, er, 2002 drug-related arrest and rehab had anything to do with it, but dammit, Yasmine, get back out there. Cheech and Don miss you.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Correctionville Terquasquicentennial...?
I might be a little bored, as I was looking at Correctionville's city Web site. And it looks like they've already started the countdown to the next big celebration, the terquasquicentennial -- the 175th anniversary of C'ville. I can only imagine the excitement after having survived the sesquicentennial...
Thursday, June 26, 2008
9021-Uh-Oh
It hurts me a little to know that they're remaking Beverly Hills, 90210. It hurts me even more knowing that a) Jessica Walter, who played Lucille Bluth on Arrested Development (and who I absolutely loved on that show!), is playing the grandmother of one of the teens, and 2) instead of having the midwestern schmucks come from Minnesota, she's now from Kansas City. Nice.
Click here to watch a cheesy preview and interview with cast members. Hello, Lori Laughlin, it's nice to see you back on The CW after getting canceled on Summerland (um, not that I watched it or anything). And welcome back to Jennie Garth, Tori Spelling, and Rob Estes. Good to see you've moved on beyond the original 90210 and Melrose Place.
Click here to watch a cheesy preview and interview with cast members. Hello, Lori Laughlin, it's nice to see you back on The CW after getting canceled on Summerland (um, not that I watched it or anything). And welcome back to Jennie Garth, Tori Spelling, and Rob Estes. Good to see you've moved on beyond the original 90210 and Melrose Place.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Selling Point...
Today Tom and I attended several open houses around Kansas City.
When we went to look at this house, we were immediately overwhelmed by the hugeness of it. Everything we own would have fit into the living room, let alone the nine other rooms in the house.
We also were a little overwhelmed by the package of edible underwear (one of those candy necklaces, only shaped into a penis-covering G-string) that was prominently displayed on the dresser in the master bedroom. And that, my friends, is one way to sell your house.
When we went to look at this house, we were immediately overwhelmed by the hugeness of it. Everything we own would have fit into the living room, let alone the nine other rooms in the house.
We also were a little overwhelmed by the package of edible underwear (one of those candy necklaces, only shaped into a penis-covering G-string) that was prominently displayed on the dresser in the master bedroom. And that, my friends, is one way to sell your house.
Friday, April 11, 2008
SVH
If you know what I'm referring to based on that short acronym, then you've got to be as excited as I am.
They've "updated" the Sweet Valley High books, re-releasing the first two books in the series. SVH books were the ultimate brain candy. Incredibly trashy, incredibly ridiculous, incredibly fun to read. If Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen had been born 20 years earlier, I'm sure they would have been the models used for the original SVH book jackets. Heck, if I would have been born 10 years earlier, I could have enjoyed the first SVH books as they were initially released. (The first one was published in 1983 -- my calculations tell me that the Wakefield twins would be 41 today if they were real people.)
I can't wait to head to a bookstore tomorrow to pick them up. Granted, it's going to look a little weird, I know, but seriously. Elizabeth and Jessica, all over again. And thank God they're now a Size 4 (and no longer Size 6). Those '80s fat asses.
To read an entertaining review of the book, click here. To read an entertaining review of the fasions discussed in the book, click here.
They've "updated" the Sweet Valley High books, re-releasing the first two books in the series. SVH books were the ultimate brain candy. Incredibly trashy, incredibly ridiculous, incredibly fun to read. If Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen had been born 20 years earlier, I'm sure they would have been the models used for the original SVH book jackets. Heck, if I would have been born 10 years earlier, I could have enjoyed the first SVH books as they were initially released. (The first one was published in 1983 -- my calculations tell me that the Wakefield twins would be 41 today if they were real people.)
I can't wait to head to a bookstore tomorrow to pick them up. Granted, it's going to look a little weird, I know, but seriously. Elizabeth and Jessica, all over again. And thank God they're now a Size 4 (and no longer Size 6). Those '80s fat asses.
To read an entertaining review of the book, click here. To read an entertaining review of the fasions discussed in the book, click here.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
One More Writer Scribes the Formulaic Plot...
I'm sure most of you have heard my tangent of how much I hate some so-called writers that have bestselling books with the same formulaic plot where you can essentially move one character from one book to another and still have the book make sense. My previous example of this: Nicholas Sparks. Boy/girl meet; boy/girl can't get together due to social differences/time constraints/something in a bottle; boy/girl finally get together for 2-3 chapters; boy/girl suffers tragic death/debilitating disease/obvious contrived fate. I'd rather watch Nancy Grace for days on end while sitting on a stiletto heel than read another book written by Nicholas Sparks.
Jodi Picoult has fallen into that same category for me. After reading three of her books now, I've decided that she is the female equivalent of Nicky baby. The only differences I've decided are that her books are a lot longer. She also does so much heavy foreshadowing in her books that to not figure out the ending by Page 12 means you aren't really paying attention to what she's written. Which you don't need to, because you can figure out the entire book by Page 12. It's like she's smacking you in the face with her "surprise" ending.
Jodi Picoult has fallen into that same category for me. After reading three of her books now, I've decided that she is the female equivalent of Nicky baby. The only differences I've decided are that her books are a lot longer. She also does so much heavy foreshadowing in her books that to not figure out the ending by Page 12 means you aren't really paying attention to what she's written. Which you don't need to, because you can figure out the entire book by Page 12. It's like she's smacking you in the face with her "surprise" ending.
Of course, having not become a national bestselling author myself, I have little room to talk. This tangent would be a lot longer, but I still haven't fixed my keyboard's space bar, and it's rather like playing Whac-A-Mole. If you like Jodi and Nicky, well, um, that's great. Let's just not talk about them again.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Potluck Panic
I blinked, and it became November.
Tomorrow at work, we're having a Thanksgiving potluck. I have two strategies when dealing with potlucks: 1. sign up to bring beverages or 2. schedule a meeting with someone--anyone--during the duration of the potluck. Anything to spare my coworkers the agony of being subjected to my cooking. Unfortunately, against my better judgement, I allowed someone to talk me into bringing cornbread after someone had already signed up to bring the drinks.
Tom bought me a couple of boxes of Jiffy cornbread, but I don't think a boxed mix can save me. I'm going to blame the unintentional food poisoning I inflict on my coworkers on the barbequed turkey (yes, that's right -- they're barbequing a turkey) that they've ordered. That will teach them to invite me to a potluck where I have to bring a solid food item...
Tomorrow at work, we're having a Thanksgiving potluck. I have two strategies when dealing with potlucks: 1. sign up to bring beverages or 2. schedule a meeting with someone--anyone--during the duration of the potluck. Anything to spare my coworkers the agony of being subjected to my cooking. Unfortunately, against my better judgement, I allowed someone to talk me into bringing cornbread after someone had already signed up to bring the drinks.
Tom bought me a couple of boxes of Jiffy cornbread, but I don't think a boxed mix can save me. I'm going to blame the unintentional food poisoning I inflict on my coworkers on the barbequed turkey (yes, that's right -- they're barbequing a turkey) that they've ordered. That will teach them to invite me to a potluck where I have to bring a solid food item...
Monday, August 20, 2007
Holy Gaping Ear
My mother keeps asking to see a review of the last Harry Potter book on my blog. I'm not really sure why...although, in a lame effort to make myself sound either really cool or really pathetic and to end this first paragraph with something, I read the last book in roughly seven hours in one sitting.
Since I've been incredibly lazy with my blog over the last few months, mostly to which I blame having a spacebar on my keyboard that sticks unless I hit it in precisely the right place, I'm going to sum up the book with one thought:
Holy muggles, J.K. Rowling blasted out George's ear and left him with a gaping hole in the side of his head. This image bothers me more than the bloodbath that took place by the end of the book or the image of Hermoine and Ron getting intimate in order to reproduce children. (Oops, spoiler alert, right, kids?) So seven books later, all I'll ever remember about the series is that the one redheaded twin ends up with a hole in his head.
Since I've been incredibly lazy with my blog over the last few months, mostly to which I blame having a spacebar on my keyboard that sticks unless I hit it in precisely the right place, I'm going to sum up the book with one thought:
Holy muggles, J.K. Rowling blasted out George's ear and left him with a gaping hole in the side of his head. This image bothers me more than the bloodbath that took place by the end of the book or the image of Hermoine and Ron getting intimate in order to reproduce children. (Oops, spoiler alert, right, kids?) So seven books later, all I'll ever remember about the series is that the one redheaded twin ends up with a hole in his head.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
RA Deja Vu
At 4 a.m. this morning, Tom and I awoke to flashing strobelights lighting our bedroom, a foghorn alarm pulsating, and an electronic voice saying "A fire alarm has been activated. Evacuate the building. Proceed cautiously to the nearest exit. Do not take the elevator." (The voice sounded much like the robot from Lost in Space ("Danger, danger, Will Robinson.") and the lights reminded me of that scene from Flashdance, where Jennifer Beals performs a crazy techno-strip dance in electric blue spandex tights with her face painted white. Well, the lighting...not that Tom was wearing Lycra.)
After a couple minutes of stumbling around to find shoes, glasses, and keys to our loft, we barreled down the stairs to the courtyard of our building. We were the first ones out the door, with several of our fellow loft-dwellers behind. All six floors of the building had turned into a light show as the alarm lights flashed on and off.
The fire department arrived at 4:11 a.m. with two of the largest ladder fire trucks I've ever seen; at 4:12 a.m., the fire department departed. It was a false alarm. Supposedly a drunk guy had stumbled into the small entryway of our building, pulled the fire alarm, and then stumbled on down the street.
As Tom, our neighbors, and I sat there in our pajamas, watching the building pulsate and waiting for the all clear to return to our beds, it made me a little nostalgic for my RA days, where we routinely had to evacuate Currier or Stanley due to some drunken idiot pulling the fire alarm. Only this time I couldn't partake in all the action, and I missed not being able to regroup behind the Currier desk after all the excitement ended in order to plot our revenge against the perpetrator...if we ever found out his or her identity. Instead, Tom and I returned to our loft where we speculated as to who could think it was a good idea to place a fire alarm pull station in a location that anyone off the street could access.
After a couple minutes of stumbling around to find shoes, glasses, and keys to our loft, we barreled down the stairs to the courtyard of our building. We were the first ones out the door, with several of our fellow loft-dwellers behind. All six floors of the building had turned into a light show as the alarm lights flashed on and off.
The fire department arrived at 4:11 a.m. with two of the largest ladder fire trucks I've ever seen; at 4:12 a.m., the fire department departed. It was a false alarm. Supposedly a drunk guy had stumbled into the small entryway of our building, pulled the fire alarm, and then stumbled on down the street.
As Tom, our neighbors, and I sat there in our pajamas, watching the building pulsate and waiting for the all clear to return to our beds, it made me a little nostalgic for my RA days, where we routinely had to evacuate Currier or Stanley due to some drunken idiot pulling the fire alarm. Only this time I couldn't partake in all the action, and I missed not being able to regroup behind the Currier desk after all the excitement ended in order to plot our revenge against the perpetrator...if we ever found out his or her identity. Instead, Tom and I returned to our loft where we speculated as to who could think it was a good idea to place a fire alarm pull station in a location that anyone off the street could access.
Thursday, June 07, 2007
Better Than Vodka
I am completely fascinated by DVR. It's probably one of the 10 best things to happen to me in years. I now can record all sorts of random, crappy television programs, and I no longer have to flip between programs. It's fantastic.
Part of the best thing about DVR is the free movie channels that we get with the digital cable box, including Sundance and IFC. I'm recording all those movies that I never got to see, or the ones that I remember from years ago.
Currently, I've set the DVR to tape The Heavenly Kid, perhaps Jason Gedrick's best work ever. It's showing Sunday at 3:30 a.m. on the Love Movie Channel. Before, I would have had to set my alarm clock to crawl out of bed to witness the heartwrenching scene where Bobby dies in a tragic drag racing event because his door jams and he can't jump out of the car in time before his car plummets over the edge of a cliff. Not now. Now I can watch the car careen over the cliff in slow motion as many times as I want, or at least until the DVR deletes the movie from the queue. Yay, technology!
Part of the best thing about DVR is the free movie channels that we get with the digital cable box, including Sundance and IFC. I'm recording all those movies that I never got to see, or the ones that I remember from years ago.
Currently, I've set the DVR to tape The Heavenly Kid, perhaps Jason Gedrick's best work ever. It's showing Sunday at 3:30 a.m. on the Love Movie Channel. Before, I would have had to set my alarm clock to crawl out of bed to witness the heartwrenching scene where Bobby dies in a tragic drag racing event because his door jams and he can't jump out of the car in time before his car plummets over the edge of a cliff. Not now. Now I can watch the car careen over the cliff in slow motion as many times as I want, or at least until the DVR deletes the movie from the queue. Yay, technology!
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
Blog-united
Hello, my lovely blog. How I've missed you. We need to stay BFF 4ever and not let things like work and actual living, breathing friends and family get in the way of our friendship.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
KC Roller Warriors
I've found a new calling in life: women's roller derby. If my love-hatred relationship with commas finally proves to be too intense to continue as a technical writer, I think I might join the Dreadnaught Dorothys...or maybe the Black-Eye Susans. Kansas City has its own roller derby league, and some of my friends and I attended their first game of the season.
The roller warriors are these fabulously costumed, roller skate wearing ladies, and they looked like they really enjoyed what they were doing, even down to what we speculated were choreographed fist fights. Thanks to Rollergirls on A&E, I understood who the blockers and jammers were and when the announcers threw out terms like "calling off the jam" and "riding the lip". I knew all the time I spent watching A&E would eventually pay off.
The roller warriors are these fabulously costumed, roller skate wearing ladies, and they looked like they really enjoyed what they were doing, even down to what we speculated were choreographed fist fights. Thanks to Rollergirls on A&E, I understood who the blockers and jammers were and when the announcers threw out terms like "calling off the jam" and "riding the lip". I knew all the time I spent watching A&E would eventually pay off.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
10 Days...
...until the greatest St. Patty's Day celebration ever! I cannot wait for the parade!
I'm thinking of making my own T-shirt, but I'm not sure what I want to put on it. Now that Target is mass-producing the T-shirt "Everybody Loves an Irish Girl", it doesn't seem like my best option. I've also found that "Kiss Me, I'm Irish" only leads to uncomfortable social situations.
Speaking of uncomfortable social situations, I wonder if Frank is singing at Gilhouly's again this year. Now that Baikie's in the UK, St. Patty's Day won't be the same without Baikie chasing Frank around Gilhouly's.
I'm thinking of making my own T-shirt, but I'm not sure what I want to put on it. Now that Target is mass-producing the T-shirt "Everybody Loves an Irish Girl", it doesn't seem like my best option. I've also found that "Kiss Me, I'm Irish" only leads to uncomfortable social situations.
Speaking of uncomfortable social situations, I wonder if Frank is singing at Gilhouly's again this year. Now that Baikie's in the UK, St. Patty's Day won't be the same without Baikie chasing Frank around Gilhouly's.
Stupid Child Safety Harnesses
I picked up Ryne from daycare a couple days last week. Perhaps one of the most horrifying experiences came when I couldn't figure out how to loosen the safety belt before strapping him into the carseat, which would have inevitably cut off his oxygen supply (allowing you to insert your own dead baby joke at this point). I could feel the eyes of judgemental parents as they casually threw their infants into their carseats, snapping them safely into position with a flick of a wrist.
30 minutes and 3 daycare workers later, we finally got him strapped in his carseat. I'm surprised they let me take him home.
I cannot wait until I'm 85 and he's strapping me into my car seat. It's payback time, baby. Just kind of like I can't wait until he's 5 or 6 and has hair that I can pull.
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