Tag Archives: freelance writing

Problems? Why Yes, I Can Provide Those

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It’s really too bad,  you know? I had a decent shot at being normal.  My childhood had all the ingredients to cook up a perfectly functional adult woman.  I spent my days running a successful lemonade stand on our dead end street, eating Leave It To Beaver family dinners, and following my dad around in sweet overhauls.  Growing up, I never had self-confidence issues, or body-dysmorphic disorder, or the desire to be a promiscuous teen, or to cut myself,  or to run away, or to be a rebellious troublesome child.  But then, later on, I had to start interacting with things other than caterpillars and sheep [blog soon to follow]…and more unfortunately, men.

That being said, I did some cleaning today and think I’ve figured out what my problems are after analyzing a few sections of my house.  I encourage you to do the same, because you’ll never believe what your freezer could reveal about you.

A. The Freezer:

1. I’m a cheap bastard with no self control, who will throw away the last three [and only] weeks of working out at the first sight of a 5/$10 Edys ice cream sale.

2. I’m lazy. I’ve been eating Eggo waffles since 8th grade. I mean, how long does it take to pour milk onto cereal? Apparently time that I am not willing to give up.  This also further proves point #1 under section B – I don’t like change.  What if I get something different and it sucks? That is a fate I’m not ready to accept.  Also, you’ll notice that my ice has formed into an indestructible mountain because I couldn’t be bothered to use any since my Christmas party last year.

3. I’m stupid. I believe that getting the “herb roasted chicken” TV dinner will somehow balance out the fact that I just polished off 5,325 grams of sodium… and most likely that bag of buffalo fries.

4. I am “Type A.” I have a bag of industrial size pre-cooked mini Italian meatballs on the off chance I need to attend a work potluck and forgot to pick something up.  Except I haven’t had a real job since November.

B. The Closet:

v-neck-sweaters

1. I don’t like change, nor do I make any attempts to accept it. Now, please draw your attention to the circled column of sweaters in my closet for a brief illustration.  These are not only all V-neck sweaters, but they are all from Express.. and they are all the exact same style.

2.  The left column is entirely made up of turtlenecks, which tells me I’m not only constantly freezing – but come wintertime I turn into a bit of  a prude.

I’m not exactly sure where my commitment-phobia stems from or the fact that I keep my blinds permanently shut, but I have more cleaning to do so there’s still hope that I’ll discover the answers.

Happy searching.

 

 

Dear Me 10 Years Ago,

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So I cleaned out my garage. I know you’re thinking that sounds a little over ambitious, especially for me, however, I haven’t been able to park inside of it since I moved in two years ago.  This also wouldn’t be a problem if it weren’t for the fact that when it rains, my car floods.  So as I was rummaging through countless, dusty boxes of love letters, 7 bridesmaid dresses, various throw pillows from my inability to commit to a living room color, a shot glass collection, a postcard collection, a key chain collection, and inventory from my retail store, I found my favorite discovery of all – an old hot pink Composition notebook and mystery container from Haiti.
spanish-homework

EXIBIT A

What first appeared to be a refuge for Spanish homework, turned out to have many hidden and wondrous glimpses into my life back in 2001.

I’d just like to ask if anyone has a clue why I was writing natural remedies for common hair care dilemmas in the middle of my Spanish homework?  Please see EXHIBIT A and respond to me with any suggestions you may have.

Your answers may unlock the mystery to a lifetime of complex issues.

Among the most amazing of all discoveries was: 1. a list of qualifications for my future mate, and 2. a list of  20 “Things I Will Accomplish.” Written with the same authority and determination of any 18 year old with a bad case of ADHD and no sense of the world whatsoever.  Today we will simply tackle “Things I Will Accomplish.”

Dear Me 10 Years Ago,

I understand that you’re just a kid with lofty dreams, but there are some things you need to understand. In glancing over your list, I can’t help but notice you’re a bit obsessed with the Spanish culture according to points #2, #12, and #13, which is perplexing, but I assure you this is only a phase that will last about as long as your next boyfriend.   Your desire to eat tacos for consecutive weeks on end, however, will not subside.

to-do-list

adjustments have been made in RED

#6 – In regards to Paris, please don’t go. Just trust me on this one. #13 -Stick to your guns on studying abroad in South America.  Please don’t allow a charming, dark-haired boy, who has mesmerized you with his intelligence and ability to play Radiohead songs, to talk you into going to London instead.  If, by chance, you do end up in London, please do your best to avoid allBritish-Indian men who wear Versace Couture leather jackets and get regular facials.  If ever there was a time you should accept advice, it would be now.

# 4 -Yes, please get your teeth fixed.  Who are you, Jewel? #7 – On a more serious note, Oprah is a beotch, but you’ll have to learn the hard way.  Even the future you cannot possibly convince you otherwise at this point.  #1 – When you finally go to Italy and accomplish your childhood dream, please don’t drop your camera off the edge of the Coliseum.  They make wrist straps for a reason.  And seatbelts, but that’s a dead horse.

#8 – Don’t try to learn the guitar.  Remember Spanish?  Please stop trying to learn new things, it’s getting expensive and you’re making it increasingly hard to accomplish #18. #19 – LASIC?  Is this really on your ‘Things To Accomplish’ list?  What the heal is wrong with you? Do you want to die?  Have you seen Stevie Wonder lately?!  You just sit tight, four eyes.

#10 – I’m sorry for all the incessant laughter.  But in about 10 years, you’ll see why this is hilarious. #17 – What are you, some kind of freak?  #3 – Oh, boy.  If you had any idea how much you won’t be accomplishing this.  Ever.  So, please don’t try.  Again, focus on #18.

#20 – Yea, good luck with that.

Love,

Future You.

P.S. When you do meet Enrique Iglesias, please start walking away the first time your friend mentions she wants to sneak backstage and touch his rock-hard abs.  She’s not joking.  And neither are the cops.

Dear ESSENCE Magazine,

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You’ve been appearing in my mailbox for going on 4 months now.  I called you, and like a red-headed stepchild you said you had nothing to do with it, which I think might just be a bold-faced lie from the pits of hell.  You told me to send an email to cancel the subscription I never ordered, and yet, I still find you waiting for me each month.  Now, one of us just isn’t being honest with ourselves.

It’s not that I don’t enjoy reading up on Queen Latifah’s “love your body” tips, or Jennifer Hudson’s illegitimate pregancy, or Kelly Rowland’s advice on what to wear to work.  But I already love my body, as a result of my non-daddy issues. And considering I write for reality TV, I knew about Jennifer Hudson’s pregnancy before she did.  And I wear the same thing to work as I wore to bed.  And most unfortunately, I cannot use any of the hair care products that you suggest, which is a travesty in itself, because I’m a whore for hair supplies and have it stockpiled under my vanity like I’m anticipating the Y2K of personal hygiene products.

working-out

I’m calling a truce.

I’m not sure how or why you became obsessed with me, but it has to stop.  I’m really not that cool.  Actually, I’m rather feisty.  Some might call it rude, but that is a bit preposterous.  If friendship is what you’re looking for, then I will only disappoint you.  The only thing I have to offer is painful honesty, which nobody seems to appreciate.  I never answer my phone. It takes an average of a month [possibly more depending on the weather, current levels of laziness, and if my microwave is broken or not] to listen to your voicemail.  If you mark it as urgent, there is a minimum turnaround time of two weeks.  Even if we become friends, you’ll have to live on pins and needles or I might use you for a cheap laugh on my blog.  Are you willing to become a new category?  I mean, is this what you truly want? Can you handle living in a constant state of: WTF?!

I’m quite sure that if you removed the beer goggles and weren’t so blinded by your unwarranted affection for me, you would discover that you need more.  More than I can give you.

Please stop stalking me,

Blunt.

P.S. My microwave broke again tonight… so, just something to think about.

Dear Midwest, Without You I’d Be Famous

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You know your hair is too long when you have to start using conditioner meant for a horse.  Gees, people.  I’m just saying.  But on a side note, it works rather nicely.  So I’ve heard.

horse-shampoo

People always ask me, actually they harshly criticize and often yell at me, for the fact that I’ve never moved out of this God-forsaken craphole of a town. For those of you who don’t know, I live in a suburb outside of Chicago, where nearly everyone is a loser with zero motivation or aspirations in life.  So when I put it that way, I guess I can see their point.

Friend:  But you could be a big time writer in New York and travel the world.

Me: I’ve already traveled everywhere I want to go in the world.  And New York has too many rats.  And snobs.  And pricey food that comes on a giant platter but is the size of what I can only consider, a midget snack of sorts.


Friend:  But you could move to L.A. and write for tv shows and movies.

Me: I’m brunette, no one would take me seriously in L.A.  Besides, I can’t deal with the fakeness.  I would call everyone out and then they would hate me.  And then I’d run home to my lonely, roach-infested apartment, where I’d cry big, fat elephant tears and eat myself ugly. 

Friend: But you could move to the downtown and work for the Tribune.

Me:  I hate the news.  It’s depressing.  Plus, I probably wouldn’t get by with throwing in sarcastic comments when I was writing about the Korean missile crisis.  That job would blow chunks.  Give me a break, I’d never move to any of those places.  Seattle.  Now there’s a place I wouldn’t mind moving.

Friend:  You know that Grey’s Anatomy isn’t actually filmed in Seattle right?  So you wouldn’t be meeting McDreamy, or McSteamy, or any of the Mc’s?

So could all these people be partially right? Perhaps.  Is it true I want to continue my writing career on a larger scale? Mmm hmm.  Is it possible for me to accomplish all my dreams living here?  Heal no.  So what on earth could possibly keep me sandwiched here in the middle of the country, suffocating for air, slowly dying from lack of culture and white-trashy influences, you ask? 

Is it the ice-cold winters, which seem to get longer with every passing year, that make me contemplate roasting my own dog [or I guess my neighbor’s cus I don’t have one] over a rotisserie just so that I won’t have to leave my house for food?  Not exactly.  It’s much more complex than that.  But when isn’t it?

The other day, I was bronzing myself on the back porch, as the landscapers were mowing my yard.  I arose from my position to make sure I was decent as they were mowing right in front of me.  The last thing I need is a sweaty, landscaper-stalker.  But on a serious note, could they possibly point that grass blower thingy in another direction?   Then as I was gazing at all my patches of dead grass, a thunderbolt of realization occurred to me.  Um, why can I see those?  Where is the tangled pile of hose that has been laying in my backyard and covering the dead grass since I moved in?  Wait a minute. THESE PERVERTS STOLE MY HOSE! @#$!  And now they’re blowing grass at me.  What the?

As it turns out, my father had slithered outside at some point and drilled a bracket into the side of my house and wrapped the hose nicely around it.  BONUS: he was smart enough not to install one of those plastic roller pieces of crap that break after two seconds, which would result in a lifetime of frustration and ultimately, the death of more grass.  EXTRA BONUS:  He planted grass seed.

Folks, I’m sorry, but with quality service like this, the Midwest has a hold on me. 


I’d Rather Go Naked Than Wear Sunscreen

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I’m the only person in the world who used to like the Sunscreen Song back in my high school days.   You know what I’m talking about… the one where Baz Leuhrman reads profound advice from a ’99 valedictorian speech, accompanied by “Ooo’s” from the all boys choir in the background?  The song ends with “trust me on the sunscreen”… and it’s possible that truer words were never spoken.

Although I might have listened to that song repeatedly on my Walkman for upwards of six months, or until the batteries died and I discovered that the ones in the remote were also dead, it doesn’t appear that this sage advice has fully sunk in yet.  Or maybe I’m just a rebel. Or maybe I’m a really bad listener. Or maybe your mom should make me some enchilladas. Who knows.  But as soon as there’s the slightest inkling of sunshine, I’m slathered in the nearest oil and frying like a chicken.  I’m not quite as bad as my mother, who used to cover herself in Crisco and lay on sheets of tin foil, but I’ll venture to say that I’m definitely breaking a few rules.

Me: Hey, I have this mole on my leg.  It doesn’t look like anything serious, but my aunt and my grandma have both had skin cancer so I was wondering if you could check it out?

Dermatologist:  Yes, I can check that out.  Have you been covering yourself and staying out of the sun?  You look very tan.

Me:  [smiling sheepishly] Oh, well, thank you.

Dermatologist:  That wasn’t a compliment.  You won’t be laughing when I do one of those skin damage scans on your face.

Me:  Well, it’s impossible for me to stay out of the sun, but I do wear sunscreen.  My job requires me to spend quite a bit of time outdoors.

Dermatologist:  Well, it says here that you work at a bank.  Isn’t that mostly an indoor job?

Me:  OH, that needs to be updated.  I’m actually a Park Ranger now.  I work at the Forest Preserve.

Dermatologist:  Hmm, really? I can’t picture you doing something like that.

Me:  What’s that supposed to mean?  Do I seem high maintenance?

Dermatologist:  Well, you were just complaining a minute ago about how you hated exercise, and that’s an active job.

Me:  What do you have superhero memory powers? Fine.  I lied. I do that sometimes.  I’m a lifeguard.

Dermatologist:   Oh really, that’s cool.  Where at?

Me:  At this pool…

Dermatologist:  Is this another lie?

Me:  Anything’s possible.

Dermatologist:  Seriously though, this isn’t a joke.  You’ve got to listen to what I’m saying.  And you have to be honest with me about your health.

Me:  OKAY ALREADY!   Listen you pasty freak, I’m not a mother trucking lifeguard. I’m not a park ranger.  I don’t even know where the parks are. I’m a writer, and I don’t even go outside to get the mail.  But when the sun comes out, I emerge from my cave and stretch across my patio like a bronzed goddess, okay?  And you know what, I don’t wear sunscreen.  In fact, I’ve never even tried it.  Double in fact, I don’t ever want to.  Triple in fact, I actually wear oil that makes me burn worse than if I was just regularly burning.

Dermatologist:  You’ve never even tried it..  but I gave you a whole bottle for free?

Me: And my father sends his regards.

FOR MORE WHERE THAT CAME FROM:

Dear Matthew McConaughey,

Dear Rickety Old Lady,

Anatomy of a Creeptown

What Women Really Want

Kenny Chronicles: I Hate People Who Smell Like Breakfast

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I haven’t said the word “sausage” for going on 15 years.  It’s a personal protest, don’t worry about it.  Unless I’m struggling to order a pizza, this usually doesn’t present a problem.  Of course, there was that time I worked at Chuck E. Cheese all four years of high school, where pizza and little kids accidentally peeing in the tube slide were the only topics of conversation. Eventually, I got it down to a fine science, where I would simply nod and point to the menu on the wall behind me and say, “Ok, so, you want this one then?”

Now that I reminisce, that truly was a dream job.  Aside from being permanently sick, due to filthy, germ-coated everything, I squandered my days away by misspelling kids’ names on chocolate birthday cakes so I could eat them, while flirting with the game table hottie.  Things couldn’t get much better. Why I ever left remains one of the biggest mysteries of my life.

Speaking of breakfast food, let’s talk about Kenny.

18So Kenny and I are hanging out and discussing everything that is important in life.  As usual, at some point, the conversation takes a random turn down a long, winding road and we end up in a place that I’ve never been before.  Nor do I ever want to go again. It’s some sort of a lonely wheat field, or abandoned Waffle House – there’s no way of knowing.  And the following conversation takes place:

Kenny:  I mean, he was like this guy that just smelled like maple syrup.

Me:  Someone can’t smell like maple syrup.

Kenny:  Oh, someone can.  And they did.

Me: That’s ridiculous.  You know that’s ridiculous right?

Kenny:  It’s ridiculously true.

Me: But that makes no sense.  Did he just get back from IHOP or something?

Kenny:  [shaking his head with a very defeated look on his face] No…he just smelt like it permanently.  What’s worse is people who smell like maple syrup and pee.

Me: Who smells like pee? No one smells like pee.  Did he work in a nursery?

Kenny:  I’m not exactly sure.  But he smelt like breakfast.

Me: …..

Kenny:  I just… I hate people who smell like breakfast.

Me:  Maple syrup smells delicious.  I wish everyone smelt like maple syrup.  This kid used to sit behind me after lunch and he reaked of ketchup.

Kenny:  [laughs] What?  Ketchup? Why?

Me:  Cus all he ate was fries at lunch.  Well see, now you understand why I can’t eat condiments.

Kenny:  Well, maple syrup is just completely ruined for me. [Sigh] I used to love that stuff.

For more of the Kenny Chronicles:

How We Met

How to Talk Yourself Out of Dating Almost Anyone

A Conversation at Starbucks

A Metrosexual in a Yankees hat

A Bad Gordita and Some Classy Water

That Time I Didn’t Go To Barcelona On A Toy Plane

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Dad:  So when I got to Kentucky, I unpacked my bags and I was brushing my teeth in the hotel room…

Me: yea?

Dad:  But then, I realized there was something awry.  The toothpaste was really, really white and tingly.

Me:  Umm…

Dad:  And you’re probably realizing now, what it took me about two more minutes to realize.

Me:  Oh no….NO!

Dad:  Oh, Yes.  Preparation H.

Me:  What? I thought you were gonna say Ben Gay.  Come on, seriously?

Dad:  I used an entire bottle of mouthwash, chewed a pack of gum, and a case of mints, but I couldn’t get that taste out of my mouth for about three hours.

Me:  Did your tongue shrink?

Listen, even though I just shared a completely personal story with you at my father’s expense, that I might have promised I wouldn’t tell, there is still no excuse for my absence.  I realize I dropped off the face of the earth recently.  That is actually me in the picture above. And then, of course, after that happened, I required reconstructive surgery so that set me back another 3 weeks.  I apologize.

So let’s see, what could we talk about? That time I got robbed by drug dealers cus I didn’t realize my boyfriend was a heroin addict?  Nah.  How about the time I decided to fly to Barcelona in the middle of the night on a broken toy plane? Winner!

londonWhile I was living in London, I did quite a bit of traveling around Europe.  This was due partly to the fact that we had four day weekends, and the remainder of the week… I never went to class.   I had an excess of time on my hands, so to speak.  This guy I met in London, we’ll call him Lenny, was sort of like my London Kenny, or my long lost brother, or something.   One night, we were sitting in the computer lab.

Lenny:  Let’s go somewhere tonight.

Me:  Like, a club?

Lenny:  Like a country.

Me: Well, I have class tomorrow.

Lenny:  ?

Me:  Good point.  Where do you want to go?

Lenny:  I dunno.  How about Barcelona?

Me:  Eh, I’ve never been to Spain, sounds good.

Lenny:  MMMk. I got us tickets for the red eye.

After being hurled over and ready to puke on the two hour bus ride that brought us to the airport, we were finally ready for lift-off.   It’s 1 am, and I’m starving, nauseous, and pissed off.  Plus, I’m deathly afraid of flying as it is.  We sat there, strapped in, for about an hour.

Me: Um, why is the inside of this plane bright yellow and electric blue?

Lenny: It’s Ryan Air.

Me:  It looks like a toy.  Or IKEA.  And this seat is like, plastic.  Wait. Are we on a toy plane? Holy crapballs, I’m about to fly to Barcelona on a toy plane.

Listen, I’m not a technical genius, so I’ll go ahead and say they announced that the plane was broken.OH really? It was necessary for us to sit ON THE PLANE, while you examined it’s brokenness?  Then, we needed to wait in line with all 300 people to get the tix refunded. We wait.  We wait.  Alas, the sun is coming up and they tell us the flight is cancelled – so we could get off.

Lenny:  Here, you’re exhausted.  Just sit down and I’ll wait in line for us.

I try to get food, but who knew NONE of the middle-eastern airport quickie marts are open in the middle of the night. I sit down on the only available seat, next to a portly man who was slowly falling asleep and smelt like the Dollar Menu.  After a few minutes, he starts snoring.  The snoring increases in volume until I start to lose my mind.  Lenny looks at me from the line and can see the look of desperation and sheer disgust on my face.  All the sudden, I completely lost it and burst out with inappropriate laughter, which I tend to do when I’m fasting, haven’t slept in two days, and sat on a plane all night in order to not go to Barcelona.

…And I kept laughing all the way home, while on the bus, where I almost ate Lenny’s arm and then threw up on the seat in front of me.

Other posts you should read:

Why I Hate Women: Oh Let Me Count The Ways

Where Beer Flows Like Boxed Wine

So, You’re Telling Me You’re Not MARRIED?!

Why I Hate Women: Oh Let Me Count The Ways

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As usual, I couldn’t sleep. I ended up watching a classic movie called Penny Serenade.  You know, black & white. Cary Grant. Some prude who never takes off her apron and always buttons her shirt to the top.

I have two words for this movie: lame.

I realize that classic movies are supposed to be the height of Hollywood glamor and awesomeness, but man, they suck. Hardcore. Total snoozefest. I’d rather watch a Matthew McConaughey chick flick. But you know what? I think I’ll keep it on my shelf so people can still think of me as one of those people who appreciates old movies.  As a matter of fact, I’ll set it right next to my antique copy of War & Peace that I’m not even going to pretend that I’ve ever cracked open, which looks great right next to my vintage camera that I’ve never used.

This conversation naturally makes me think of other things that I dislike: women.

When I think back on it, women really haven’t changed all that much since elementary school, when I’d come home and burst out into the ugly cry over something a mean girl did.  I was hoping that when I got past college, they would stabilize.  Nope.  Still crazy. Although the reasons behind the craziness may have changed with time, they are still, very much, crazy.  Hating other women for no good reason. Asking their boyfriends the world’s most stupid questions. Flipping out on poor unsuspecting men.  Bursting with ravenous jealousy. I can’t even count how many women I’ve been told that hate me, that have never actually talked to me.

Let’s look at a few demonstrations of female behavior over the past twenty years of my life.p_792662

[4th GRADE: the betrayals begin]

Me:  Hey Annie, wanna come over tonight and we can organize our sticker collections? [Yes, we really had them]

Annie:  Um, actually, I’m going to Becky’s house after school.  Oh, I don’t think I told you that we had a talk and she wants to be “secret best friends” with JUST me.  Isn’t that mean?

Me: Psssh!  YEA!  I thought we were all best friends?

Annie:  Yea, but she wants to leave you out.

Me:  Well you told her that was a stupid, crappy idea, right?

Annie:  Well, actually…um…. we ARE secret best friends now. Just her and I.

Me:  UM, so I see that our three-way best friend NECKLACES mean nothing to you! Huh? You lying, backstabbing, dirty little tramp!

[10th GRADE: the unwarranted hatred and jealousy begin]

Friend:  [leaning in so close to me that I’m forced inside my locker] Amber doesn’t like you!

Me: What? Wait. Who the heck is Amber?

Friend:  The girl who hangs out with Margie.

Me:   I don’t even know her.

Friend:  But she’s totally spreading rumors about you!

Me:  What?  Rumors? But why?

Friend: Well, she likes Andy.  But Andy likes you.

Me:  Ok. But how can I help THAT?  Besides, I wouldn’t date Andy in a million bagillion years.

Friend:  Well. She’s pissed. And she’s telling everyone you’re a spoiled beotch!

Me: Spoiled? That isn’t even kinda true. I work at Chuck E. Cheese and drive a 1964 Dodge?

42-17401848

 

[25 YEARS OLD: the false rumors and accusations begin]

Me:  You know who I really like?  Sandy.  She’s so nice.

Co-worker:  OH, that’s weird. Cus Sandy is not a fan of you.

Me:  Not a fan?

Co-worker:  I overheard her talking to someone, but I can’t say who.  Anyway, she said that the boss favors you cus you got Employee of the Month again.

Me:   But I out-performed everyone in the department?  They would be breaking their own rules by not giving it to me.

Co-worker:   Well I don’t know.  That’s just what I overheard.

Me: What am I supposed to do?  Suck at everything so Sandy will like me?

Co-worker:  I’d try to stay on her good side if I were you.  She’s telling everyone that you’re cheating on your boyfriend.

Me:  WTF?  I don’t even have a boyfriend.

As we can see, there is no rhyme, reason or logic going on here. And I’m not saying I hate all women. Just the ones who are ridiculous.

I have some fabulous lady friends.

OTHER PARTS TO THIS SERIES:

Why I Hate Women Part 7 of 8,964: Mind Warp Trivia

Why I Hate Women: Part 6 of 7,893

Dear Haters, Why Do You Love Me So Much?

 

 

 

 

 

Breast Pumping Your Way To A Free Mocha

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There’s something magical that happens the very instant you become a mom.  I’m not sure of the details because I have not yet crossed that shaky domestic bridge, but from what I can gather: you become the cheapest person alive. 

My very best friend is a new mom.  I get in her car and immediately she throws the largest coupon organizer of ALL TIME onto my lap.  The coupons were alphabetically organized. “This is going to get us through the day,” she said with a grin.  First, we roll up to McDonald’s because she has a buy one extra value meal, get one free sandwich coupon.   I thought, “ok, thats fine, free sandwich.”  For the next 10 (and I am NOT exaggerating) mins, I was but an innocent bystander to the following drive thru conversation:

friend:  Yes, can I get the grilled chicken value meal? 

lady:   Sure.   Drink?

friend: I’d just like water and actually I don’t want any fries with that cus I’m trying to lose weight.  And then I’d like another grilled chicken sandwich, lettuce only. 

lady: Okaaaaay.  $9.42. 

friend:  And no mayonnaise on both.  (we pull ahead to the window and she hands over the coupon)  Okay, I have a coupon, so I should get the second sandwich free.

lady:  OKAY. SO  your new total is $6.12

friend: UM.  Hmm.. Now, shouldn’t the total be less than that?  Because the sandwich is free and I only ordered an extra value meal -but I didn’t even get fries and I only got water.

lady:  Well, why don’t you just order two sandwiches then? 

friend: Because the coupon says I have to order an extra value meal in order to get the other sandwich free.

lady: OKAY. SO you want the extra value meal, with just the sandwich and the water?

friend: Yes.

lady: Well, the bottled water is actually more expensive than the other drinks, so it’s still going to be that amount.

friend: Ok, then no water.

lady: OKAY. SO you just want  the extra value meal – with no fries and no drink?

friend: Yes, that is correct.

(at this point, the lady is rendered speechless and has to get the manager)

(this is also the point when I call my dad and have a five minute conversation, while trying not to leap out the car window and thrust myself into moving traffic.)

drive-thruFinally, they tell her just to pay three dollars and they hand over the sandwiches.  As we’re leaving, she tells me that later we’ll have to go back cus the Mochas are buy one get one free from 2:00-5.   Then we go to Baby’s R Us.  She rolls up to the checkout with a cart full of stuff and hands the elderly cashier AN ENTIRE STACK  of coupons.  Then, she says:

friend: But here’s the thing, they are all expired.

cashier: Um, so you want to use a stack of expired coupons for your purchases?

friend:  Yes.  George said it was okay because I live out of town and only come around once a week.

cashier:  George doesn’t work here anymore.  Let me get the manager.  (at this point, I start to get uncomfortable)

friend:  Oh, and I’m supposed to get a free box of diapers because I bought three Pamper products.

(Knowing what is about to come, I just walk away.  I stand by the door for a good 15 mins before going to the car, where I waited for another 10 minutes.)

As soon as she gets in the car, I tell her that she took so long that we might miss the 2-5 time frame in which to get the free mocha at McDonald’s.   I start driving, when I notice some rustling in the passenger seat.  Before I know it, she has plugged in her breast pump and was holding two empty bottles.  I just looked over  and she says, “Don’t you worry, I got this under control.”   We ended the day by going to JCPenney, where the clearance items were also buy one get one free.  Then there was yet another confrontation with an elderly cashier when my friend asked if she could do two separate purchases in order to get more things free.  The lady said that wasn’t really fair to JCPenney, to which my friend replied that she has to do what’s fair for her wallet. 

Where Beer Flows Like Boxed Wine

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It’s no wonder I don’t make any sense. I’m a combination of two polar opposites, who by all rights, should never have met much less married.   My mother came from a Nazi-strict household where she wasn’t allowed to see movies or go to football games, for fear she would encounter Satan himself. She also wasn’t allowed to celebrate Christmas which explains why we have presents piled from the floor to the ceiling every Dec. 24 and a Christmas tree in every room of the house – including bathrooms.  Except the bathrooms are small and the only space is above the toilet… and that can get prickly.

My father, on the other hand, had no parental guidance, unless you’re including alcoholics.  He took off when he was 18, with nothing but $60 bucks and a dream in his pocket. That dream, consisted entirely, of doing nothing.

For years, my hippie father hitchhiked across the country, attending approximately 4 different colleges and surviving on randomness and sheer luck.  For awhile he slept on a beach in Destin (no, no- not in a house, on the actual beach), working part time on a fishing boat – until he discovered he was very prone to seasickness.  Then he camped out in the Rocky mountains, where he was told it was perfectly fine to drink “the fresh spring water.”  But that person had been grossly mistaken.  So he headed out West.

Me: So, whippie-dad2here did you stay when you were traveling?

Dad: With whomever took us in.  One time I stayed at the Cadillac Motel for a buck twenty-five.

Me: Cadillac Motel? Was it decorated with car memorabilia or something?

Dad:  Not exactly.  It was an open field with a bunch of old Cadillacs up on cinder blocks.  With a mattress inside.

Eventually, he made his way out to San Francisco where his older brother awaited.  They thought it was a great idea to start a moving business called “We Merry Movers,” for which they had no insurance.

Dad: One time, we had this expensive leather couch and we were taking it down the stairs and it caught on something and sliced open the entire back.

Me:  So, what happened?

Dad: We set that side against the wall and started a different business.

my-momThen for a while, my dad went to school at Illinois State University, where he lived in a farmhouse with five other guys, out in the middle of a cornfield.

Me: So that house must have been crazy.

Dad:  All we did was drink until there wasn’t anything else to drink.  One of the guys worked at a liquor store and stole booze so he could resell it and pay the rent.  It was like a black hole. We were in the middle of nowhere and I couldn’t even save enough gas money to drive to the next town.

Me: That house must have been filthy.

Dad:  Yea, we cleaned our floor about once a year….   in beer.

Finally, my dad would make his way back home, where he played in a band and started to get his life together.   One snowy night, my mother, a shy and gorgeous woman, happened to be dragged out to a party where they were playing.

Me: So, how on earth did you meet someone like mom?

Dad:   We were at this party.  I was walking by the front door, when it opened and your mother tripped on a pile of snow and fell through.  I went to help her up and all I could think was, “This woman is hot.  I don’t know anything about her…but I’ll figure out a way to love her.”

Me: So …?

Dad: So as she was leaving, I ran out and wrote my number in the sleet on her windshield.  That probably wasn’t the best idea, considering her defrost was on.  A year later we got married on my birthday.  You know, that way I would always remember the date.

Needless to say, by my mother’s mesmerizing powers of persuasion and the grace of God, my father changed his ways.  And I couldn’t have custom built a better set of parents.  I adore them.

…But that doesn’t mean I still can’t blame all my issues on you.

Love ya!

p.s sorry about stealing those pictures and broadcasting them on the internet.  you guys still don’t even know what a blog is right?  so we still cool, right?