Tag Archives: travel

That Guy Should Be Shot. Or, Given An Award.

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Before I get started, I just have to get real.

It happened and I can’t hide it from you. Nor do I want to be congratulated or pitied. But don’t be surprised if you find me in your local Starbucks, listening to the Smiths and giving the air that I’m better than everyone else. Because you just might.

The plus side is that I can finally get around to commenting on all your blogs again. Truce?

Even though I have a new computer, the last thing I want to do lately is sit at a computer after I get home from sitting at a computer all day. As you can tell, my creative pursuits – and this blog (what blog?) have suffered. But, this morning was Saturday. And it was warm and stormy and that’s my golden hour for writing.

The other day I saw a guy driving on the highway with Washington plates and “NY or BUST” written in the dust of his side panel. When passing him, it was obvious he had crammed every material possession he owned in that vehicle and headed off on what I’m guessing to be the pursuit of some sort of artistic dream. I say artistic not to underestimate the rest of you, but because we’re the only ones stupid enough to pack all our shit in a Ford Fiesta and relocate to one of the most expensive cities in the world in order to share a 400 sq foot, barely livable space with some Goth-ish stranger from Craigslist, while surviving off the $1 menu and care packages from mom because we’re determined to “make it.”

Whatever “making it” means. Half the time, I don’t even think we know what it means and we’re the ones trying to do it. But when we do make it, we’re definitely paying mom back.

As I passed the guy and contemplated how he was going to find room for that giant yellow bouncy ball in that tiny apartment, especially since Goth guy is going to have a crapload of black jeans and chains and stuff, my first thought was, “What an idiot.” Followed by, “Yea, I’d totally do that too if my mom wouldn’t disown me.”

I was a bit jealous in that moment. I almost gave him a thumbs up. But then I realized we’re in America and we don’t acknowledge people we don’t know. I was jealous for a lot of reasons. Because he’s starting over and he has no clue what it’s going to look like. Because he’s got guts that I could only pretend to have. Because he’s got a giant yellow bouncy ball. Because despite everyone telling him he is an idiot, he’d rather live uncomfortably then live with the regret of knowing he never gave it a shot.

I guess this isn’t your usual St. Patrick’s Day post. What’s the template for that anyway? A post about bad decisions and how the green beer didn’t go over so well the next morning? Yea, I suppose. Well, six years ago on St. Patrick’s Day, I woke up to an unseasonably warm day in London and stumbled down the hallway to my friends’ dorm room. We decided that given the weather and the pressing matters of drinking and wearing ridiculous hats, we should probably skip school and head to O’Connors. We also came to a similar conclusion on a lot of days that weren’t unseasonably warm or St. Patrick’s Day. Meh.

Subsequent St. Patrick’s Days just haven’t quite lived up.

I would show you pictures of myself, but I regret that I was too busy being a complete idiot and the only pictures I have of my European excursions were accidental or in front of some sort of monument or landmark. Three words: lame sauce.

That being said, Happy St. Patrick’s Day.

Of course, I have no idea why the guy in the car was actually headed to New York.

But I hope it had something to do with being an idiot.

I have returned to blogging over at Celery and the City where I write about clean eating, healthy living and post allergy and gluten free recipes!

 

Life Lately In Pictures: Road Trippin & Lady Elaine Fairchilde

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I have a billion things to get caught up on today. Which is exactly why I just started a Lady Elaine Fairchilde Twitter account three minutes ago. In fact, she just tweeted her first pic: “Missin my peeps from the ‘hood today. Went 2 ChuckECheese 2b around other creepy puppets w/ wood faces.” She’s also claimed the hashtag #puppetproblems.

So, back to why I was MIA this week. Unlike all the other times I have BS excuses, this one is legit. I got a text from my friend Kira on Monday: “I need to talk to you for two seconds. You’re gonna listen, then say yes, and then figure it out later.  Mmmk?”  Um.

Kira is a virtual friend and partner of mine over at The College Crush. She lives in Madison-ish, and I live in Chi-area but we’ve only hung out once. Well, she was speaking at the University of Michigan and wanted yours truly to accompany her. Apparently, one hang out is all it takes for someone to know that any kind of a trip would be better if I were in the passenger seat.  Some things in life are just blinding truths.

Kira: Just say yes.

Me: But, I have so much to do this week.

Kira: I’ll make an awesome play list, bring a basket of snacks and pick you up at your door.

Me: Eh.

Kira: My plan is to be done speaking by 1 and drinking martinis by 2 on Wednesday.

Me: You have my address right?

This is me putting on my best “Yay, we’re about to embark on a road trip” face, when on the inside I’m thinking, “I can already feel the car sickness and misery from my undersized bladder having to overextend itself.”

Kira may or may not have mentioned the trip would be 4 hours. Yea, nope.

Of course, the 8 hours probably could have been shortened had our main agenda not been to find a particular restaurant we were craving. It also would have gone shorter had we not gotten sidetracked by making fun of all the adult store names in Hammond, Indiana. Once we got closer to the hotel, Kira was telling me that she researched the reviews to find us a good one.

Me: As long as it doesn’t have a door that leads to the outside, I’ll be okay.

Kira: Well, crap. I don’t know if it does. You should have said something.

Me: Aren’t you aware that’s how all horror movies start?

Kira: It’s going to be fine. And if not, I’ll get us a different one tomorrow.

Me: I’m not that high maintenance. It’ll be okay. {hyperventilates}

Well, after checking the mattresses for bedbugs, securing my luggage up off the ground, barring the door shut with a chair and switching out the blankets for my own…. we cracked open some wine and relaxed. But I’m not sure how our nightstand ended up like this in the morning.

The next day, Kira and I empathized with the students and their parking problems. There wasn’t a spot for miles. Kira put on her glasses and we made like teachers. We’re a class act.

Apparently we weren’t the only ones who were depressed by the parking issues…

After Kira’s speech, we went out with some of the coolest, smartest, awesomest college students ever. They just didn’t make em like this back in my day. We may or may not have persuaded them to skip classes to hang out with us.

As promised, martini was in hand by 2pm.

Then again at 2:15. Ahem.

Then we kidnapped one of the students and made him show us good pizza places. We chose this one based on the Christmas lights, but lucky for him it had amazing pizza too.

Oh, did I mention both Kira and I are gluten intolerant?

And did I mention all we did was eat gluten on this trip from start to finish?

What we lack in self control we make up for in awesome. I learned long ago you can’t have it all.

So yea, I’ll be around to your blogs very soon.

I have returned to blogging over at Celery and the City where I write about clean eating, healthy living and post allergy and gluten free recipes!

Blunt Bites: It Always Comes Down To That One Day

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[ Blunt Bites break away from my normal, detailed posts. They are short snapshots of a significant part of my life. Sometimes, they’re serious. Sometimes, they’re funny. But they’re always gonna be delicious. Yum. ]     

Riding the Underground to I don’t know where, I was writing in my journal and thinking of how well I fit into the rainy landscape of London. I’ve always been a rainy day person. I suppose it’s the writer in me – or just the manic depressive shining through, something like that.

I was thinking about you and how much I didn’t love you, but couldn’t tell you that. I’m sure I jotted down a brilliant free verse poem about it but thank God those journals would be stolen in three months. A lot of things I didn’t want to hang on to in there, but I never would have thrown them away. Otherwise, what would people have to sift through when I died? Unread books, gifts not given, unfinished projects, notes that wouldn’t make sense to anyone but were going to somehow morph themselves into a bestselling memoir down the road?

Well, I guess that’s all they’ll have now. A stack of random notes and unfinished things. My life is perpetually unfinished.

I’ll always remember the day I started loving you. The night you took me to Chicago and brought a blanket and contact case in the car so I could sleep on the way home since I had to work in the morning. You were very thoughtful. You paid attention. You were, in fact, everything I had never found in someone.

You often asked me when it was that I fell out of love with you. I never understood that question because it seemed like some sort of self-inflicted torture; but then again, don’t we all torture ourselves? I always told you that we either love someone or we don’t and it’s a compilation of many things. It’s a process – a slow dulling of feelings and building up of resentment over time.

Or maybe that’s just what I was brainwashed to believe by old married couples. Because now that I think back on it, there definitely was a day. And I have an answer for you now. But do you really want to know? Nah, I figured. ‘Cus in the end, it doesn’t matter. Not now and not then.

But, just so you know, there was a day. An exact moment in time when I looked at you and you weren’t the person who drove me to Chicago that night. You weren’t even close.

Everything in life always comes down to that one day.

I have returned to blogging over at Celery and the City where I write about clean eating, healthy living and post allergy and gluten free recipes!

WANTED: Gray Haired African-American Man With Saxophone Skills

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[Because it’s was my birthday, and because I’m refinishing cabinets and I started a new job, I’m recycling an oldie. If you remember this post, congratulations. You’re two years older and still like reading pointless stuff on the INTERNETS.]

I’m currently babysitting my best friend’s 6 month old.  Yes, the same best friend who pumps breast milk in my car and leaves it in my fridge, okay?  This is the first 10 minutes I’ve had all day and I find myself exhausted on the couch, drinking coffee that I poured five hours ago, and watching an Oprah special on loveless marriages.  Somehow I feel that I’ve just been given a glimpse into my life in about five fifteen twenty years.  I’m sorry, will you excuse me while I wipe the squash residue off my glasses?

Ok, I’m back. As you can deduce from its title – this blog ends with us pondering matters of Destiny, but first, it’s going to stop at the gas station and pick up some snacks while we avoid the subject.

Somewhere around 2am last night I was like, what the crap?  So I proceeded to pop in one of my all time favorite movies: Only You.  Stop scratching your head –  you’ve never seen it.  And if you have, you wrote it off within the first 5 mins or as soon as Marisa Tomei said, “He’d kill tigers for you.”  And you’d be justified. But I love it to pieces and that is just something you’ll have to live with. 

The reasons why I love this movie out number the reasons why I hate Neil Diamond. And no, it’s not just Robert Downey, Jr. speaking Italian. Or the runaway bride fiasco. Or Marisa Tomei. No, definitely not her. In fact, just ignore her the entire movie.  The main reason is because it is set in Italy, for which my obsession grew exponentially when I actually visited. Then my camera broke right in front of the Colosseum and ruined my trip.

Needless to say, I cannot express the beauty of this land. It’s magical. And I never use that gross word. Not only the scenery, but the people.  It’s a place where people actually care about something more than money.  They enjoy life.  They can’t understand you, but they’ll laugh with you and hand you some gelato.  Or a plate of pasta.  Go as quickly as you can.  It IS as beautiful as it looks. It WILL change your life.  And I PROMISE to stop talking about Italy now.

Anyway, I’ve never been a gooey person.  Shocker. I can’t even accept a compliment on my hair much less someone telling me that they can’t live without me. I hate receiving flowers or any other impractical gift that dies or has an expiration date; I would never dance in the middle of a street; I don’t want a fairytale wedding, and I certainly don’t celebrate “anniversaries,” whether they be actual legitimate yearly milestones or fake excuses to go out to eat, like, say, 7 months.

Although Only You may be a chic flick, the sheer beauty is that it actually makes fun of the concept of “destiny” and preconceived ideas that there is one true soulmate for everyone.  Because would I watch it if it didn’t?  Absolutely not.  I think when I was younger, I believed that your whole life was a search for “your other half,”  and now, I believe you could be happy with any number of people.  Just in a different way.  I’m not sure which conclusion is the right one, and I have a feeling I never will.

However, there are exceptions to every rule. 

And this is my exception:  if I should ever find myself strolling along a rainy, cobblestoney, Italian street, while being serenaded by a gray-haired African-American (note: he HAS to be African-American for this scenario to work) playing the saxophone, while talking to a charming and dangerously witty brunette who was able to quote Goethe  – I just might dance in the middle of the street.  Under the right circumstances, anything is possible.

If you’d like to witness this exact scenario, please skip ahead to 1:35.  If not, please watch the entire thing anyway. 

Only by joy and sorrow does a person know anything about themselves and their destiny.   

 – Goethe.

Wondering where I went? I have returned to blogging over at my whole foods blog Celery and the City, where we live so clean it’s like your insides took a bath.

Blunt Bites: The Lady At The Cafe In London

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[ Blunt Bites break away from my normal, detailed laugh-out-loud (right?) posts. They are like snapshots of a significant part of my life. Sometimes, they’re serious. Sometimes, they’re funny. But they’re always gonna be delicious. Yum. ]

I was living in London at the time. One night, some friends and I decided to eat dinner at an Italian cafe; and if there’s anything more disappointing than London food, it’s London food trying to be Italian. As we drank our wine, I jotted down some thoughts in my journal while listening to the rain hit the windows.

I noticed you walk in and take a seat at the table by the window, where you had a perfect view of the beautifully wet cobblestone streets. I would have done the same thing. Those streets are still my favorite part of London. Your glasses were huge, and at first glance I thought you might be a man. You weren’t. Just an elderly lady wearing a beautiful dress and oblivious to the world around you. When a bottle of expensive champagne arrived, I was certain that you were waiting for someone. Anniversary, perhaps? Milestone birthday? As you finished your dinner, I couldn’t help but wonder.

But no one ever joined you that night. And it became increasingly evident by your level of confidence, that was what you expected.

Part of me felt sad for you.

The other part, jealous.

Kenny Chronicles: Don’t Cry Or My Fake Tan Will Run

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[For those of you who don’t know who my metrosexual best friend Kenny is, please read this post. Then do yourself a favor and get a clue.]

Most of you may have noticed I’ve been on a bit of a happiness protest this year. Well, hopefully this helps to explain things a bit. I was going to title this post: News Worst Than AIDS. Then I thought that was a bit too dramatic, even for the Kenny Chronicles. Regardless, please keep reading and stop judging me.

[rolling up to the Wendy’s drive thru, sometime last May]

Kenny: Um…. yea. Can I get a double bacon cheeseburger, and can I try a, um, frosty twisted coffee toffee.  I mean, an uh, coffee frosty twisted mocha thing.

Me: No, no. There’s nothing mocha about it. It’s A COFFEE TOFFEE TWISTED FROSTY.

Kenny: Ugh. Whatever. Can I get one of those frosted coffee drinks? [turns to me] Whaddaya want?

Me: Ok. This is very important. I want a Jr. bacon cheeseburger, plain, with lettuce only. You have to say it like that or they will put condiments on there, and mayo makes me throw up.

Kenny: Can I get a Jr. bacon cheeseburger with just lettuce, please?

Me: Tell them plain! You have to tell them plain or they’ll put the mayo. I CANT eat mayo.

Kenny: Oh chill. They know what I mean.

Me: Oh. My. Gosh. I’ve been dealing with this my whole life, I know how it has to be done.

Kenny: [hands me the bag of food]

Me: Ok, just let me check it real fast.

Kenny: Um, no.

Me: What do you mean no?

Kenny: We’re not those people.

Me: Those people, who?

Kenny: Those people who hold up the line cus they are double checking the food. It’ll be fine.

Me: [as we’re exiting the parking lot] Hmmm. Interesting. MAYO!  ….Turn the car around.

Kenny: Seriously, there’s mayo on there?

Me: Seriously, when will you EVER listen to me? [hands him the sandwich]

Kenny: Can’t you just scrape it off?

Me: No, I can’t SCRAPE IT OFF. The taste infiltrates everything. I hope you know that you are going back in there to get me a new one.

Kenny: [stuffs a handful of fries into his mouth] But I’ve already started eating!

Unfortunately, this is one of the last memories I have of Kenny and I before he left me for some younger, more attractive and aquatic state. California that is.  Oh wait, you didn’t know that?

It was a month before this very incident that he broke the bad news to me. I remember it as clearly as that day I walked out of the bathroom in third grade with toilet paper tucked into my tights. Kenny was sitting next to me on my couch he mentioned something to this effect [I can’t remember the details as I went into a three-month coma afterwards]:

Kenny: So, I think I’m moving to San Diego.

Me: [bursting out in laughter] I’m sorry, what?

Kenny: No really, I have some opportunities out there.

Me: Is this sorta like that time you were gonna “move” to Virginia with whatsherface?

Kenny: No.

Me: Well, what the HEAL does San Diego have that our town doesn’t?

Kenny: Warm weather. New people. The Ocean.

Me: Oh, so you’re gonna move to one of the most expensive cities in California, in the middle of a recession, with no family or friends to support you, and you’re gonna leave me here with all these losers? Don’t do it. Remember the sandwich? You should really start listening to me.

[silence…]

Me: Get out of my house.

rockford-il-photography

And before I knew it, I found myself rolling up an ungodly amount of metro ties and placing them into Kenny’s suitcase. As I was laying on his bed, covered in hair from his insanely obese and elderly cat Beretta, I found myself speechless. How on earth would I stand this godforsaken town without Kenny around? He made everything bearable. We looked through old pictures, talked about all of our crazy times, and all sorts of sentimental stuff that I’m not usually comfortable with.

The next morning, he was off to the friggen Southwest. Since I’m not the best at goodbyes, confrontations, or sports, I opted to leave a few hours before departure. As we hugged goodbye, our conversation pretty much summed up everything:

Kenny: Sorry this is the way you have to remember me [points to his hair] I look terrible.

Me: Um, please, [pointing to my face] do you see these bags under my eyes?

Kenny: Ugh. I’m gonna miss you like crazy.

Me: You have no idea. [hugging, starting to tear up]

Kenny: Now don’t start crying. Then I’ll start crying and you’ll make my fake tan run.

Me:  Well, maybe next time I see you, it’ll actually be real.

 

And that, my friends, was the start of my spiraling depression. Please direct all outbursts and fury over lack of blogs/commenting toward Kenny.You can check out the photo shoot we did before Kenny left me here…

To check out slightly more uplifting installments of the Kenny Chronicles:

How To Talk Yourself Out Of Dating Almost Anyone

A Metrosexual In A Yankee’s Hat

I Hate People Who Smell Like Breakfast

How We Met

A Conversation At Starbucks

A Bad Gordita And Some Classy Water

Fievel Goes West: Substitute Fievel For Blunt

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[written whilst in the middle of the desert]

Well.  If it wasn’t confirmed by my first trip to New Mexico four years ago, it is definitely a fact that I am allergic to the Southwest.  My body has rejected it in every possible way.  Not in the same way it rejects mayonnaise, but in the way that it rejects the voice of Neil Diamond, where essentially everything shuts down and stages a protest.  I’m sorry if I make so many Neil Diamond references, but it’s the quickest way I know how to convey feelings of hatred,  loathing, and utter disappointment.

As I’m writing this in my composition notebook [obviously, cus I’m a total notebook snob], I am staring at the vast expanse of orangish rocks and dried up bushes that is the New Mexican landscape, while trying to ignore this altitude sickness and the fact that my nose is so dry that it refuses to breathe.  Even transportation via car is miserable, considering the bumpy, mountainous roads and my propensity for motion sickness. My hair is currently in a braid, but not in the figurative sense that you’ve come to expect.  Quite literally, my hair is in braids. Why? Well, what I can tell you with absolute certainty that it has nothing to do with my desire to appease or fit in with Native American culture, rather it has everything to do with the fact that my $150 straightener was broken in half during transit.

P.S. Have you ever seen my dad’s hair? Well, let’s just say that I have inherited more from him than just his sensitive stomach, lack of coordination, and irresistible charm. It’s quite the package.

new-mexico

[TMI: there was a point and time when I was wearing everything in the airport gift shop, including the T-shirt covered in chili peppers that said “Juan in a million,” while I was riding that Navajo horse in the background]

And while we’re on the subject of trips, have we discussed flying yet? Oh, we haven’t? That’s probably because I love it as much as I loved getting peed on after that jellyfish attack.  Not saying that necessarily happened, but I’m pretty sure it doesn’t have to in order for me to know that I didn’t like it.

On the flight back to my beloved Midwest, it was a bumpy ride.  Thatswhatshesaid. There were high winds and turbulence the whole way. I was busy writing, when I heard an announcement over the loudspeaker.  Immediately assuming that they are informing us of impending death or that we’ve been hijacked, I rip my iPod from my ears so I can prepare myself properly.  Preparing myself properly, of course, would involve nothing but alot of crying, praying/pleading, sweating, and grabbing the neighboring passenger’s leg.

I hear the Stewardess [except it was a dude, so Stewarder?] say the following:

Stewarder: Please draw your attention to the large circular formations on the ground below us.

Me: [thinking]  Great.  Alien formations? I KNEW there was something to that Donahue episode I watched in 1988.  Terrorist camps? Missile launching sites? Or is this just the plot of soft land we’re supposed to aim for when we are thrust out of the burning plane?

Stewarder:  Those are pizza farms. [obligatory laughter from any coherent passengers]

Me: Are you fricken serious right now?

I’m gonna go ahead and take this opportunity to grab the loudspeaker and make an announcement of my own: NOTHING is funny when I’m suspended 40,000 feet in the air. Especially not from you, creepy flight attendant guy who handed me very questionable peanuts.  Cus really, from the looks of things, I wouldn’t be surprised if you turned out to be the one who hijacks us later.

That’s enough about that. Adios!

You Big, Fat, Fake Smart Person

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Speaking of things I collect, I may have mentioned it briefly in the masterpiece entitled How To Live The Best Fake Life You Can Imagine, or several times thereafter, that I collect books.  I don’t read them, as much as I like to give the impression that I do, while underhandedly using them strictly for decorating props.  I understand this is a perplexing and tricky dichotomy considering I’m a writer. But you know how “Those who can’t do, teach?” Well, I also find that “Those who can’t write, read.” You’re welcome to leave me nasty comments in regards to that theory, but wouldn’t you rather go eat a Dilly Bar or something?  Go with the cherry. You’ll thank me.

But seriously, the books are starting to take over my life.

bookshelves

So when I’m selecting books, my focus is on the thickness and color of the cover and how well it will coordinate with the lamp, random flea market suitcase, or bookshelf that it will be sitting on or in the proximity of.  I don’t pay attention to minor details like the title or the content.  I had an epiphany recently that I should start trying to solve all my problems by dissecting different sections of my house and seeing what they reveal about me.  [Go here to see what my freezer had to say. It was shocking, to say the least.] So, we’re moving on to my books.

It’s only fitting that we start with my desk area. It’s where I am sitting right now, talking to you.  It is also where I spend almost all of my meager existence being a hermit, writing and editing with bloodshot eyes, and listening to my nineties playlist while eating very questionable leftovers. Because I can.

forbidden-love-relationships

Let’s zoom in on the middle cubby. When I actually started reading the titles, I discovered that these books must have been stalking me during the past couple of years.

1. Places to Stay the Night.  This eerily, but accurately describes my life from the time span of 2002-2006.  If I could make one minor adjustment it would be “Random Places To Stay The Night While Escaping Your Heroin-Addict British Boyfriend, Overly-Possessive Italian Boyfriend, Or When You Decide To Go To Mexico On A Whim Or When You’re Wandering Around A European City And Refuse To Leave Your Wasted Roommate With Those Inappropriate German Guys.”

2. The Ideal Bride. Oh yes.  I couldn’t think of a better way to describe myself.  On opposite day.

3. To Love Again. And again… and again… and effing again.

4. Five Days In Paris. Please change to “Five Days In Paris Accompanied By: A Hailstorm, A Robbery, The Stomach Flu, Ungodly Frizzy Hair, World’s Meanest People, Mystery Meats Cooked In Too Much Butter, And An Unwanted Proposal.”

5. Ten Poems To Set You Free. UGH. Information that would have been useful to me yesterday!

6. Forbidden Area. Much like a fine art painting or Greek Opera, I’m leaving this one open to interpretation.

Here’s where you’ll actually get to know me: my nightstand.  This is reserved for books that I might pick up once in a while.   I don’t think it should serve as any surprise to you that WIT would be at the top of the stack, comfortably parked next to 50 Boyfriends Worse Than Yours.

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. 


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?!