January 30, 2007
Last week, I had a scare. This, a pathetic, sad, really ridiculous kind of scare, that I'd only ever admit to my 21st century diary...this blog.
After work, I ran to the gym, stopped by the grocery story, and returned home to prepare for my bimonthly Monday night dinner guests. Our weekly itinerary is dinner, The Class (I hyperlink because its great, and you should watch it), chat amongst ourselves until 10, and then, conclude with What About Brian. Dinner usually starts around 8, which means The Class would get missed if not for my savior and yours, DVR. Even better, by doing it this way, we get to fast forward right through those commercials.
But to my dismay, my trusted DVR that I've grown to love like a favorite pet, was broken. Stupid piece of crap (in the nicest way possible, that is).
I never realized how attached I'd grown to the box of bliss. I never realized the freedom it allows me. I can go out, and not have to worry about missing a show. I can peruse the channels, during my favorites, because, its taping, and I can watch it later. And unlike the old school VCR, it tapes multiple shows at a time!
So, in a frenzy, we ate dinner in 5.3 seconds, waited until commercial to brew a pot of coffee, and the very next morning, I called Comcast and begged them to fix it. If I had known they could send a magic signal through the air to make it work, I would have called the night before, and I could have saved myself the anxiety attack and the indigestion.
Someone very wise once said "You never realize what you have until you're about to lose it." Ain't that the truth. But I bet when this was said 473 years ago by some philospher-y person, they didn't realize this would ring true for more than just relationships.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Get Outta Town
January 23, 2007
The gym. A pair of words, once foreign and dirty to me, is now slowly becoming a part of my Mon-Sat routine. With all the excitement of the grand opening of the new Brick Bodies Reisterstown, I started a week early at the older and less testosteroned (girls only) OM location.
I began to remember my terrible, but #2 excuse (next to being downright lazy) of why I hadn't membershipped myself sooner. Perhaps its my own fault for never leaving town. Unless, of course you count Towson. In the first 5.3 seconds of my visit last Monday, I saw 4, count them, 4 people I hadn't layed eyes on since the days of yore. Or, high school.
I have safely avoided excessive contact so far. I had a short conversation which ultimately was not so bad. Acquaintances back in the day with current mutal friends left a tolerable cliche conversation. But the other 3 people who I continue to exchange terribly awkward glances with day to day makes each entrance even more nervewracking than the buff 50-year-old woman next to me lifting twice the weight with half the effort.
But, there is an upside to every downfall. Saturday morning, the new gym finally opened. So, there I am, at the end of my cardio circuit training (used that day only for the purpose of trying every fancy machine they had) when I spotted familiar faces. And although I know that I will eventually get tag teamed into a corner by the pair, I already felt the overwhelming pressure of my new surroundings and was not about to encounter another ounce of added stress.
I found myself trapped. If I got up now, I'd be forced to walk right past them. And, if I walked past them, I know I'd have to stop and chat. Which, for me that day, did not seem like an option. And so, I was forced to cycle on for another 20 minutes until I had a clear path outta there.
It's much easier to hide from people in Target.
The gym. A pair of words, once foreign and dirty to me, is now slowly becoming a part of my Mon-Sat routine. With all the excitement of the grand opening of the new Brick Bodies Reisterstown, I started a week early at the older and less testosteroned (girls only) OM location.
I began to remember my terrible, but #2 excuse (next to being downright lazy) of why I hadn't membershipped myself sooner. Perhaps its my own fault for never leaving town. Unless, of course you count Towson. In the first 5.3 seconds of my visit last Monday, I saw 4, count them, 4 people I hadn't layed eyes on since the days of yore. Or, high school.
I have safely avoided excessive contact so far. I had a short conversation which ultimately was not so bad. Acquaintances back in the day with current mutal friends left a tolerable cliche conversation. But the other 3 people who I continue to exchange terribly awkward glances with day to day makes each entrance even more nervewracking than the buff 50-year-old woman next to me lifting twice the weight with half the effort.
But, there is an upside to every downfall. Saturday morning, the new gym finally opened. So, there I am, at the end of my cardio circuit training (used that day only for the purpose of trying every fancy machine they had) when I spotted familiar faces. And although I know that I will eventually get tag teamed into a corner by the pair, I already felt the overwhelming pressure of my new surroundings and was not about to encounter another ounce of added stress.
I found myself trapped. If I got up now, I'd be forced to walk right past them. And, if I walked past them, I know I'd have to stop and chat. Which, for me that day, did not seem like an option. And so, I was forced to cycle on for another 20 minutes until I had a clear path outta there.
It's much easier to hide from people in Target.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
When I Fall, Will You Catch Me
December 14, 2006
I know I've once spoken about karma...see previous blog, "A Slug's Life." But this time, karma actually got me...
I finally have a job with a Dunkin Donuts in walking distance. As if the 25 flavors of k-cup single serve selections there are in the kitchen here aren't enough, Dunks is right around the corner to satisfy my real coffee craving in the absence of Starbucks. There's a Donna's too, but some people swear by the fact that after five minutes of being in there, you leave smelling like it. And no, that's not a good thing.
Anyway...karma. So, it's Tuesday the 12th. Coworkers, MB and JS, decided to gallivant over to D-squared, insisiting I tag along. I thought about requesting delivery of my usual...large, light cream, no sugar regular...but decided that I already needed an office break.
All is well in Mt. Vernon at 8 am...we walk, we order, we pay, we receive, and thus, we leave. We stop at crosswalks when the orangish-red hand says to, and begin to cross over Calvert when the little glowing man says "go."
Not a minute later do I step perfectly with my right foot into a frayed area of my left jeaned leg. My two legs become one, and during the attempt of my next step, I trip. And by trip, I mean soar...and by soar, I mean (and I do not exaggerate...well not about this) launched, completely parallel with the street, several feet, before landing completely smack down onto the other side of the road. My coffee launched with me, opening and exploding all over the once dry pavement.
Somehow, with no more than a lost coffee, a scraped left hand/right knee, and a stiletto-heel-sized hole in the inner ankle of my jeans, I get up, recover quickly, and make it back to the office in one piece. Although, I am injured. I am embarrassed. And, I am parched.
So here's where the karma kicks in. I think people falling is funny. Perhaps one of the funniest things to witness. I remember watching America's Funniest Home Videos, and time after time, the "fallers" were the ones that got the most laughs from me. The recorded finale of 2006's American Idol unintentionally features a man flying off the stage by accident into the pit, with a complimenting "thug." I saved it on my DVR for 5 months to watch on repeat, and occasionally to cheer myself up, and others, when feeling down.
I trip A LOT. But I always catch myself. But there it was...the karma...chasing me...and I know now that you can't avoid it. It will be persistent until it gets you. And it got me. It got me so good, it knocked me face down in the middle of a busy street during rush hour...
I know I've once spoken about karma...see previous blog, "A Slug's Life." But this time, karma actually got me...
I finally have a job with a Dunkin Donuts in walking distance. As if the 25 flavors of k-cup single serve selections there are in the kitchen here aren't enough, Dunks is right around the corner to satisfy my real coffee craving in the absence of Starbucks. There's a Donna's too, but some people swear by the fact that after five minutes of being in there, you leave smelling like it. And no, that's not a good thing.
Anyway...karma. So, it's Tuesday the 12th. Coworkers, MB and JS, decided to gallivant over to D-squared, insisiting I tag along. I thought about requesting delivery of my usual...large, light cream, no sugar regular...but decided that I already needed an office break.
All is well in Mt. Vernon at 8 am...we walk, we order, we pay, we receive, and thus, we leave. We stop at crosswalks when the orangish-red hand says to, and begin to cross over Calvert when the little glowing man says "go."
Not a minute later do I step perfectly with my right foot into a frayed area of my left jeaned leg. My two legs become one, and during the attempt of my next step, I trip. And by trip, I mean soar...and by soar, I mean (and I do not exaggerate...well not about this) launched, completely parallel with the street, several feet, before landing completely smack down onto the other side of the road. My coffee launched with me, opening and exploding all over the once dry pavement.
Somehow, with no more than a lost coffee, a scraped left hand/right knee, and a stiletto-heel-sized hole in the inner ankle of my jeans, I get up, recover quickly, and make it back to the office in one piece. Although, I am injured. I am embarrassed. And, I am parched.
So here's where the karma kicks in. I think people falling is funny. Perhaps one of the funniest things to witness. I remember watching America's Funniest Home Videos, and time after time, the "fallers" were the ones that got the most laughs from me. The recorded finale of 2006's American Idol unintentionally features a man flying off the stage by accident into the pit, with a complimenting "thug." I saved it on my DVR for 5 months to watch on repeat, and occasionally to cheer myself up, and others, when feeling down.
I trip A LOT. But I always catch myself. But there it was...the karma...chasing me...and I know now that you can't avoid it. It will be persistent until it gets you. And it got me. It got me so good, it knocked me face down in the middle of a busy street during rush hour...
Pick a card, any card
November 15, 2006
As I've previously stated in past bloggings, I usually attempt to be creative when buying and or planning. And so, as maid of honor and bachelorette party planner for the recently passed November 5 wedding I was in, I didn't want to do the run of the mill thing.
So we went to a psychic. You may say this was a gutsy move, as clearly, Savetta the fortune teller would be able to tell whether or not this marriage was going to make it or not. I mean, she is a psychic and all. But I wasn't worried, since for a change, cyncial me actually trusts that this one could stand the test of time.
Anyway, Savetta did her thing. Some people chose palm readings, some chose tarot cards, and some did both. I, being a total believer and chicken, waited until the end to decide if I wanted to do it at all. After hearing other people's, I decided that the crystal ball doesn't really know everything...some things, but not everything, and that for the sake of the fun-ness of the par-tay, I would partake.
She told me to choose 10 cards. I stared back at her and asked if there was a death card in there. She smiled, and said, "of course." Reassuring. Holding my breath while turning blueish-purple, I carefully and randomly picked the cards I "felt drawn to." And because I do have psychic abilities myself, I safely avoided the death card.
I did not, however, safely avoid the cards that were - my life. She told me things that she couldn't have known unless I myself called her up that morning to give her a Shauna life synopsis. A boring story for anyone to sit through, let alone someone who thinks she already knows.
She knew things about the people in my life. She knew things about my job. My side business. And she didn't mention marriage or children, which frankly seems right on. My friends, the bach party attendees, who were listening in had dropped jaws at the end of the reading. She was no joke. A local John Edwards if you will. Well, without the contacting the dead part.
Anyway, I was more than impressed, a little surprised, and deeply freaked out by my reading. And then, to top it off with a little confusion/depression, she suggested to me (and to me only) to come back and see her for spiritual counseling.
Savetta is in Mt. Washington, across from the Tavern, if you're curious. But be warned that she may imply that you are screwed up, closed off, and in desparate need of spiritual release.
As I've previously stated in past bloggings, I usually attempt to be creative when buying and or planning. And so, as maid of honor and bachelorette party planner for the recently passed November 5 wedding I was in, I didn't want to do the run of the mill thing.
So we went to a psychic. You may say this was a gutsy move, as clearly, Savetta the fortune teller would be able to tell whether or not this marriage was going to make it or not. I mean, she is a psychic and all. But I wasn't worried, since for a change, cyncial me actually trusts that this one could stand the test of time.
Anyway, Savetta did her thing. Some people chose palm readings, some chose tarot cards, and some did both. I, being a total believer and chicken, waited until the end to decide if I wanted to do it at all. After hearing other people's, I decided that the crystal ball doesn't really know everything...some things, but not everything, and that for the sake of the fun-ness of the par-tay, I would partake.
She told me to choose 10 cards. I stared back at her and asked if there was a death card in there. She smiled, and said, "of course." Reassuring. Holding my breath while turning blueish-purple, I carefully and randomly picked the cards I "felt drawn to." And because I do have psychic abilities myself, I safely avoided the death card.
I did not, however, safely avoid the cards that were - my life. She told me things that she couldn't have known unless I myself called her up that morning to give her a Shauna life synopsis. A boring story for anyone to sit through, let alone someone who thinks she already knows.
She knew things about the people in my life. She knew things about my job. My side business. And she didn't mention marriage or children, which frankly seems right on. My friends, the bach party attendees, who were listening in had dropped jaws at the end of the reading. She was no joke. A local John Edwards if you will. Well, without the contacting the dead part.
Anyway, I was more than impressed, a little surprised, and deeply freaked out by my reading. And then, to top it off with a little confusion/depression, she suggested to me (and to me only) to come back and see her for spiritual counseling.
Savetta is in Mt. Washington, across from the Tavern, if you're curious. But be warned that she may imply that you are screwed up, closed off, and in desparate need of spiritual release.
When I Say I Do
October 9, 2006
At the risk of getting in trouble with one of my three best friend/bride to be's...I'm going to vent about the duties of being a bridesmaid. To cover my tracks, let me just say it is not being YOUR bridesmaid that sucks, but the duty itself that is wretched.
1. The title. Bridesmaid. Really? Couldn't we come up with a better title than bridesmaid? Negative connotation right from the start.
2. The dress. I don't feel like I need to go into detail here. But again, to avoid being dismembered from the upcoming bridal parties I'm a part of, I will. I will not wear it again, even if you think you picked a dress that I can wear again. And it may be pretty (on the model) but the circumstance is not. Fitting. Paying. Fitting #2. And three. And maybe 4. And the people that work at these dress shops, ugh. And the locations of most of them. And the hours...I mean...why wouldn't you open on a Friday!
3. The money. I love you, but I cannot afford you. That's why I am not getting married, and you are. Although I suppose a second income could alleviate some financial burdens...huh.
4. The expectations. A shower (or two), a bachelorette party...sometimes, a surprise...it's a lot to have on your shoulders. And someone is always dissapointed when you pick a date that doesn't work for them. And along with the party, there are the gifts...as a bridesmaid, you cannot just buy the towels off the registry...and it hurts my brain to be sentimental sometimes.
5. The family. It's not that I don't want to devote my weekend to you, but between the rehearsal, the dinner, the wedding day, night, and brunch...it's a lot of family time. And they're not even my family.
6. This is specific just to me, but the makeup. As a makeup artist, it seems that when IN a wedding, or when a part of a wedding, my professional abilities sometimes, and usually unintentionally, get taken advantage of. Its not that I don't love it. And its not even that I mind. But somehow, I end up applying my own mascara and lip gloss on my way down the aisle. Its tough to time it right to make yourself look presentable, and paint an entire bridal party.
7. The hair. Some may enjoy being pampered with hair and makeup on your day. I, personally, would prefer to sit by your side with Starbucks and a blanket. But instead, I am forced to stress about the outcome of my mop, because the stylists always insist that an up-do is the way to go, and do not believe that I look like a 14 year old boy with my hair pulled back. Think about it...you've probably never seen me with a ponytail.
So you see, "its not you its me." If I, as your bridesmaid, offend your choices, or at any point make you regret choosing me, I'm sorry. I really am honored to be a part of it, and more happy than I may appear. And it doesn't make it easier to have to split my wedding joy between 3 all in the same season.
Don't worry...although it is not in future plans, you may one day understand, IF I ever choose to be a bride, with you as my maid.
At the risk of getting in trouble with one of my three best friend/bride to be's...I'm going to vent about the duties of being a bridesmaid. To cover my tracks, let me just say it is not being YOUR bridesmaid that sucks, but the duty itself that is wretched.
1. The title. Bridesmaid. Really? Couldn't we come up with a better title than bridesmaid? Negative connotation right from the start.
2. The dress. I don't feel like I need to go into detail here. But again, to avoid being dismembered from the upcoming bridal parties I'm a part of, I will. I will not wear it again, even if you think you picked a dress that I can wear again. And it may be pretty (on the model) but the circumstance is not. Fitting. Paying. Fitting #2. And three. And maybe 4. And the people that work at these dress shops, ugh. And the locations of most of them. And the hours...I mean...why wouldn't you open on a Friday!
3. The money. I love you, but I cannot afford you. That's why I am not getting married, and you are. Although I suppose a second income could alleviate some financial burdens...huh.
4. The expectations. A shower (or two), a bachelorette party...sometimes, a surprise...it's a lot to have on your shoulders. And someone is always dissapointed when you pick a date that doesn't work for them. And along with the party, there are the gifts...as a bridesmaid, you cannot just buy the towels off the registry...and it hurts my brain to be sentimental sometimes.
5. The family. It's not that I don't want to devote my weekend to you, but between the rehearsal, the dinner, the wedding day, night, and brunch...it's a lot of family time. And they're not even my family.
6. This is specific just to me, but the makeup. As a makeup artist, it seems that when IN a wedding, or when a part of a wedding, my professional abilities sometimes, and usually unintentionally, get taken advantage of. Its not that I don't love it. And its not even that I mind. But somehow, I end up applying my own mascara and lip gloss on my way down the aisle. Its tough to time it right to make yourself look presentable, and paint an entire bridal party.
7. The hair. Some may enjoy being pampered with hair and makeup on your day. I, personally, would prefer to sit by your side with Starbucks and a blanket. But instead, I am forced to stress about the outcome of my mop, because the stylists always insist that an up-do is the way to go, and do not believe that I look like a 14 year old boy with my hair pulled back. Think about it...you've probably never seen me with a ponytail.
So you see, "its not you its me." If I, as your bridesmaid, offend your choices, or at any point make you regret choosing me, I'm sorry. I really am honored to be a part of it, and more happy than I may appear. And it doesn't make it easier to have to split my wedding joy between 3 all in the same season.
Don't worry...although it is not in future plans, you may one day understand, IF I ever choose to be a bride, with you as my maid.
Fate-al Attraction
September 18, 2006
Drain the sap out of your brain. Myspace is not "e-freaking-harmony". Or "The Love Connection." It is, I guess, kind of like that dumb show "high school reunion" and apparently has the same effects on people as that stupid reality show did."
Guess who I found on myspace...how weird is that?" Umm, not. What on earth is weird about the fact that you found so and so from your preschool class in 1912? If for just a moment, you remembered to remember that everyone, including some babies and dogs, have myspace pages, then you might just realize that you were bound to find him/her/shim sooner than later.
Even worse is the "its so weird, i'm questioning my life" reaction to finding long lost loves on myspace. Please! You are really going to question your current partner(s) because your 5th grade girlfriend has "friended" you? That does NOT mean she is still in love with you (you are not in love with her either.) It just means she likes to say "You only have 30 myspace friends? I have 367..." to other myspacers she feels inferior to in real life.
It's not fate...it's myspace, people.
Drain the sap out of your brain. Myspace is not "e-freaking-harmony". Or "The Love Connection." It is, I guess, kind of like that dumb show "high school reunion" and apparently has the same effects on people as that stupid reality show did."
Guess who I found on myspace...how weird is that?" Umm, not. What on earth is weird about the fact that you found so and so from your preschool class in 1912? If for just a moment, you remembered to remember that everyone, including some babies and dogs, have myspace pages, then you might just realize that you were bound to find him/her/shim sooner than later.
Even worse is the "its so weird, i'm questioning my life" reaction to finding long lost loves on myspace. Please! You are really going to question your current partner(s) because your 5th grade girlfriend has "friended" you? That does NOT mean she is still in love with you (you are not in love with her either.) It just means she likes to say "You only have 30 myspace friends? I have 367..." to other myspacers she feels inferior to in real life.
It's not fate...it's myspace, people.
I Love the 90's!
September 6, 2006
My horoscope today: Memories from the distant past, perhaps as far back as early childhood, could keep popping into your conscious mind today, dear Leo. You may feel really silly, crying over a fairytale your grandmother read you when you were 5 years old, but as embarrassing as this can be, it's actually a positive form of release. Old pain from the past, even as inane as this, can actually limit you in your current situation. Let it go and embrace the process.
So it's totally strange that for the last few days, I've been reminiscing, and feeling "silly" for being sad about how long ago the past is (go MSN horoscope!) I drove around the Reisterstown part of Owings Mills the other day...I still knew my way on those shortcuts I was taught a million years ago (ok, fine, I've never actually left OM, but still...I haven't driven on some of those roads in a very long time.) I will tell you though, that there are stop signs and speed bumps where there never were before! They really should have sent me a letter.
I was just talking about the passing on of The WB network, and how they are having a final goodbye, by showing the pilot episodes of the four shows that made it a hit. They showed clips of Dawson's Creek, Felicity, and two other shows (Buffy and Charmed maybe? Eh, who cares...)
So for some reason, when I saw the Felicity clip, I was sucked back into my junior year of high school. I got really, oddly sad. I mean really oddly sad. I remember laying on my bed, right in front of the television, tuning in to the premiere episode of my soon to be favorite show. Since then, that bed is no longer in my room. And that room is no longer my room, because that house is no longer my house.
I looked through a photo album with tons of pictures from my freshman year of college. You think 8 years ago seems like yesterday until you see what the 8 years has done to you, perfectly documented, thanks to Kodak. I am not kidding or being exaggeratory (yes, its a word...my word, but still a word) when I say that I now look like the 17 year old me's mother. Or much older and much uglier sister.
AND! I've been hearing all of these songs...perhaps because I'm addicted to 90's on 9 on XM...I can't help it... Anyway, these songs are too funny...Vanilla Ice, Colour Me Badd, Kris Kross, and my most recent favorite song I haven't heard in a million years, "Mr. Vain" which, by the way, is much dirtier on satellite radio. I feel like I'm back at Grafitti's (that's right, the under 21 dance club that is now known as Padonia Station!)
So right, I'm in this weird "I wish I was in high school again" place that I never thought I'd be (could be all the teeny-bopper movies I watched this weekend...High School Musical...She's The Man...) But "they" know everything...because "they" always said "Enjoy it while you're living it, because these are the best years of your life..." And yet, I still ignored it thinking, "Please god, no."
My horoscope says not to harp on this. It will hold me back. I don't know what from, but I have no choice other than to listen to the stars and planets. Otherwise, I have to listen to myself, and half the time I don't have any idea what I'm talking about.
My horoscope today: Memories from the distant past, perhaps as far back as early childhood, could keep popping into your conscious mind today, dear Leo. You may feel really silly, crying over a fairytale your grandmother read you when you were 5 years old, but as embarrassing as this can be, it's actually a positive form of release. Old pain from the past, even as inane as this, can actually limit you in your current situation. Let it go and embrace the process.
So it's totally strange that for the last few days, I've been reminiscing, and feeling "silly" for being sad about how long ago the past is (go MSN horoscope!) I drove around the Reisterstown part of Owings Mills the other day...I still knew my way on those shortcuts I was taught a million years ago (ok, fine, I've never actually left OM, but still...I haven't driven on some of those roads in a very long time.) I will tell you though, that there are stop signs and speed bumps where there never were before! They really should have sent me a letter.
I was just talking about the passing on of The WB network, and how they are having a final goodbye, by showing the pilot episodes of the four shows that made it a hit. They showed clips of Dawson's Creek, Felicity, and two other shows (Buffy and Charmed maybe? Eh, who cares...)
So for some reason, when I saw the Felicity clip, I was sucked back into my junior year of high school. I got really, oddly sad. I mean really oddly sad. I remember laying on my bed, right in front of the television, tuning in to the premiere episode of my soon to be favorite show. Since then, that bed is no longer in my room. And that room is no longer my room, because that house is no longer my house.
I looked through a photo album with tons of pictures from my freshman year of college. You think 8 years ago seems like yesterday until you see what the 8 years has done to you, perfectly documented, thanks to Kodak. I am not kidding or being exaggeratory (yes, its a word...my word, but still a word) when I say that I now look like the 17 year old me's mother. Or much older and much uglier sister.
AND! I've been hearing all of these songs...perhaps because I'm addicted to 90's on 9 on XM...I can't help it... Anyway, these songs are too funny...Vanilla Ice, Colour Me Badd, Kris Kross, and my most recent favorite song I haven't heard in a million years, "Mr. Vain" which, by the way, is much dirtier on satellite radio. I feel like I'm back at Grafitti's (that's right, the under 21 dance club that is now known as Padonia Station!)
So right, I'm in this weird "I wish I was in high school again" place that I never thought I'd be (could be all the teeny-bopper movies I watched this weekend...High School Musical...She's The Man...) But "they" know everything...because "they" always said "Enjoy it while you're living it, because these are the best years of your life..." And yet, I still ignored it thinking, "Please god, no."
My horoscope says not to harp on this. It will hold me back. I don't know what from, but I have no choice other than to listen to the stars and planets. Otherwise, I have to listen to myself, and half the time I don't have any idea what I'm talking about.
It's The Thought That Counts
September 5, 2006
Not to toot my own horn, but I like to think of myself as a fantastic gift buyer. I'm thoughtful. I try to come up with things you wouldn't expect, or, something you've mentioned, maybe a long time ago that you wanted, that you probably forget ever mentioning to me.
And so I pride myself on this...I may even pat myself on the back from time to time...but lately, you all keep spoiling my carefully thought out, perfectly wrapped masterpieces.
For months, I calculate conversations, I dig deep into my short term memory, just to come up with the perfect gift for someone. But I've been punked. A week before a birthday, my friend purchased my well-thought-out gift. After months of avoiding spending the money, there it is..."Let's go to the store so I can buy one."
Fine. So at least I had a week to rethink. And so I did. I came up with perfect give number two. But, you guessed it, they decided to buy it, online, from MY computer, just days before. I tried to stop it. Really, I did.
Fine. So at least I had a few days to rethink. This time, they didn't buy it, but they joked that I could buy it for their birthday. Which, still, ruins the fact that it was my idea in the first place.
And now, it looks like a thoughtless gift that was only purchased last minute at their request.
Who buys things the week before their birthday! Next time you think "huh, I'm going to buy myself that ______ I've been wanting as a birthday gift to myself" think again. Someone like me probably already bought it. Dummy.
I'm just lucky I'm not an advanced purchaser, or else, I'd have an awful lot of returns to make. Except now, I'm late, and have to wait 5-9 days for shipping. And so still, I look like the bad gift-er who gives lame presents, and, gives them a week late.
If only it was the thought that really did count.
Not to toot my own horn, but I like to think of myself as a fantastic gift buyer. I'm thoughtful. I try to come up with things you wouldn't expect, or, something you've mentioned, maybe a long time ago that you wanted, that you probably forget ever mentioning to me.
And so I pride myself on this...I may even pat myself on the back from time to time...but lately, you all keep spoiling my carefully thought out, perfectly wrapped masterpieces.
For months, I calculate conversations, I dig deep into my short term memory, just to come up with the perfect gift for someone. But I've been punked. A week before a birthday, my friend purchased my well-thought-out gift. After months of avoiding spending the money, there it is..."Let's go to the store so I can buy one."
Fine. So at least I had a week to rethink. And so I did. I came up with perfect give number two. But, you guessed it, they decided to buy it, online, from MY computer, just days before. I tried to stop it. Really, I did.
Fine. So at least I had a few days to rethink. This time, they didn't buy it, but they joked that I could buy it for their birthday. Which, still, ruins the fact that it was my idea in the first place.
And now, it looks like a thoughtless gift that was only purchased last minute at their request.
Who buys things the week before their birthday! Next time you think "huh, I'm going to buy myself that ______ I've been wanting as a birthday gift to myself" think again. Someone like me probably already bought it. Dummy.
I'm just lucky I'm not an advanced purchaser, or else, I'd have an awful lot of returns to make. Except now, I'm late, and have to wait 5-9 days for shipping. And so still, I look like the bad gift-er who gives lame presents, and, gives them a week late.
If only it was the thought that really did count.
Dear Diary,
August 31, 2006
Today, blog=journal. Since I don't have a journal, I won't write in it, and today feels like one of those days that I would write in a journal if i had one.
Dear Diary,
It's weird how we all have expectations, but in experience, I've noticed a hypocritical trend. "They" say you should have expectations, and accept nothing less. But I find, personally, that when you do that, you're always sold just a little bit short.
Let me go back to go back on my coke/water theory for a moment. If you're confused and have never heard of it, keep reading, because I promise I will explain. If you have heard it, my apologies for topic redundancy...
Let's say you're sitting in a restaurant. You have your water, and you have the coke that you ordered as choice beverage of the night. So you're sitting there, deep in some fantastic conversation with your table attendants, and BAM...you go to take a sip of coke, you pick up the water by accident, and take a sip. You EXPECTED coke, but you got water. Ohhhh nooooo.
What's weird here is that you will never, and I guarantee ever, come to the immediate conclusion that you accidentally drank your water. You will, however "conclude" that something is wrong with your coke. And the reason for this is that you simply weren't "expecting" water.
And so for the theory...coke/water is like a bad date. Or for the purpose of this argument...any contact with a person you don't know. Or do know really (again, back to the expecation thing...example...you expect flowers for your bday, you don't get them...boom...your sad...you don't expect flowers, you get them...wham...happy day)
Anyway, I've totally lost track of my point here. My point is, diary, that its very hard to set expectations at the perfect level...the level where the people you expect things from, or the things you expect, are obtainable and reasonable. But on the latter, if you expect nothing, and get something, you're already ahead of the game.
I've forgotten how you sign of in a journal/diary. So I will end with a quote...
"If he's saying 'no expectations' he's giving himself some wiggle room." -Unknown
Yours truly,
Shauna
Today, blog=journal. Since I don't have a journal, I won't write in it, and today feels like one of those days that I would write in a journal if i had one.
Dear Diary,
It's weird how we all have expectations, but in experience, I've noticed a hypocritical trend. "They" say you should have expectations, and accept nothing less. But I find, personally, that when you do that, you're always sold just a little bit short.
Let me go back to go back on my coke/water theory for a moment. If you're confused and have never heard of it, keep reading, because I promise I will explain. If you have heard it, my apologies for topic redundancy...
Let's say you're sitting in a restaurant. You have your water, and you have the coke that you ordered as choice beverage of the night. So you're sitting there, deep in some fantastic conversation with your table attendants, and BAM...you go to take a sip of coke, you pick up the water by accident, and take a sip. You EXPECTED coke, but you got water. Ohhhh nooooo.
What's weird here is that you will never, and I guarantee ever, come to the immediate conclusion that you accidentally drank your water. You will, however "conclude" that something is wrong with your coke. And the reason for this is that you simply weren't "expecting" water.
And so for the theory...coke/water is like a bad date. Or for the purpose of this argument...any contact with a person you don't know. Or do know really (again, back to the expecation thing...example...you expect flowers for your bday, you don't get them...boom...your sad...you don't expect flowers, you get them...wham...happy day)
Anyway, I've totally lost track of my point here. My point is, diary, that its very hard to set expectations at the perfect level...the level where the people you expect things from, or the things you expect, are obtainable and reasonable. But on the latter, if you expect nothing, and get something, you're already ahead of the game.
I've forgotten how you sign of in a journal/diary. So I will end with a quote...
"If he's saying 'no expectations' he's giving himself some wiggle room." -Unknown
Yours truly,
Shauna
Hollywouldn't Get Married If I Were You
August 21, 2006
The then Aniston-Pitt, Jolie-Thornton, Cruise-Cruz, becomes Vaughniston. Brangelina.
Tomkat. The on again off again Gyllenhaal-Dunst, Bloom-Bosworth. The horribly wed Brit and KFed, Kid and Pam. And the recently separated/divorced Carmen & Dave, Kate & Chris, and the infamously famous Jessica & Nick.
Let's play a game! Who can identify a pattern? The divorce rate in the U.S. is at a high (again) and I think its Hollywood's fault.
People cheat in the real world. Over here in MD, down in FL, and up and over in Canada, people stray. And its the direct result of temptation without control. Without getting into, and possibly boring you to tears with my so far proven theory about cheating and "the cycle", I will say this...
Once tempation strikes, you have a choice. You walk away...you remove yourself from the situation, and in time, you get over it. Or, you continue to allow yourself to be tempted until you crack. There's two kinds of people in this world, and it seems like, unfortunately, most are the latter.
Argue with me if you like, but it seems like common sense. If people cheat in the real world, where the majority cruising down I-83 do not even resemble Angelina or Penelope, then why on EARTH would you expect it to be different in glamour land? 29 of every 30 Hollywood couples break up! Even the perfect ones. Oh Brad and Jen. Sigh.
But really. If regular ol' east coasters have been known to be tempted by just a glance across the bar, then how could a Hollywood actress...even one as lovely as Rachel Green, er, Jen Aniston, expect that her husband would not be tempted by a naked Jolie in a steamy hot love scene?
Puh-lease! Temptation is FORCED on you in tv/movie land...and avoiding it is pretty much impossible. And I'm not even being cynical!
I'm just saying, if the male (or female) half of Jolie-Pitt cheats during the filming of an upcoming movie with the new "People's Hottest Actress" cover queen, Jessica Alba...I called it...
The then Aniston-Pitt, Jolie-Thornton, Cruise-Cruz, becomes Vaughniston. Brangelina.
Tomkat. The on again off again Gyllenhaal-Dunst, Bloom-Bosworth. The horribly wed Brit and KFed, Kid and Pam. And the recently separated/divorced Carmen & Dave, Kate & Chris, and the infamously famous Jessica & Nick.
Let's play a game! Who can identify a pattern? The divorce rate in the U.S. is at a high (again) and I think its Hollywood's fault.
People cheat in the real world. Over here in MD, down in FL, and up and over in Canada, people stray. And its the direct result of temptation without control. Without getting into, and possibly boring you to tears with my so far proven theory about cheating and "the cycle", I will say this...
Once tempation strikes, you have a choice. You walk away...you remove yourself from the situation, and in time, you get over it. Or, you continue to allow yourself to be tempted until you crack. There's two kinds of people in this world, and it seems like, unfortunately, most are the latter.
Argue with me if you like, but it seems like common sense. If people cheat in the real world, where the majority cruising down I-83 do not even resemble Angelina or Penelope, then why on EARTH would you expect it to be different in glamour land? 29 of every 30 Hollywood couples break up! Even the perfect ones. Oh Brad and Jen. Sigh.
But really. If regular ol' east coasters have been known to be tempted by just a glance across the bar, then how could a Hollywood actress...even one as lovely as Rachel Green, er, Jen Aniston, expect that her husband would not be tempted by a naked Jolie in a steamy hot love scene?
Puh-lease! Temptation is FORCED on you in tv/movie land...and avoiding it is pretty much impossible. And I'm not even being cynical!
I'm just saying, if the male (or female) half of Jolie-Pitt cheats during the filming of an upcoming movie with the new "People's Hottest Actress" cover queen, Jessica Alba...I called it...
Merry Christmas & An Oven Mitt
August 16, 2006
They say with old age comes memory loss and insanity. I think I just didn't realize, again, that 25 was considered "old age".
In the last few weeks, I've noticed a pattern of perhaps some sort of dementia. I was once told that I might have a B-12 folic acid deficiency, which could lead to dementia over time. Well over time has come, full force.
I live in a condo. Right outside my door, there is a storage unit that I use. A few weeks ago, I went to get something out of the storage unit, and once retrieved, I turned around to go back into my house. Except, oops. I locked the door behind me on my way out, sans keys and cell phone, and now I was a prisoner in my own building. If I left the building, I would be a prisoner outside of my building, since my area is enforced with keyed-entry only. Gotta love security.
Woo. So, with really no options, I took a chance that when sweeping my front porch that morning, I had forgotten to lock the sliding door. Lucky for me, I had forgotten, so with a mere hop skip and jump over the railing, I was able to get back inside.
Same day. Same time. Just before the lock out, I began boiling water and frozen meatballs in order to "de-grease" them for my super secret cocktail meatball recipe that I would serve at a party the next day. While in limbo between storage unit and house, the boiling contraption on my stove slipped my mind. So upon re-entry, I moved on to some other household chore, until I heard a sizzling explosion coming from the kitchen. That's right. A grease fire-esque situation had erupted on my stove. Thinking quickly (for once) I turned off the stove and threw a towel on the slippery, smelly, stupid mess. Under control, and major catastrophe avoided. Until....
Moments later, after recovering, I washed a few dishes. One of these said "dishes" was a plastic lid to the 13x9 inch pan that I currently had baking in the oven. Since I don't have a drying rack because frankly, I think they're ugly, I threw the lid onto the stove to dry. Well, it dried quickly, considering I threw it on the only burner I had just used, and a little later, when I smelled burning plastic, I realized that I now had a lovely melted rectangle on my somewhat brand new stove. This was a joy to recover from.
Remember the 13x9 inch pan that was in the oven? Me too. So when I went to get it out, I stuck my hand in and grabbed it out. Do I have pot holders? Oven mitts? Check and check. I, for some reason, felt like the untouchable Superman with hands of unburnable steel. Quickly, I was also proven wrong.
A grease fire, a chemical fire, a 1st degree burn, and 3 "Amber Sunset" Yankee candles later, my house was back to smelling normal (quite lovely really...Amber Sunset is a hit!) and my melted hand was well on its way to recovery.
So maybe I was just having a bad day (insert Daniel Powter song here...) But since, I have done several more stupid things...)
I have turned on the oven without ever putting anything in it to cook. I brewed coffee without water. I have broken more wine glasses in 2 weeks than in my entire lifetime. And most recently, two days ago to be exact, I signed off an email with "Merry Christmas!"
I would say "Remember when everyday things came to us so easily?" But I can't. My dementia symptoms won't let me.
They say with old age comes memory loss and insanity. I think I just didn't realize, again, that 25 was considered "old age".
In the last few weeks, I've noticed a pattern of perhaps some sort of dementia. I was once told that I might have a B-12 folic acid deficiency, which could lead to dementia over time. Well over time has come, full force.
I live in a condo. Right outside my door, there is a storage unit that I use. A few weeks ago, I went to get something out of the storage unit, and once retrieved, I turned around to go back into my house. Except, oops. I locked the door behind me on my way out, sans keys and cell phone, and now I was a prisoner in my own building. If I left the building, I would be a prisoner outside of my building, since my area is enforced with keyed-entry only. Gotta love security.
Woo. So, with really no options, I took a chance that when sweeping my front porch that morning, I had forgotten to lock the sliding door. Lucky for me, I had forgotten, so with a mere hop skip and jump over the railing, I was able to get back inside.
Same day. Same time. Just before the lock out, I began boiling water and frozen meatballs in order to "de-grease" them for my super secret cocktail meatball recipe that I would serve at a party the next day. While in limbo between storage unit and house, the boiling contraption on my stove slipped my mind. So upon re-entry, I moved on to some other household chore, until I heard a sizzling explosion coming from the kitchen. That's right. A grease fire-esque situation had erupted on my stove. Thinking quickly (for once) I turned off the stove and threw a towel on the slippery, smelly, stupid mess. Under control, and major catastrophe avoided. Until....
Moments later, after recovering, I washed a few dishes. One of these said "dishes" was a plastic lid to the 13x9 inch pan that I currently had baking in the oven. Since I don't have a drying rack because frankly, I think they're ugly, I threw the lid onto the stove to dry. Well, it dried quickly, considering I threw it on the only burner I had just used, and a little later, when I smelled burning plastic, I realized that I now had a lovely melted rectangle on my somewhat brand new stove. This was a joy to recover from.
Remember the 13x9 inch pan that was in the oven? Me too. So when I went to get it out, I stuck my hand in and grabbed it out. Do I have pot holders? Oven mitts? Check and check. I, for some reason, felt like the untouchable Superman with hands of unburnable steel. Quickly, I was also proven wrong.
A grease fire, a chemical fire, a 1st degree burn, and 3 "Amber Sunset" Yankee candles later, my house was back to smelling normal (quite lovely really...Amber Sunset is a hit!) and my melted hand was well on its way to recovery.
So maybe I was just having a bad day (insert Daniel Powter song here...) But since, I have done several more stupid things...)
I have turned on the oven without ever putting anything in it to cook. I brewed coffee without water. I have broken more wine glasses in 2 weeks than in my entire lifetime. And most recently, two days ago to be exact, I signed off an email with "Merry Christmas!"
I would say "Remember when everyday things came to us so easily?" But I can't. My dementia symptoms won't let me.
If I Were A Rich (Wo)man
August 15, 2006
Money can't buy you love. Money can't buy you happiness. But what about REM sleep and peace of mind?
I'm not sure I'll ever really feel "financially stable." While we all look forward to the possibility of an end-of-year raise, with it comes a 3% increase in cost of living. Mortgage payment goes up as property value goes up. BGE rises because too many people need light and air conditioning...imagine that. Jeans don't cost $30 dollars anymore, but $130, along with shoes, shirts, etc, which are all conveniently required to be sported at most restaurants and stores.
So how do you do it? How do you ever get there...the place where "paycheck to paycheck" is simply a bad memory? The place where you don't panic that something terrible will go wrong with your car, or that your AC unit in your house doesn't blow up, because frankly, if it does, you're going to be doing a lot of walking, and a lot of sweating, because you just can't afford to fix it any time this century. Or lifetime, really.
So then determine a plan, a budget if you will. What can I cut out of my life that's not exactly necessary? Perishable foods? Sure. Canned green beans and corn diet...daily increase in salt intake might skyrocket, but you can't beat 20 cans for $10! I suppose I don't need to run the air conditioning in 1000 degree heat this summer, and maybe I could give up Target and switch to Walmart? Ugh...but Walmart makes me itch!
If you've figured it out...a solution to the "poor wars" please fill me in. As long as it doesn't involve winning the lottery, which I've already tried.
So while $$$ may not buy some things, it will buy food, clothes, and most importantly, pay the bills. Which I'm pretty sure will result in a good nights sleep and peace of mind. I'd put "money" on it.
Fact or Friction
August 14, 2006
It has been brought to my attention (often) that I have "issues." I suppose I could be offended by these comments, but I don't really see these issues as issues at all. They all seem completely normal to me. But time after time, I get strange responses and awkward, almost sympathetic glances in response. Are they right, are my "issues" issues? Or really...do you all have issues yourselves...perhaps you just keep them to yourself so that you will not be forced one day to discuss them via blog?...
1. I hate feet.
I know we all have them, but I don't have to like them. I remember the day it started...I merely passed by those crooked, uneven, unfiled, jagged, puke green polised toe nails attached to feet squeezed into strappy sandels two sizes too small in the hallways of Franklin High School. I haven't been the same since.
2. I can not stand the sound of people brushing their teeth.
Ok fine, this is something people do everyday, twice, sometimes 3 times...but it makes me want to vomit. Not the act of, but the sound itself. You don't like fingernails on a chalkboard? Same thing. I have been known to scream, gag, and near vomit from time to time...
3. I can not touch dry towels with dry hands.
If I wet one hand, I will not grab a towel until I wet the other. It hurts me to even think about...uhhhh...now I have to moisturize...
4. I can not rub my feet/hands on carpet. Or listen to (or think of) the sound of this.
Past coworkers used to find it funny to come up behind me while I was buried deep in insurance claim hell, simply to disturb the peace by furiously scraping shoe on carpet, creating the most wretched sound I can possibly imagine. You can test it out to hear the exact sound I am talking about, but I warn you, do not try this at home unless absolutely sure that your gag reflex is fully dependable to resist.
5. I can not listen to the sound of hands rubbing together. Nor would I be able to give, or tolerate receiving, a massage.
Ok, if you haven't noticed (with the exception of the "foot" thing, but I think that explains itself), the pattern is friction. If you know me, you know this. And you have probably brought to my attention that I'm crazy. But I continue in my hopes that I am not alone, and that in posting this blog, a fellow blogger or blog subscriber may "come out" and confess to same, or similar.
This, my friends, is your confessional...
It has been brought to my attention (often) that I have "issues." I suppose I could be offended by these comments, but I don't really see these issues as issues at all. They all seem completely normal to me. But time after time, I get strange responses and awkward, almost sympathetic glances in response. Are they right, are my "issues" issues? Or really...do you all have issues yourselves...perhaps you just keep them to yourself so that you will not be forced one day to discuss them via blog?...
1. I hate feet.
I know we all have them, but I don't have to like them. I remember the day it started...I merely passed by those crooked, uneven, unfiled, jagged, puke green polised toe nails attached to feet squeezed into strappy sandels two sizes too small in the hallways of Franklin High School. I haven't been the same since.
2. I can not stand the sound of people brushing their teeth.
Ok fine, this is something people do everyday, twice, sometimes 3 times...but it makes me want to vomit. Not the act of, but the sound itself. You don't like fingernails on a chalkboard? Same thing. I have been known to scream, gag, and near vomit from time to time...
3. I can not touch dry towels with dry hands.
If I wet one hand, I will not grab a towel until I wet the other. It hurts me to even think about...uhhhh...now I have to moisturize...
4. I can not rub my feet/hands on carpet. Or listen to (or think of) the sound of this.
Past coworkers used to find it funny to come up behind me while I was buried deep in insurance claim hell, simply to disturb the peace by furiously scraping shoe on carpet, creating the most wretched sound I can possibly imagine. You can test it out to hear the exact sound I am talking about, but I warn you, do not try this at home unless absolutely sure that your gag reflex is fully dependable to resist.
5. I can not listen to the sound of hands rubbing together. Nor would I be able to give, or tolerate receiving, a massage.
Ok, if you haven't noticed (with the exception of the "foot" thing, but I think that explains itself), the pattern is friction. If you know me, you know this. And you have probably brought to my attention that I'm crazy. But I continue in my hopes that I am not alone, and that in posting this blog, a fellow blogger or blog subscriber may "come out" and confess to same, or similar.
This, my friends, is your confessional...
Paved Paradise
August 10, 2006
Ever notice how two things that are completely unrelated can have so so many similarities. For example, let's fill in the center (similarities) part of a [imaginary] venn diagram titled:
Hospitals and Airports
-Bad food
-Chaos
-Security
-Mixed emotions
-Weird smells
-Miserable employees
and the point of my whole rant...(I'm sure there are more but lets move on)
-Paid parking
That's right. Paid parking at a hospital. Not that a price tag could be put on visiting someone you care about in a hospital...$1 mil? You got it. But really? At least they give you your first 30 minutes free, right? Right. Except by the time you take your ticket, find a spot, march the 4 million feet up to the main entrance, check in with the security guy that automatically assumes you will bomb the place unless you bear the neon yellow "Visitor" sticker on your chest, you're down to 11 minutes to spend with your loved one before the billing cycle begins...
They must charge the nurses a freakin' fortune to park, because they all seemed a bit McGrouchy to have a career in helping others...
Nonetheless, $5 well spent at Sinai last night visiting my grandmother :)
Ever notice how two things that are completely unrelated can have so so many similarities. For example, let's fill in the center (similarities) part of a [imaginary] venn diagram titled:
Hospitals and Airports
-Bad food
-Chaos
-Security
-Mixed emotions
-Weird smells
-Miserable employees
and the point of my whole rant...(I'm sure there are more but lets move on)
-Paid parking
That's right. Paid parking at a hospital. Not that a price tag could be put on visiting someone you care about in a hospital...$1 mil? You got it. But really? At least they give you your first 30 minutes free, right? Right. Except by the time you take your ticket, find a spot, march the 4 million feet up to the main entrance, check in with the security guy that automatically assumes you will bomb the place unless you bear the neon yellow "Visitor" sticker on your chest, you're down to 11 minutes to spend with your loved one before the billing cycle begins...
They must charge the nurses a freakin' fortune to park, because they all seemed a bit McGrouchy to have a career in helping others...
Nonetheless, $5 well spent at Sinai last night visiting my grandmother :)
Mommy Dearest
August 9, 2006
If you intend on having children and have a history of anxiety or the inability to let go, please let me make you a suggestion. Either reconsider, or have more than one.
My darling mother, and I say this only with love, is absolutely insane. To start, I moved out of the house 7, count them, 7. years ago (with only a brief return between college graduation and employment) to be on my own. My mom, however, is still empty-nesting after losing me, her one and only offspring, as a roommate.
College Dorm
A memorable day, having to physically remove her from room 314 of Tower A. I am not exaggerating, force was needed to get her out, and a weekly "family" night was instilled to prove to her that Towson was just a zip code away. Its a good thing I turned down UNC and UMass. The mileage on her car would have been astronomical...
First Apartment
She fought the whole "apartment" thing until she was red in the face. I was simply too convincing, and also maybe daddy's little girl (yes, a perk of being an only child), so there was nothing she could do to fight it.
So, my sophomore year in college, I moved into an apartment, and in turn, the "rents" sold the house I grew up in because my mother could not bear the though of having all that space for just the two of them. She said she knew that once I was really on my own (dorm excluded) I would probably never come back. At one point, they even got a dog (my little Jersey) as a bribe for me to move back home. Win-win for me...I got the dog I'd begged for when I was nine, and I never moved home.
Huh. I can't IMAGINE why my overly protective, slightly (euphemism) crazed mother would think that living on my own would make me see the light...
My First House
Again, she battled and lost. Daddy/Daughter duo made the decision sans Mommy. And in January 05, I bought and moved into my first home.
This was a whole new realm of "She's never coming home" for her to deal with. I was gone, and this time, I was financially responsible for my own life. I think this made her realize I meant business.
So anyway, here I am, 7 years later, and you'd think I'd moved to Zimbabwe. I curse the cell phone and thank my lucky stars for caller id, solely because of mommy dearest. Why? Well...
If she calls the house and I don't answer, she'll call my cell phone. She won't leave a message....no. She will, however, continue to go back and forth between lines (so ultimately a phone somewhere is ringing forever) until she decides that I must be dead. During her attempted guilt trips, she tells me that she pictures me in a ditch, kidnapped, or malled by bears. Let's just say she's got a wild imagination.
She's even gone as far as dialing random extensions on my work line to try to find someone who might know where I was. The out of office message she got when she emailed me paired with the lack of return call by 10am might have led a detective to believe that I was home sick, sleeping, or simply taking a mental health day rather than the extremes her "logic" tends to take her.
When I tell her she's a lunatic (I think I used this word most recently when she cried after finally finding me) she says "Would you rather I just didn't care?" Umm, nooo...but ever hear of a compromise...a happy medium if you will? Or how about "Leave a message and I'll call you back!"
But you gotta love a mom that wants you to call to confirm your arrival (based on the pre-submitted itinerary) after a long road trip. Just don't underestimate the power of empty nest syndrome. And strongly consider having none or more than one...
If you intend on having children and have a history of anxiety or the inability to let go, please let me make you a suggestion. Either reconsider, or have more than one.
My darling mother, and I say this only with love, is absolutely insane. To start, I moved out of the house 7, count them, 7. years ago (with only a brief return between college graduation and employment) to be on my own. My mom, however, is still empty-nesting after losing me, her one and only offspring, as a roommate.
College Dorm
A memorable day, having to physically remove her from room 314 of Tower A. I am not exaggerating, force was needed to get her out, and a weekly "family" night was instilled to prove to her that Towson was just a zip code away. Its a good thing I turned down UNC and UMass. The mileage on her car would have been astronomical...
First Apartment
She fought the whole "apartment" thing until she was red in the face. I was simply too convincing, and also maybe daddy's little girl (yes, a perk of being an only child), so there was nothing she could do to fight it.
So, my sophomore year in college, I moved into an apartment, and in turn, the "rents" sold the house I grew up in because my mother could not bear the though of having all that space for just the two of them. She said she knew that once I was really on my own (dorm excluded) I would probably never come back. At one point, they even got a dog (my little Jersey) as a bribe for me to move back home. Win-win for me...I got the dog I'd begged for when I was nine, and I never moved home.
Huh. I can't IMAGINE why my overly protective, slightly (euphemism) crazed mother would think that living on my own would make me see the light...
My First House
Again, she battled and lost. Daddy/Daughter duo made the decision sans Mommy. And in January 05, I bought and moved into my first home.
This was a whole new realm of "She's never coming home" for her to deal with. I was gone, and this time, I was financially responsible for my own life. I think this made her realize I meant business.
So anyway, here I am, 7 years later, and you'd think I'd moved to Zimbabwe. I curse the cell phone and thank my lucky stars for caller id, solely because of mommy dearest. Why? Well...
If she calls the house and I don't answer, she'll call my cell phone. She won't leave a message....no. She will, however, continue to go back and forth between lines (so ultimately a phone somewhere is ringing forever) until she decides that I must be dead. During her attempted guilt trips, she tells me that she pictures me in a ditch, kidnapped, or malled by bears. Let's just say she's got a wild imagination.
She's even gone as far as dialing random extensions on my work line to try to find someone who might know where I was. The out of office message she got when she emailed me paired with the lack of return call by 10am might have led a detective to believe that I was home sick, sleeping, or simply taking a mental health day rather than the extremes her "logic" tends to take her.
When I tell her she's a lunatic (I think I used this word most recently when she cried after finally finding me) she says "Would you rather I just didn't care?" Umm, nooo...but ever hear of a compromise...a happy medium if you will? Or how about "Leave a message and I'll call you back!"
But you gotta love a mom that wants you to call to confirm your arrival (based on the pre-submitted itinerary) after a long road trip. Just don't underestimate the power of empty nest syndrome. And strongly consider having none or more than one...
Just Call Me The Cat Lady...
August 7, 2006
Rumor has it that girl in Owings Mills, MD remains unattached...with only days until her 25th birthday. Read the whole true story below...
Right. So you won't find the rest of the story here. This is just how I picture the lead of my sob story to be written...
I did not realize that being 25 and single was an actual issue. But to my surprise, being single at 25 is a wretched tragedy. Below are 3 ways to recognize that just because you're fine with your independance does not mean the rest of the world is going to take it sitting down...
Family Woes
My grandmother has previously offered to pay for, and even once signed me up against my will, for online dating websites. Don't worry...in time I set her straight and convinced her that this is not the way to meet a future mate. After the last horror story about...we'll call him "X" for privacy purposes, and his sterotypical comments about my Iranian father...I think I've fought my last battle. But this doesn't keep her from cutting out "singles events" from the local newspaper and dropping them discreetly in my bag before I leave her house.
She's also has the tendancy to pass out my phone number to people like her real estate agent and accountant. I thank god or whoever is up there every day that they didn't call. I'm pretty sure my grandmother's genuine but desparate attempt to pimp me out doesn't speak well to those receiving the digits.
An Increase In "the question."
You know, the one where you bump into someone you haven't seen in 473 years, and the first thing they thing to ask is "Have you met anyone yet?" Family's good thanks for asking. House is lovely. My health is on track. Job is perfect. Oh wait, you just want to hear about how I still don't have a boyfriend? I see, thanks so much for caring person that I haven't seen in years and frankly don't care to ever see again. When I was 12, you didn't ask me that. And when I was 18, you didn't seem so worried when I answered "No."
Excess Email Baggage
Then there's good old email. The increase in online dating website offers has been astounding just over the last few weeks. Cupid.com offered me 3 months for the price of 1. Really? And besides...should I be confident in joining a website that thinks it will take 3 months to find me a boyfriend? I continue to be stalked by jdate, match.com, and the ever-so-popular (and provider of "X") eharmony.com. It's even moved on to direct mail, as I know receive strange articles, with live stamps, in mysterious white envelopes about alternate dating services. If this wasn't an exact representation of the work that I do, I would bad mouth all direct mail marketers right now...
A Slug's Life
July 26, 2006
A friend told me that slugs will commit suicide in beer if you tempt them with the smell of it. So, we put a beer under the slug and watched him crawl towards it.
Slugger became paralyzed on his tail end, began moving slowly, and probably, died a very slow death. I couldn't watch anymore, I felt too guilty for making this such a painful ordeal for the little guy.
What do you think? Is karma only a bitch when you kill a slug?
I tortured a slug on Sunday night. In my defense, I don't like slugs, and it was a trespasser on my property. There it was, crawling on down the wall intending to move in and have babies somewhere on my porch.
A friend told me that slugs will commit suicide in beer if you tempt them with the smell of it. So, we put a beer under the slug and watched him crawl towards it.
But, the slug, we'll call him "Slugger", was too smart. He clearly liked the taste of the beer, as he circled around the rim for quite a while, making certain not to miss out on a single taste. My friend actually made the point that slugs must be very good lovers, as they are extremely slow, patient, and thorough in its job.
Anyway, like I said, Slugger was too smart and wouldn't go in the bottle. He came out, and crawled down the bottle...
But realized there was nothing good out there. And so, he went back up for another taste...
But Slugger got bored, and now was slimelly crawling on my table! What was I to do? And so, thinking it would be a quick blow, and the whole nights event would be over with the murder of Slugger (I was only an accomplice), we poured beer ON him.
Slugger became paralyzed on his tail end, began moving slowly, and probably, died a very slow death. I couldn't watch anymore, I felt too guilty for making this such a painful ordeal for the little guy.
Anyway, I'm a little off track here. My point of this whole thing is that I tortured a slug. And now I believe in karma because the next night, while surrounded in citronella candles and an industrial sized bug zapper, I got eaten alive by mosquitos. That's right. Good ol' Slugger sent his woodland creature friends to take me down. I probably have West Nile virus now...you know...because of the karma.
Webster says karma is "the force generated by a person's actions held in Hinduism and Buddhism to perpetuate transmigration and in its ethical consequences to determine the nature of the person's next existence."
But I don't know about this whole karma thing anyway. Nice guys finish last right? So wouldn't that mean the bad guys finish first? If karma really did exist, then cheaters would never win, thieves would never have fortune, and the guilty would never get off.
So I have to ask...is this logical? Does "karma" ring true, and if so, shouldn't we be more careful in the things we do on a day to day basis? Maybe I should have kept Slugger as a pet. Maybe I should be more patient, more generous, more helpful and less whatever those opposites are.
What do you think? Is karma only a bitch when you kill a slug?
Breaking Up Is Hard To Do
July 25, 2006
It's never easy ending a relationship. And its down right scary! After investing so much time in someone, you learn how they do things, you become comfortable in their presence, you become set in their ways. But sometimes (usually. ok, always...) you get in a rut. Things aren't as exciting as they once were. After you've been won over, they stop trying to impress you. The excitement, the creativity, the newness...it all goes out the window.
So here you are, in a textbook relationship, visibly perfectly fine to everyone around you. But there's just something missing. You know it. They know it. The "wow" factor is simply a memory.
And so I've decided to leave...my hair stylist. I've been with Scott for 4 years. And even before him, I knew him, as I used to "be with" his best friend. I've been talking about leaving for a long time now, but I was worried that my urge to be with someone else was just temporary. Should I really walk away from Scott, who's so good to me, but just doesn't, well, do it for me anymore?
Yes. I'm sticking to my guns and taking my own advice. My theory is that once the curiosity of seeing what else is out there, it won't go away until you do. Why wait until things get REALLY bad, until you're furiously unhappy with where you are. At least if I go now, I can remember how great things were, and how peacefully they ended. That's it. I'm moving on to someone else.
I just set it up. It's official. Friday is my first date with Sam. I know, I move fast, but that's how it's done most of the time. Move on from one to the next without a glance back. But it's no big deal. We're starting small with just dinner (haircut) and maybe next time we'll add a movie (highlights.)
That works. We'll start small and see where it goes from there. I can't throw all my eggs into one basket...I mean, why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free? He's got to earn my second date by impressing me on the first.
Like I said, I'm scared. But you can't just accept mediocrity in life. Just because something was once good doesn't mean it lasts forever. You can't change people, and frankly, it never works when you go back. And we all know how easy it is to go back to your comfort zone when your fling is only a fling.
Too Old To Blow?
July 19, 2006
So yesterday was my dad's birthday, and I realized something kind of important. Ok. Maybe not important. But nonetheless I realized something. Or more than realized something, I wondered something.
At what age do you suddenly stop being expected to blow out your age in candles? When does it become "too much." And why is it ever really "too much" when all it ever is is one more candle than last year?
My dad turned 58 (I think.) But there were not 59 candles on the cake. You want to know how many there were? Two. That's right. Two! My mom explained it to me like this...candle #1 was for his total years of age (how does that work!?) and the other (candle #2) was the " 1" for good luck. What?
And why? Is it because candles are expensive when you have to buy several packs? Or are they just too hard to light all at once? Or do you worry about the blower-outer and the humiliation of the year that finally gets the best of them?
It just seems unfair that a 30 year old might be expected to blow out 31 candles while everyone stares you down and laughs when you run out of breath at 22. But then there's the 31 year old at the table next to you at The Olive Garden that night who just might be given the "two candle" option instead.
I'm just saying...I think that we should set an age to instill the easier candle-blow-act so that this is no longer a problem. And I do think this is a problem...it's just one that no one discusses. You're welcome for bringing it to the table...
So yesterday was my dad's birthday, and I realized something kind of important. Ok. Maybe not important. But nonetheless I realized something. Or more than realized something, I wondered something.
At what age do you suddenly stop being expected to blow out your age in candles? When does it become "too much." And why is it ever really "too much" when all it ever is is one more candle than last year?
My dad turned 58 (I think.) But there were not 59 candles on the cake. You want to know how many there were? Two. That's right. Two! My mom explained it to me like this...candle #1 was for his total years of age (how does that work!?) and the other (candle #2) was the " 1" for good luck. What?
And why? Is it because candles are expensive when you have to buy several packs? Or are they just too hard to light all at once? Or do you worry about the blower-outer and the humiliation of the year that finally gets the best of them?
It just seems unfair that a 30 year old might be expected to blow out 31 candles while everyone stares you down and laughs when you run out of breath at 22. But then there's the 31 year old at the table next to you at The Olive Garden that night who just might be given the "two candle" option instead.
I'm just saying...I think that we should set an age to instill the easier candle-blow-act so that this is no longer a problem. And I do think this is a problem...it's just one that no one discusses. You're welcome for bringing it to the table...
"I do." But do you, really?
July 18, 2006
If a couple, after 30 years of marriage, can decide that they want to get divorced, then really...what's the point of marriage in the first place?
I mean here I am, nearly 25 years of age, witnessing my friends tie the knot. And I guess I'm ignorant on the subject, sure, but it just wow's me that so many people are willing to jump in, head first, promising their entire life to someone who, for all they know, could be a completely different person tomorrow, in a year, or apparently, in 30 years.
So if you never really know...why bother? It can't be fun being 60 and having to start over.
Sorry for my cynicism, and possible ignorance on the subject. And to any of you who are married, getting married, planning on getting married, etc., don't take offense. Ok? Great.
If a couple, after 30 years of marriage, can decide that they want to get divorced, then really...what's the point of marriage in the first place?
I mean here I am, nearly 25 years of age, witnessing my friends tie the knot. And I guess I'm ignorant on the subject, sure, but it just wow's me that so many people are willing to jump in, head first, promising their entire life to someone who, for all they know, could be a completely different person tomorrow, in a year, or apparently, in 30 years.
So if you never really know...why bother? It can't be fun being 60 and having to start over.
Sorry for my cynicism, and possible ignorance on the subject. And to any of you who are married, getting married, planning on getting married, etc., don't take offense. Ok? Great.
Bachelorette vs. Bachelor
July 13, 2006
So a coworker of mine brought up an interesting topic during work yesterday. While visiting the "PM" side of the office, you might find some interesting conversation pieces among our desks. For example, Mr. Blue Shoes.
Anyway, Mr. Blue Shoes is our office mascot. He was given to me at a "slumber party" (www.slumberparties.com) and in a previous life, was a phallic pencil topper. I adopted him, and as a prank, started planting him around the office. For example, he's been taped to the telephone mouthpiece, strategically placed on peoples chairs...so you can imagine that it didn't take long for this to become a fun game for us.
Anyway, back to my coworkers comment...he asked what the fascination about penises was for us women. He questioned why, for bachelorette parties, we have phallic cakes, pasta, keychains, hats, pins, cups, etc. and why men don't find it necessary to make "boob" cakes, or eat out of vagina bowls (i actually thought that was a pretty good idea!)
He also made the point that we women can openly place Mr. Blue Shoes in non-conspicuous places without a question, but if he were to bring his soon-to-be invented vagina bowl in to eat his lunchtime soup out of, there is no question that some female coworker would ultimately be offended.
So, I'm interested. I thought I'd compile a list of your comments and responses and put together a nice answer to his question...so again...
Why is it that women acceptedly throw parties and gallivant around town with penis decorations and phallic foods, and men don't find it necessary to decorate with their favorite parts of the female anatomy?
So a coworker of mine brought up an interesting topic during work yesterday. While visiting the "PM" side of the office, you might find some interesting conversation pieces among our desks. For example, Mr. Blue Shoes.
Anyway, Mr. Blue Shoes is our office mascot. He was given to me at a "slumber party" (www.slumberparties.com) and in a previous life, was a phallic pencil topper. I adopted him, and as a prank, started planting him around the office. For example, he's been taped to the telephone mouthpiece, strategically placed on peoples chairs...so you can imagine that it didn't take long for this to become a fun game for us.
Anyway, back to my coworkers comment...he asked what the fascination about penises was for us women. He questioned why, for bachelorette parties, we have phallic cakes, pasta, keychains, hats, pins, cups, etc. and why men don't find it necessary to make "boob" cakes, or eat out of vagina bowls (i actually thought that was a pretty good idea!)
He also made the point that we women can openly place Mr. Blue Shoes in non-conspicuous places without a question, but if he were to bring his soon-to-be invented vagina bowl in to eat his lunchtime soup out of, there is no question that some female coworker would ultimately be offended.
So, I'm interested. I thought I'd compile a list of your comments and responses and put together a nice answer to his question...so again...
Why is it that women acceptedly throw parties and gallivant around town with penis decorations and phallic foods, and men don't find it necessary to decorate with their favorite parts of the female anatomy?
Dreams can come true...
July 11, 2006
Last night, I had a dream about green apples. I wasn't eating the apple. I don't even think I touched the apple. There were just apples. everywhere. And now, I can't stop thinking about green apples. I mean, I don't want to eat one...I don't even like apples. But still...I woke up this morning and immediately remembered dreaming of a green apple. And I don't remember anything else. And now, today, everywhere I look there are green apples. I'm not exaggerating...I've seen 4.
Since I can't figure out why I would have dreamt apples (green ones specifically!), I went to my trusty dream interpreting website (www.dreammoods.com) and here is what I found out. (There was no interpretation for "green apple" so here is the breakdown for "green" followed by "apple"...)
Green: Green signifies a positive change, good health, growth, healing, hope, vigor, vitality, peace, and serenity. Green is also symbolic of your strive to gain recognition and establish your independence. Money, wealth and jealousy are often associated with this color.
Apple: To see apples scattered on the ground in your dream, signifies that false friends are working to deceive and harm you.
I have no idea what all of this means. I'm finally at peace and people are trying to sabotage me? Really? Why though? And who?
Don't underestimate the power of your dreams they say. Who is they? I don't know. But I think I trust "them". So be aware, false friends, that I'm on to you. And, if my "serenity" and "peace" are suddenly interrupted, my dream called it...
Last night, I had a dream about green apples. I wasn't eating the apple. I don't even think I touched the apple. There were just apples. everywhere. And now, I can't stop thinking about green apples. I mean, I don't want to eat one...I don't even like apples. But still...I woke up this morning and immediately remembered dreaming of a green apple. And I don't remember anything else. And now, today, everywhere I look there are green apples. I'm not exaggerating...I've seen 4.
Since I can't figure out why I would have dreamt apples (green ones specifically!), I went to my trusty dream interpreting website (www.dreammoods.com) and here is what I found out. (There was no interpretation for "green apple" so here is the breakdown for "green" followed by "apple"...)
Green: Green signifies a positive change, good health, growth, healing, hope, vigor, vitality, peace, and serenity. Green is also symbolic of your strive to gain recognition and establish your independence. Money, wealth and jealousy are often associated with this color.
Apple: To see apples scattered on the ground in your dream, signifies that false friends are working to deceive and harm you.
I have no idea what all of this means. I'm finally at peace and people are trying to sabotage me? Really? Why though? And who?
Don't underestimate the power of your dreams they say. Who is they? I don't know. But I think I trust "them". So be aware, false friends, that I'm on to you. And, if my "serenity" and "peace" are suddenly interrupted, my dream called it...
Screw The Rules
June 15, 2006
No one tells you when you're buying a house (condo) in a "community" slash "development" that you are actually purchasing a prison cell. The whole house purchase is glorified, and the 9000 paged "association rule book" isn't even presented to you until settlement. It's like not reading the fine print...except in this situation, you don't have a choice. Even luckier for me the big-wig president of said association (although i haven't actually witnessed any "associating" going on) lives right above me. And so, if and when I break a rule, he knows. He's like my watcher. Or my babysitter. Or, in accordance with my prior metaphor, my personal prison guard.
Apparently, in 1912 when these pointless rules were written, people were slightly (euphemism) stereotypical... No pickup trucks to be parked in the common area. No cigarrettes to be smoked in the common area.
Right, because clearly, smokers in pickup trucks are just too dirty for the "ever-so-classy" Owings Mills. But go ahead condo association, stick with your old fashioned rules to block out these "filthy people" but turn off my outdoor water so I can't even wash my porch.
Oh, and did I mention what is considered to be "common area" per binder-o-rules? MY PORCH! So feel free, all you trespassers out there, to come to my house, and hop on over to my porch, because according to Condo Association Rule Book section 473, page 8999, anyone is welcome there. Unless of course you drive a pickup truck. Or smoke...
Are you freaking kidding me!?
No one tells you when you're buying a house (condo) in a "community" slash "development" that you are actually purchasing a prison cell. The whole house purchase is glorified, and the 9000 paged "association rule book" isn't even presented to you until settlement. It's like not reading the fine print...except in this situation, you don't have a choice. Even luckier for me the big-wig president of said association (although i haven't actually witnessed any "associating" going on) lives right above me. And so, if and when I break a rule, he knows. He's like my watcher. Or my babysitter. Or, in accordance with my prior metaphor, my personal prison guard.
Apparently, in 1912 when these pointless rules were written, people were slightly (euphemism) stereotypical... No pickup trucks to be parked in the common area. No cigarrettes to be smoked in the common area.
Right, because clearly, smokers in pickup trucks are just too dirty for the "ever-so-classy" Owings Mills. But go ahead condo association, stick with your old fashioned rules to block out these "filthy people" but turn off my outdoor water so I can't even wash my porch.
Oh, and did I mention what is considered to be "common area" per binder-o-rules? MY PORCH! So feel free, all you trespassers out there, to come to my house, and hop on over to my porch, because according to Condo Association Rule Book section 473, page 8999, anyone is welcome there. Unless of course you drive a pickup truck. Or smoke...
Are you freaking kidding me!?
The Truth Shall Set Me Free...
May 26, 2006
I have a problem. And I didn't even sense it. It must of crept up on me over the last few months, slowly pulling me back in, making it harder and harder for me to get away from.
I thought, by far, I was worse off circa 2001 when I was a real addict, a junkie if you will. But it occured to me last night, for the first time this year, that its back, full force, and perhaps I should consider seeking help?
Sign 1: Chrissy had to hold my hand.
Sign 2: I lept off the couch in uncontrolled hysterics.
Sign 3: When I realized the journey was over, there was longer than a brief moment of sadness, and perhaps, even a tear?
Sign 4: My phone began to ring off the hook.
Conclusion? American freaking Idol is consuming my life.
It started off as a casual, "Oh, maybe I'll watch it this year again." It was followed by 2 nights a week watching with friends, slightly anticipating the results show. We'd created a drinking game for the show, mocking the judges, which really made AI seem only like an excuse to drink. And then, I voted.
Well last night was the finale, and I barely made it through the day at work yesterday without talking about it every 2.5 minutes. I hated Katherine McPhee and everyone knew it. She took the top 2 spot from Chris/Elliott, and should be punished for it. I loved Taylor (the silver fox...SOUL PATROL!) since day 1 (ok fine, maybe day 5...) but was rooting for him all the way...no way was I going to sit back and watch "McPheever" take the title.
The time had come. Seacrest held the results in his hand. My heart was racing so fast I was even a little nauseous. You would have thought it was me standing on the stage, waiting to hear my own destiny. After what seemed like hours, the envelope opened and he said "American Idol Season 5 is......Taylor Hicks!"
I jumped so high off the couch, I almost landed feet first on the coffee table. And I screamed. And continued to jump...until I realized it was over. I sat down on the couch and let the wave of sadness overtake me when I realized...wait! I have to wait like 6 months until the next season? Are you freaking kidding me?
I thought I felt the "cry" developing, but I had to contain myself enough to answer my continuously ringing phone with messages of "Congratulations," again, as if it were me who'd won the competition. Oh yeah, and I also remembered my pre-sale super-seat $100 ticket for the American Idol Live tour I'd purchased just days before...
Do you still wonder why I think I'm sick? At least if McPheever had won, I would have attempted to boycott the show next season...
I have a problem. And I didn't even sense it. It must of crept up on me over the last few months, slowly pulling me back in, making it harder and harder for me to get away from.
I thought, by far, I was worse off circa 2001 when I was a real addict, a junkie if you will. But it occured to me last night, for the first time this year, that its back, full force, and perhaps I should consider seeking help?
Sign 1: Chrissy had to hold my hand.
Sign 2: I lept off the couch in uncontrolled hysterics.
Sign 3: When I realized the journey was over, there was longer than a brief moment of sadness, and perhaps, even a tear?
Sign 4: My phone began to ring off the hook.
Conclusion? American freaking Idol is consuming my life.
It started off as a casual, "Oh, maybe I'll watch it this year again." It was followed by 2 nights a week watching with friends, slightly anticipating the results show. We'd created a drinking game for the show, mocking the judges, which really made AI seem only like an excuse to drink. And then, I voted.
Well last night was the finale, and I barely made it through the day at work yesterday without talking about it every 2.5 minutes. I hated Katherine McPhee and everyone knew it. She took the top 2 spot from Chris/Elliott, and should be punished for it. I loved Taylor (the silver fox...SOUL PATROL!) since day 1 (ok fine, maybe day 5...) but was rooting for him all the way...no way was I going to sit back and watch "McPheever" take the title.
The time had come. Seacrest held the results in his hand. My heart was racing so fast I was even a little nauseous. You would have thought it was me standing on the stage, waiting to hear my own destiny. After what seemed like hours, the envelope opened and he said "American Idol Season 5 is......Taylor Hicks!"
I jumped so high off the couch, I almost landed feet first on the coffee table. And I screamed. And continued to jump...until I realized it was over. I sat down on the couch and let the wave of sadness overtake me when I realized...wait! I have to wait like 6 months until the next season? Are you freaking kidding me?
I thought I felt the "cry" developing, but I had to contain myself enough to answer my continuously ringing phone with messages of "Congratulations," again, as if it were me who'd won the competition. Oh yeah, and I also remembered my pre-sale super-seat $100 ticket for the American Idol Live tour I'd purchased just days before...
Do you still wonder why I think I'm sick? At least if McPheever had won, I would have attempted to boycott the show next season...
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