presents from Christmases past

It's funny to me when I think about how things change as far as what we get for Christmas each year.

I remember one year in particular, I can't recall how old I was, but all I wanted was the McDonald's Happy Meal Magic fry maker and cookie maker. It was part of this whole set of toys that was said to recreate actual McDonald's food (!).

Lo and behold, my wonderful parents (or was it Santa?) bought me both for Christmas that year. My cousin, Nathan, also received part of the set, and we could wait to set up our own makeshift McDonald's in my parents' kitchen.

To say I was disappointed would be an understatement.

I don't know what I was honestly expecting, but imagine my childish surprise upon discovering that the "french-fry maker" didn't make french fries at all. (Maybe I thought that they would package a child's toy that allowed children 6 & up to dip potato strips into hot grease. I don't know.)

Instead, the "french-fry maker" consisted of running a piece of crustless white bread through a shredder of sorts. You were then supposed to sprinkle the "fries" with "seasoning," or a mixture of cinnamon and sugar. Not like fries at all.
But at least they tasted good. Not like the "cookie maker." Talk about disgusting.

The manufacturers of this item, I believe it was Mattell (I'm praying to God neither contained lead paint), thought they could fool innocent young children by including an exact replica of the McDonald's cookies box for the user to store their homemade treats in, therefore making it look more like the real thing.

It sure as hell didn't taste like the real thing.

The so-called "cookies" were made by grinding up a graham cracker, mixing it with water and I think chocolate chips, and then pressing it into the shape of a beloved Mickey D's character.

Water, graham cracker crumbs, and chocolate chips. Yum.

I think there was also a McNugget maker and hamburger maker (I don't even want to know how), a milkshake maker (it used milk and instant pudding...wouldn't that technically be a pudding maker?), and a drink fountain (as simple as it sounds, I believe.) However, after that one Christmas, I became a jaded little third-grader and discontinued my desire for the Happy Meal Magic set. (For those interested, I found a few of the sets up for bid on eBay. Good luck!


Here it is, folks. The McDonald's Happy Meal Magic cookie maker. In all it's glory. I love that they have an example of the graham cracker going through the grinder, and then wow! cookies emerge from below.


The McNugget maker. I can at least understand making cookies from crushed-up grahams, but I really don't know how one might make anything at home that might remotely taste like chicken. This scares me. That albino girl and Asian boy sure don't look taken aback in the least, though.


Then there's the hamburger maker. The girl on the box looks so EXCITED! She literally can't wait to eat that thing that looks eerily like a drop of fecal matter. I kinda wish I would've gotten this one for Christmas because now, my interest is piqued.



Front and back view of the shake maker. I wish I would've read the print on the front: "Make delicious shakes you can drink that look like McDonald's shakes!" Maybe then I would not have been so disappointed.
I also like that they include a checklist on the back of the box for the ingredients.


And the drink fountain. The seller for this item on eBay says this about the product: "McDONALD'S HAPPY MEAL MAGIC DRINK FOUNTAIN. MAKE DELICIOUS THIRST-QUENCHING DRINKS THAT LOOK LIKE McDONALD'S DRINKS!"
Wonderful. Not just any drinks, but "thirst-quenching drinks!" And make drinks that "look" like McDonald's drinks? Why would you want a drink that "looks" like a soda, when you could just pour the soda in? I understand that the novelty is in the fact that it's a dispenser, but seriously? Probably the lamest of all the Happy Meal Magic toys.

I don't have a clever title. That's a first...?

I guess it's totally objective as to what clever is.

They say time flies when you're having fun.

I'll second that.

I will also add that time flies when you had no clue what hell you are going to do with the rest of your life.

I'm graduating in less than four weeks. It's hard to believe that I've been in college for almost four and a half years. They have, however, been the best years of my life. I've met some amazing people and had some great times.

I've been finishing up my internship at The Magazine in The Big City, and it's been awesome. I've loved working here and learning about the magazine industry while working for the largest magazine publisher in the United States.

Which is why this next piece of news is so great: Last week, one of my supervisors informed me that they would like for me to stay on here for another six months as a freelance copy editor.

While the pay won't change, I won't be considered an intern and I will have a more regular schedule. Also, I have some security as far as a job for the next several months while I'm applying for more permanent positions and gaining more valuable experience.

In recent news, I just got back from New Orleans. I want to spend some time trying to write a more detailed blog about my experiences there, but for now I'll just tell you that it was life changing. I had a great time meeting some very interesting stories, and more than once I was moved to tears. There is still so much devastation in that area, and it's been over two years. It breaks my heart. Here are just two pictures of the areas we visited:




What else, what else…

This week is Thanksgiving, which means turkey and dressing – delightful. However, it also means spending time with my family.

Not so delightful.

Ah, just kidding. Somewhat. I love my mom and dad and the like, but sometimes I can't wait to get back my current home so I can go back to "missing" them.

Hope everyone is doing well.

singing in ex-salt-tation

(I transported this in from facebook, so if you read it twice, I'm sorry...then again, you didn't have to read it all.)

I'm sitting here, preparing to eat my less-than-stellar meal de Cafe Waterfall, when I stumble upon something.

I usually have to flavor my food items with some sort of seasoning, such as salt or pepper, as they are typically bland and need some umph.

Whenever I leave the Waterfall Cafe, I usually feel the need to grab a handful of prepackaged salts and peppers. I typically take the leftovers and place them in a Ziploc in my filing cabinet, waiting patiently to be used at a moment's notice.

Today was no different.

However, as I began to season my foods, I was startled as I opened up the pepper packet. There seemed to be literally three flecks in that thing. The salt packet, though, was teeming with little granules, just itching to get out. It went everywhere.

This brings me to my question. Why? Why aren't there equal amounts of each?

I also think of typical salt and pepper shakers: There are three holes for salt, two for pepper. Who decides that?

Being a recent pepper convert, in years past I might've sided with salt supporters. But in my experience, I know more people who appreciate pepper than celebrate salt. Salt is technically worse for you than pepper.

I guess I will just have to continue using 2 parts pepper, one half parts salt.

love and hate

Oh, I love Birmingham.

But sometimes...not so much. It's like a classic love/hate relationship.

I go, and I put all my faith in Birmingham, sing her praises, and then she turns around and makes me wish I'd never laid eyes on her.

This weekend, I had a fabulous dinner with some new friends I've met in the city. All was well. I met a street urchin named Theotis outside said friend's living space, and also a truck driver who sang for our dollars. It was city living at its very finest.

Then I got beaned in the head with a Checkers cup.

In case you were wondering, it was full of ice.

I don't think this little ice rocket was meant for me specifically, just some douchebag who thought he would throw it out his window as he passed all these cool people on the sidewalk. (It made me feel a little like I was on the Real World.)

One nice thing was that this kind man, Theotis, offered to run down the street and beat the shit out of this guy. I politely declined, and told him, no, that's not necessary.

Oh, Birmingham. Sometimes you are good to me, and others...you are a nasty little bitch.

I've been meaning to post a blog that is actually an update for those of you who might have been wondering. All is going well; I really like what I'm doing. I've learned a lot. As I said, for the most part, I really do enjoy living here. Every day is a new adventure. The interstate is now my friend.

And I have met some awesome amazing friends. Working at the magazine, I was afraid I'd been working with a bunch of stuck-up interns who think they're better than me.

Some of them are.

But I quickly weeded out the people I wanted to get to know, and they've proven to all be so, so much fun.

Now the only thing I'm worried about is this:

Where do I go from here?

I'm officially going to graduate in December. All I have to do is finish my internship, take the CBASE and the exit exam, and then walk. It's so exciting, and I've been waiting for this for the past four and a half years. I can't believe it's really almost over. Talk about meeting some amazing people - my JSU memories will forever be the best ones.

But when it is all over, I'm going to have to decide where I want to go and what I want to do. And who will actually have me.

And right now, I think I may want a serious, long-term relationship with my lady, Birmingham.

We will see.

ok, so I have a girl crush

I have become newly obsessed with "Grey's Anatomy" since the last season.

And I bought season three last week, and I'm slowly making my way through, and I have now stumbled upon a discovery.

I have a girl crush on Dr. Callie Torres-O'Malley.



Damn, milk really does do a body good.

oh, snap - this shit just got real!

So...I love "The Real World."

And before you rush to judge me, hear me out.

Those of you that know me, know that I am (or claim to be) a pop culture junkie. I enjoy reality TV (but even I have limits - I won't hesitate to channel flip as soon as "Hogan Knows Best" comes on the VH1), and I indulge in some of my favorite supermarket tabloids.

I enjoy some other shows, some "quality" shows as well. And I read. Literature.

But heaven help me, I love "The Hills" (if you ask me, Audrina is only setting herself up for heartbreak, and Heidi knows that she is a backstabbing bitch), and I don't exactly avert my eyes when I hear Hilary Duff crooning, "cause perfect, doesn't seem so perfect..." telling me that "Newport Beach" is on the telly.

However, I digress.

I love "The Real World."

I used to be a loyal fan for several seasons. Hawaii hooked me, I was nuts for New Orleans, and I was mesmerized by Miami. I've found some of the most recent "Real Worlds" to be a little lackluster. Albeit Brooke was pretty entertaining last season, I just wasn't captivated.

And while there isn't one character (that's right, these perpetuated stereotypes on the show are merely characters to me) that I just love, LOVE, there are several that I enjoy watching. There's Shauvon, the blonde journalist (who can't spell, as Kaitie pointed out in one of her columns they showed on TV she interchanged "your" for "you're" - and unforgivable sin in my book) with magnificent breasts of circus-like proportions; Isaac, the rough-around-the-edges, bad boy turned good guy, skin-head K-Fed lookalike (who is actually really really funny); and my personal fave, Parisa, the gorgeous, smart Persian Muslim who is a little bit curvier than the other girls and hands out her opinions much like the door greeter gives out smiley stickers at walmart ("here you go, here's one for you...").

All that being said, I have found one of the roommates to be an absolute train wreck 20-year-old Texan party girl KellyAnne is so fucking annoying, yet I love to hear the shit that spews from her mouth. She's an idiot, and I can't help but be reminded of a lot of girls I know when I hear her talk. She always supplies the most interesting remarks in every show. My personal favorite from tonight was, "He doesn't know that in high school, my nickname was 'Cock Tease.' More importantly, he doesn't know the real truth - that I am one." She says it with such conviction and sincerity that I simply must believe her.

This is MTV's mini-bio on her:
Twenty-year-old Texan KellyAnne doesn't just show up to the party; she loves to be the center of it, too. She's a self-described tease who craves the attention of men. She's hot and she knows it, which she uses to her advantage. KellyAnne's parents divorced as soon as she graduated high school, and their difficult spilt led to her trouble trusting men. Despite all of the drama that might have come her way, KellyAnne just wants to have fun.

Don't we all, KellyAnne. Don't we all.

KellyAnne's partner in crime is Trisha, a loudmouthed twit from Fresno, California. The two girls decided to room together after first meeting each other and deeming one another "Omigod! Totally cool!" Trisha, along with KellyAnne, has been put in her place by Parisa at least once this season. She once made this intelligent argument: "That's fine, whatever. You want to be a child, and act like you're two, I'll act like I'm one! You need to like, hold on to your friends because you have like, what? Five?" This last statement cause KellyAnne to be truly speechless as she watched the spat like a tennis match.

Another one of my favorite Trisha moments had to be when fuming over Parisa's audacity to challenge her, she asked Isaac, "Do you absolutely hate me? Do you like me?", to which he responded, "I really don't know yet."

Here's what MTV.com had to say about the fun-loving party gal:
Trisha is a sharp-tongued party girl from California who enjoys drinking, flirting, and flaunting herself with the popular crowd. Raised as a devout Christian by her adoptive parents, 19 year-old Trisha greatly values her faith. She recently committed to a serious relationship with her boyfriend, shedding her self-proclaimed "virgin party girl" image. Trisha is talkative and opinionated and will do whatever it takes to make her voice heard.

I'm just wondering...she shed her "virgin party girl image"? Which part did she shed, the partying or the virgin...ing? Is she a whore that loves to stay home and bake cookies and knit sweaters?

There are so many more moments that stand out in my mind, and I know that there is so much left to come, as this Real World is still very young, with a mere four episodes under its belt. But I do know one thing.

I'll be right here on my futon, waiting.

marching to the beat of a different crayola

There are so many things that stick out to me about my school years, especially kindergarten.

I was in Mrs. Barton's class, along with about half of my graduating class. Little did I know, many of the same kids with whom I used to spend hours gluing pencil boxes together and trading crayons would be the same kids I would stand beside as I tossed my graduation cap high into the air outside of Wallace Hall a mere 13 years later.

But I digress.

I remember crawling up into Mrs. Barton's big orange chair, which always seemed to be so much bigger to the 5-year-old me, and reading to all the other kids from my latest library book. Among those selections were such literary classics as One Fish, Two Fish and Stone Soup.

I also remember being Mrs. Barton's special assistant and getting to go on errands and such during naptime while the rest of my juvenile classmates sleep on their plastic fold-out mats, pretending to nap.

I felt invincible.

One of my favorite times, however, was when we were given papers on which I was able to use my favorite things of all – crayons.

I loved to color. One of my most treasured gifts as a kid was this special Crayola turnstile that you could put your crayons on and gently spin when you needed to view the full array of your crayons, all right there at arm's length. It even had a sharpener built in. Perfection.

I remember slapping a kid (I still remember his name, Frankie) in the face because he spun my turnstile around so hard that all the crayons went flying.

He deserved it. And it would have been much worse had the teacher not stopped me. God help Frankie if I ever run into him in a dark alley…

And again, I digress.

One day, the teacher passed out a coloring sheet to all us eager kindergarteners. I was ecstatic. For this was no ordinary coloring sheet…oh no. It had special rules and directions. Kind of like a puzzle.

My specialty.

There were caterpillars on it, I believe. Or maybe ladybugs. Whatever. They were bugs that crawl. The amount of legs makes no difference.

There were rules such as, "Look at these two bugs. (I did.) Color the bug on the left orange, then color the bug on the right blue. (Piece of cake.)"

Moving on.

"There are 10 bugs here. (Duh, I could count.) Pick two colors. (I chose red and green – Christmas colors!). Color seven bugs one color, and color three bugs another color. (Child's play, I said to myself.)"

I set to work. I started first with my green crayon. One green bug…two green bugs…and so on until I had colored seven green bugs…or so I thought.

Being ever methodical and OCD, even as a child, I put my green crayon away, right then. I didn't want to risk losing it, or breaking it, or even worse – having someone steal it. (The worst thing I could do was to let my precious green fall into the grimy, grubby hands of Frankie.)

I set out to coloring my red bugs with my freshly sharpened red crayon. One…two…three…four…wait a minute.

Four?

There were only supposed to be three red bugs.

Apparently I had begun on the seventh green bug, but something distracted me (as usually it did), and I had forgotten to completely color the last of the green bug.
But I had already packed my green crayon away…I didn't want to have to get it back out again.

I looked from the page, to the crayon in my hand, back to the page again.

Eh.

I decided that I would just do what I thought was the most logical thing.

Rather than go through all the trouble of getting out of box and unpacking my green crayon again, I would simply fill in the white spots with my red crayon. It would look nice and complete, and no one would be the wiser. Besides. My teacher would see that I had started coloring it green and merely topped it off with a touch of red. She might even be impressed. And I had stayed inside the lines the whole time. After all, I was the colorer who had won coloring contests at the local K-Mart. I knew what I was doing.

Anyway – I was one of her favorites. Right?

So I did it.

Imagine my shock when the teacher passed our papers back out and I had less than satisfactory marks on my paper.

It took me years before I realized what I had done wrong.

I guess the moral of the story is, don't take shortcuts. Because in the end, you'll only be left with a red-and-green bug and a sad face.

At least, that's what I got.

intense sexual urges

I knew that might get some of your attention...

Okay, so. A new blog is currently in the works. My internship has kept me busy, but I do have an update that is well overdue. Right now, however, I give you with this.

I'm not sure if any of you are familiar with the drug Mirapex. It's used to treat "restless leg syndrome" or "RLS." I remember hearing about RLS in my psychology 101 class, and I'm sure it is a very real thing.

However, when one decides to medicate for something such as this, you have to be wary of many things.

Among those are the side effects a drug may have on a person. And there are no more interesting side effects than those for the drug Mirapex. I recently saw an ad on TV for Mirapex, and I had to take a minute out of my day to sit down and ask myself, "which is worse?"

(The following is taken directly from the website, www.mirapex.com.)

Interesting fact about Mirapex 1:

"Before you take MIRAPEX, be sure to tell your doctor if you have any problems with low blood pressure, dizziness, or becoming light-headed."

Um, yes, I happen to have a problem with becoming light-headed and dizzy. I happen to not like that a lot, unless it is intentionally self-induced. Then again, it does go on to say that you should also tell your doctor if you use alcohol or cigarettes. That's a pretty big portion of the population. However, any time I have used either of the two, light-headedness and dizziness was a desired effect. Taking Mirapex would problem eliminate my need for alcohol or cigarettes, along with getting rid of my RLS. Kill two proverbial birds with one stone, if you will.

Interesting fact about Mirapex 2:

"MIRAPEX may cause you to fall asleep without any warning, even while doing normal daily activities such as driving."

Wait a minute…what? That doesn't seem like side effect to me, it seems like a freakin safety hazard. I imagine that would probably have a severe effect on my daily life, the whole "falling-asleep-while-driving" thing. I just really feel like that would be a deal-breaker for me. I find driving while I'm asleep to be just a tad difficult.

Interesting fact about Mirapex 3:

"There are reports of some people having hallucinations (seeing, hearing, feeling, smelling, or tasting something that does not actually exist) while taking MIRAPEX."

Tingling sensation in the legs, hallucinations…tingling sensation in the legs, tasting things that aren't really there…wow, that's a tough decision. So, if I go on Mirapex, will I also have to go on drugs for my hallucinations? And also…freedom from pain, plus seeing things that aren't really there? This sounds like another "drug" I know of…
And now, the best for last…

Interesting fact about Mirapex 4:

"There have been reports of patients taking…MIRAPEX, that have reported problems with increased sex drive, gambling, and compulsive eating…If you or your family members notice that you are developing unusual behaviors, talk to your doctor."

Whoa, whoa. Whoa. You had me until you got to "compulsive eating." And since when did increased sex drive and gambling become "unusual behaviors"?
I guess you're in trouble in you are on your way to a booty call, a dog track, or a grocery store during the day time, though…you may very well fall asleep in the car.


And now…I present you with the informative Mirapex commercial. It leaves me feeling a little less than Mirapex-tacular. I think I'll just deal with the RLS.



http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NKl8AjyHbeY

a little rain must fall

Last year, I thought I understood loss.

I lost one friend in a terrible car accident that left his fiance badly injured and broken-hearted.

Shortly before that, my best friend from high school lost her husband in a severe and tragic way. She was six months pregnant at the time.

I thought that was the hardest thing I would ever have to do.

Until this past week.

Baby Noah was born on December 14, 2006. A beautiful little boy, he looked just like his daddy - blonde-haired and blue-eyed. he was the apple of his mother's eye, a truly animated and charismatic baby.

These past few days, he had been feeling a little sick, but no one thought it could be anything too serious. However, on Monday morning, his grandmother took him to the pediatricians. The doctors there had him airlifted immediately to Children's Hospital in Birmingham.

It was later found out that he had a tumor on his liver and extensive internal bleeding. Surgeons did the best they could to stop the bleeding, but there was nothing they could do. Noah died on Tuesday afternoon in the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit of Children's Hospital.

He was just 7 months old.

I thought the hardest thing I would ever have to do would be to help my best friend say good-bye to her husband.

Now, tomorrow afternoon, I will be there as she lays her only baby boy to rest.

The only comfort is in knowing that he will finally be able to rest in his daddy's arms.

This is so hard for me to understand. Why does life work in such a terrible, terrible way? Why would life deal her such a cruel twist of fate?

There are not words to express the way she must be feeling. There is nothing I can offer to her. I have nothing inside left to feel.

Go home and tell your mother and father that you love them so very much...squeeze your husband or wife on the arm, appreciate that they are there.

And if you have children...hug them and hold them and love on them like you will never let them go.

You never know when the opportunity to do just that could be torn right out of your grasp.

it was the best. day.

A week or so back, Kaitie and I ventured to the city for a cousin's birthday party. Said cousin was turning 8, and the party was at a place that had laser tag. Needless to say, we did not play.

However, that had little to do with the best day ever.

No, the best day ever occurred at a necessary intermittent stop at the local Wal Mart to grab a bite to eat.

We went the Wal Mart deli, which always seems to have, quite possibly, the best food. After purchasing some chicken tenders and potato wedges, we headed over to the snack bar to dine.

Upon sitting down, I told Kaitie that I would take the quarter that I knew I had in my pocket and purchase a Sam's Choice Diet Cola for us to share. Arriving at the soda machine, I inserted my quarter and was soon disappointed to discover that my change fell all the way down without giving me a chance to make my selection.

Damn it.

I went to the next machine, a Sam's Choice Water machine. Not quite the same when you're expecting soda, but it would have to do. If only I had a dime, I though, since the waters were 35 cents compared to the quarter sodas. I shoved my hands down in my pocket and was pleased to discover that I did, in fact, have a dime! Not only that, but I also had a nickel, too!

I put my money in this machine and heard the satisfying clunk of my change landing to rest on the other change inside the machine and pressed one of the 10 buttons to vend my water.

Unfortunately, every single water was sold out.

Damn it.

Dejected, I went to get my change out of this machine. As I collected my coins, I found a most pleasant surprise: someone had left a dime in the machine! With this and the newfound nickel I had in my other pocket, I would be able to buy a real soda for Kaitie and I to share!

I moseyed (is that the correct spelling for the past tense of the word "mosey"? It just doesn't look right. Anyway. I digress.) over to the name brand soda machine and settled on a Diet Dr Pepper. I hit the vend button, and I held my breath to make sure it would, in fact, vend.

The soda landed with a satisfying thunk. Little did I know, there was another special treat waiting for me.

As I went to retrieve my DDP, I noticed that there was, in fact, not one but TWO (two!) sodas. Someone had - inadvertenly, no doubt - left a Diet Pepsi to sit and wait for some thirsty person like me to come and rescue it.

I practically skipped my way back to Kaitie at the snack bar to tell her my story.

It was the best day.

my sister rocks

I love childhood memories.
And I especially love those memories that are attached to my older sister, Autumn. Having a sister has definitely made growing up so much more fun, although there were many times that I thought I hated her and wished I never had a sister.

But I never meant it. Most of the time. My sister has grown to be my best friend.

When we were kids, we used to ride the bus to school every day. (Up until they rezoned the bus routes and we had to ride Coach Sherrill's bus instead of Ms. Elrod's bus, and we were instantly transformed into 'car riders.') For a long time, we even sat together. As a child, I felt as if she protected me from all the evils on the bus.

And oh, were there evils on the bus.

After a little while, we had assigned seating on the bus. And it was awful. I remember sitting in the back half of the bus while the high school girls used to talk about things that would make my third-grade ears burn. And on those frightening days when my sister was sick or for some reason didn't ride the bus, I had to face it all alone.

Oh, the bus.

But I digress.

Every morning, my sister and I would rise from our bunk beds (which were later disconnected and placed side by side), get dressed, eat a quick breakfest (for Autumn, a raw hot dog; for me, a strawberry Pop-Tart with no icing), grab our lunches and go wait for our bus.

I remember on one fateful morning, around 645 or 700, we were standing, waiting. After a moment or two of pensive thought while staring at the ground, my sister turned to me.

"Look at that rock," she said, pointing to it with her toe. "It looks like a penguin."

I squinted, careful not to drop my fluorescent pink Tupperware lunchbox. "Really?" The rock looked like a teapot to me.

"Yeah," she said, almost daring me to challenge her.

And since she was almost five years my senior and everything she said to me was gospel, I nodded my head. "You are so right."

Not to be left out and desperate for my sister to think I was cool, I quickly scanned the ground and found a rock that was pretty much like all the others, rounded and ovally-shaped, perfectly smooth and protruding from the ground.

"Whoa, look at this one," I said, tapping it with my foot.

Autumn leaned closer, then asked, "Yeah? What is it?"

"It looks like a whale," I said proudly, obviously pleased with my find.

"Which part looks like the whale?" Apparently she was not convinced.

I knelt down and ran my fingers along the smooth, arced surface. "Right here. It looks like a whale's back."

My sister scoffed, and I straightened back up. Then she said, "I know what we should do. We should stand on our rocks every single day while we wait for the bus. And one day, the kids on the bus will start to notice that we stand in the exact same spot every day, and they'll wonder how we do it. No one will know that we have these rocks to hold our places. I'll bet even the bus driver will notice."

When she got finished talking, she smiled and assumed her position on top of her rock, the penguin-slash-teapot. Ever the dutiful little sister, I stood on top of my whale-rock, waiting for the bus to come and take us away.

And so we did, every morning, for the rest of that school year.

I kept waiting and waiting for some one to notice, flashing a knowing smile at my sister as we climbed aboard our yellow chariot.

"How do you two do it," they would ask. "How do you stand in the exact same spot, every single day?"

No one ever did.

too hot to handle

I will never even begin to understand the human instinct.

Why do we do some things, even when we know the outcome may possibly be less than desirable?

As many of you may know (and if you don't, do you even read my blogs?), I work in a restaurant in The Great Little Big City. And I have to say, my sampling of the human race that serves as our restaurant patrons do not give me much hope.

I've had people ask stupid questions, say stupid things, and order things like "hush puppies" and "onion rings" (we have neither).

But there is one thing I have noticed without fail.

However, let me preface this next bit with a little background info (as always).

We have recently installed new glo-rays at work. This now means that our plates, which are normally pretty hot, are now unbearably hot, within just a matter of minutes. I mean, it's almost impossible to leave a plate there for even the amount of time it takes to assemble it and then be able to pick it up again. The glo-rays are good for food temps, bad for fingertips.

Which brings me to my observation.

As I deliver these said piping-hot plates to picky patrons, I always say, "These plates are very, very hot. Do NOT touch them. In fact, it would be in your best interest to just merely eat the food right off the plate, right where it is, unless you want your flesh to melt together in a most horrific way." (Okay, that last part was an embellishment, but that is exactly how hot these plates can get.)

You would think this would be an ample warning.

Oh, no.

People take plates from me, grab them out of my hands, and then utter some curse and proceed to drop it on the table. Oh, golly gee, I wish I would have TOLD you the plate was hot, you fucktard.

Or another reaction, one of my favorites, is when you set the plate down and people automatically feel the need to look to see if you're looking and then grab the plate. I'm sorry, did you think this was a test of strength? I will win, believe me you. Or they give it a quick quarter-turn one way, then another quarter-turn back. What the hell was that? Does that make it taste better? Do you want to shift the food around a bit? Or is it just that necessary that you touch your plate to see if it is hot, then you want everything to think that you had reason to touch it. As you turn your plate, others that so patiently waited and tried to avoid first-degree burns will turn to one another, nod and say, "Oh, yes. He had to turn his plate. It was absolutely essential that he touched his plate."

There are variations of this example of the human instinct.

For example, when you get a taste of something really gross, and you spit out the offending material and then lean to the person next to you and suggest that they take a taste as well.

Or when you smell something really horrible and then try your hardest to contain that smell so that someone else can smell it and back you up on the fact that yes, it does indeed, smell.

But you know what? I'm guilty of it, too. I make the wrong decisions, too, a LOT, and it always seems like I end up getting burned.

Anyway. That's all. Just something I was thinking about.

scraped knees and bruised hearts

Saturday, May 26, 2007
Current mood: contemplative
When you are a child, you think you are invincible. You run around, all willy-nilly, not concerned about bumping your head or falling down and skinning your knees.
But it is inevitable that you will do so. You get hurt, and you begin to cry.
As an adult, I have dealt with children many times - babysitting, church, taking care of friends' children. People always tell you when a kid falls down and hurts themselves, never let them see your initial reaction. Act like everything is okay. Speak in a sweet, soothing voice, and almost practically ignore the fact that they are hurt because if you get upset, they will, too.
But what do you do when the person that is hurting is a grown-up?
There are so many different ways of dealing with pain and loss. We all react in different ways. One of the hardest things to comprehend is how to respond when someone you are very close to is hurting.
One of my very, very dear friends has experienced that kind of loss twice in the past two weeks. Most recently, he lost his roommate and one of his best friends in a devastating car accident this past week, before that it was his grandfather.
When I first found out, I couldn't believe it. It doesn't seem fair that someone should ever have to go through someone like this, but this time it felt particularly unjust. I felt transported back to last fall when Ben was taken away from me in a car accident, leaving his fiance and another one of my good friends in poor physical condition.
I wanted to reach out to him, and I called him, just so that he would know he is on my mind. But then I was faced, once again, with a dilemma.
How do you reach out to someone who is hurting? Do you take them in your arms, like that little child, comfort them with soft words and do your best to take their mind away from what has just transpired?
Or do you sit down with them, let them talk, acknowledged that it all happened, and just commiserate that this really, really sucks?
We aren't children anymore, but it's times like these that I miss that innocence.
My thoughts are with you, good friend. We're here for whatever you want...whether you want to talk or you just want a friend, we are all here, and we love you very much.
No matter what you decide that makes you feel better, there's one thing that remains.
You're not alone.

livin' time and the summer is easy :)

I just wanted to thank everyone that has kept me in their thoughts as I have been waiting patiently to hear back about my internship. Almost two weeks ago, I interviewed at The Magazine in The City for an internship that I have been wanting since I was a senior in high school. My entire college career has been working up to this, really.

I started to get a little discouraged, especially when I found out that they were interviewing 10 and only hiring 2.

However, Friday afternoon I received a phone call from KB with The Magazine informing that they would like to offer me a position....!

I'm so so excited, and I really can't wait to start. But I'd be lying if I were to say that I'm not scared at all about moving to Birmingham or actually doing the work I will be doing or leaving my friends and family at RL in The Great Little Big City.

I'm scared as hell.

But.

That's one of the best parts, the being scared. It leads way to more excitement and the feeling that I'm taking a huge step towards what I would ultimately like to do.Thanks again to everyone for hoping, praying, thinking, wishing, believing, and wanting this for me just as badly as I did. I love you!

you're so fucking money, and you don't even know it

Have you ever felt like you were playing a game with all the wrong rules? Or worse, everyone else is using a different set of rules from you?

That's how I feel sometimes, especially when it comes to life.

To illustrate my point, I'll use an example from recent weeks. I met someone, he got my number, and then he said, "I'll call you tomorrow....nah, I won't call you tomorrow. It'll actually be more like sometime next week."

At first I was a little put off by it, but I soon grew to realize that his honesty made me feel way better than when someone says, "I'll call you," and they never follow through.

This is a touchy subject, I think. I'm reminded of the great scene in Swingers in which Mike gets a number, and then he asks his buddies how long he should wait to call.

Two days, they respond, is industry standard. But then again...three days is really kinda money. When he asks them how long they will wait before they call their beautiful babies, their answers are most unexpected:

"Six days."

Now, I must take a slight time out to be brutally honest here. I will be the first to say that games are wrong, men and women should be honest with one another, let's cut the bullshit and get to the heart of the matter, right?

But.

That being said, I actually like a little mystery. If I like someone, chances are I won't like them nearly as much if they call me right away. I gave my number to someone one time, and he called me not a few hours later. Needless to say, I deleted him right away. I enjoy thinking, "Is he going to call, is he not going to call, did he like me..." et cetera, et cetera.

Is that so wrong?

I'm afraid that my attitude sets women back instead catapulting us forward. But I can't help it; that's how I'm programmed. There is such thing, however, as too much. Six days in my eyes in entirely inappropriate. Who sets the standard? If you get the number on the weekend, do you wait until the next weekend? Is it okay to call the next day if you really, really thought there were sparks?

While we are on the subject of phone etiquette, I've had a few other musings as well. There is an episode of "Sex and the City" in which Carrie gives her number to a man and starts to get worried when several days pass by without him calling. She asks her friends what they think. One man talks about how he met a girl and really liked her, so he didn't call her for about four days. The woman, pissed, says that she waited to call him back for three days, and so it went. My question is, once the lines of communication are opened, what is acceptable?

I've always had the fear of calling too much or too often. But then there have been other times where I've honestly wanted to say fuck it, I have something to say, I want to talk to this person, I'm calling. But I never really know if I'm helping or hurting my case.

For example.

I went out with a guy two summers ago. We had dinner, watched TV; a fun time was had. The next day, I waited for him to call me. He didn't. So I waited again. Still didn't call. Beginning to get frustrated, I actually called him. We talked; things were fine. I think we spoke a few other times but never went out again.

What went wrong?

Many months later, we were chatting. Determined to get to the bottom of this, I brought it up. He said simply, "I thought you didn't like me when you didn't call. I figured when you wanted to see me, you'd let me know."

Damn it. I tried to explain my whole system of not calling when you want to call, and trying not to feel like you're overdoing it, and the complicated rules of the phone call, but he just looked really confused. This threw me off. It was one of the first times (but not the first, just one of the best examples) that I realized we were all playing by different rules.

So I guess the only hard and fast rule is that there are no rules. Everyone is different. Not all women like a little mystery, and not all men are going to call once they get the digits.

But one thing does remain.

If you like someone, there is still that little tingle during the number exchange, and the wondering, "Does he like me? Is he going call?" and "Did she like me? How long should I wait to call?"

At least, that's true for me.

And PS. He did call me...not the next day, or the next day, or even the next day. But he did call.

like dust in the wind

Ok, so I know embarrassment.

I have fallen in public, many many times, notably this past weekend in a very humiliating fashion. I have done a lot of stupid stuff.

But the point is, you never get used to it, and every time something like that happens, I still can't help but feel like an idiot.

Case and point.

I'm at the library right now, the only place I can really rely on for internet, trying to work a project.

As I was walking down the steps this evening, a strong gust of wind blew past me, through my hair, through the leaves, and lastly, through the stack of papers that were tossed all willy-nilly into my shoulder bag.

That's right. All my papers were tossed about, including my previous tests from advanced grammar which I'm using to study for finals. I had no choice but to go after them.

So, as all of the students in the downstairs lobby watched on, I chased my belongings across the front grassy area on the library, trying to coax my papers back to me.

I tried my best to hold my head up high as I walked through the double doors.

Eh, screw it.

second place is the first loser

***This blog is only about me and how I'm feeling, and it is in no way directed to anyone else, and it is not me telling someone how they should be or feel. That is all, thank you.***

I have this theory about second best. I was having a conversation with a friend of mine one time when they said that they were not sure whether or not they wanted to continue dating someone because they felt as if they were not said person's first choice.

I had to stop them right there to say that I feel as if everyone is always someone's second best.

It sounds like an eccentric theory, but I honestly and truly feel as if it is just so.

There are times in our lives when we realized that there is always going to be someone out there who is prettier than you, funnier than you, smarter than you, overall better than you. It doesn't matter what you do, there will always be one person to whom you do not measure up.

Who puts us in second place? Is it that other person that reminds you that they are everything that you are not? I think sometimes I do it to myself. I have these preconceived notions about myself, and I know that I don't stand a chance in some category, and I essentially doom myself at whatever it is that I am concerned with at the moment. I fail before I even begin.

As someone who always feels second best, I strongly believe in my theory.

You won't always get your first choice. I feel as if I may safely say that more than 50 or even 75 percent of the time, you won't get your first choice. You may not even get your second or third. But whatever it is, or rather whoever it is that may happen to be your second choice will always be just that - runner-up.

When it comes to people that you are dealing with, it's tricky. I am very prideful. If there is something I want that is theoretically my "first choice," and I realize that it is not mutual, I don't care what happens, I don't want it anymore. I don't want to be anyone's second fiddle, no matter where it is concerned.

But I have to grow up and realize that it won't always go my way.

That's why I think I automatically put myself in second place. I was going over some past situations in my life during which I thought I was compromising, but it was okay because I was still satisfying myself. But then upon a second glance, I realized that I was the one being compromised, I wasn't first choice or first picked, and then I felt like damn, what the hell was I thinking? (This is hard to explain, but at least I know what I'm talking about, that's all that really matters.)

This past week was Valentines. I've had a Valentine once, in fourth grade, and it was my very best friend to this day. (I love you, Matt, probably more than life itself.) And I've never had one since. I'm okay with that. I think about all the sad time I spent in the past years feeling like I needed someone, more so on that day and time of year than any other. I tried to settle, tried to pretend like it was okay that I was someone's next to the best choice.

But that's not what I want. I want to be first picked. I want to be first place. I don't want to be second best.

Lately, that's just how I feel. Runner-up. Second place. Honorable mention.

What am I trying to say? I don't know. Sometimes there is that strong me, that is fine, cool calm and collected, and there in a pinch.

Then there is the me that struggles to hold it all together, when things are crashing down around me and I can't come up for air. I'm human, just like everyone else, and I can't help but feel alone sometimes. Not just alone, but...empty. Like I come up short, insufficient, inadequate. (I'm a lover of the language, so I'm sure I could go on for days, but you get the point.)

So here I am, awake but not un-tired (I'm plenty exhausted), tossing and turning with different thougts plaguing my mind, rendering me unable to sleep and trying to cope with this empty, bitter, hollow feeling in my chest.

Sometimes I think, what is wrong with me? Then I feel myself answer, what isn't wrong with me. That's no way to feel, but it happens, and it happens to the best of us. I have a lot that I do feel like I'm proud of. But all too often, I feel as though the things that I am pleased with are far outweighed by the things that make me feel the way that I do now.

It all goes back to feeling in second place. No matter how glad you are to be as high up as you are, there is always going to be someone on that next step up. Someone that will always win out. What can you do?

I don't know. If I did, I'd probably be asleep and happy.

***I didn't intend for this to be my invitation to my pity party. I'm not trying to use this to fish for any sort of compliments or sympathy or anything, it's just me expressing how I feel and imparting my theory out to the masses.

don't play, quit actin' celly

I published this article in the Chanticleer, along with my Seussical article. It was originally several thoughts that were supposed to be a blog, but instead I made it into an opinion piece for the paper.

Now hear this...

As someone who uses her cell phone every day, even instead of a house phone, I understand and appreciate the value and importance of a mobile phone. I know that there are some people out there who say that they hate them or wish they'd never gotten theirs, but not me. I love mine; I never leave home without it, and I feel terribly disconnected if I don't have it on me at all times. It is my communication tool, my camera and my watch.

However, I must to stop right here and say that there are certain rules that go along with possessing a cellular phone. Recently I have found myself in several situations in which I want to turn around, rip said miracle invention from a person's ear and smash it on the ground into a million little pieces.

Some places are sacred when it comes to using a cell phone. I happen to think that the library is still one of those places, right up there next to churches and hospitals. (Probably church is first purely because of the God thing.) It still amazes me that people think that their conversation is so contained just because no one can hear the voice on the other end of the line. It's all whispered words and silent glances in the hospitals until someone pulls out their cell phone. "Yep, it's cancer….no, can-cer….yeah, he's gonna die. What? No, I said CANCER. Cancer."

I was simply standing in the library, using the free access to the internet to check my Facebook and MySpace accounts since the cable had yet to be connected at my own dwelling. All was well until the girl behind me started yakking. Apparently her stomach was hurting "real bad," and she wasn't sure if she wanted to go to her history class. She continued on with her conversation at about three decibels above what is even considered normal for an average, everyday inside-voice. And this went on for a while. I mean, a looooong while.

By the time she was finished, I knew that she was debating about whether or not to go to history (because she already knew a lot of that "stuff" - "I mean, it's like, common sense stuff, right?") and that she had eaten some sort of food item that made her stomach go "grrrrrrr." It was all I could do to keep from pulling some sort of antacid tablet out to give to her.

Another time that I felt accurately informed on a state of affairs that probably was none of my business occurred at our local Jacksonville Wal-Mart Supercenter, and the subject matter was little bit more serious. As I stood in line with my 10 items or less, the woman behind me seemed to be either consoling or notifying her phone friend. I picked up on the conversation at this time:

"I mean, it's just so sad, you know? One minute, it's like their mom and stuff, and then the next minute, she's dead. How do you like, recover from that? I mean, she's dead. Dead. Deeeeeeaaaaaaaddddddd."

Okay, maybe the last word was a bit exaggerated. But said woman was dead as a doornail from what I gathered. And it was sad; I also gathered that as well. But it went on, and on, and on. I honestly felt as if she was waiting for me to turn around and ask more about the details or inquire as to what address I could send flowers to, she was so loud. I didn't sign up for this - I just wanted to pay for my Cosmo and my Snickers bar and go home.

But no. As I left, I was then burdened with this dead woman and her three little kids that had to face the fact that "their momma is never, ever comin' home." Thank you, ma'm.

The worst of all the mobile phone devices would quite possibly have to be the Blue Tooth device. I don't know much about it, and I don't have one. But the most startling thing is to be standing next to someone in the grocery store, trying to select a delicious bunch of bananas, when they burst out with, "HEY! What you doin'?" I either think that the person has a spasmodic speech disorder or they are talking to themselves. I'm sure this device comes in handy in the car or around the house, but please limit the use of such implements when traveling out in public. It's just plain weird.

I'm not asking people to discontinue their cell phone use. It's so much more than that. I'm just politely suggesting that mobile phone users exercise a little public awareness and employ a bit of cell phone etiquette. That's all.

delishus

I'm just sitting here, and the television is on.

VH1 is doing their little countdown of videos, and the slammin' new tune "Fergalicious" is on. Sa-weet.

There are many things about this that bother me. First of all, the parts where Will.I.Am. spells out the different adjectives describing The Duchess herself.

He says, "T. To tha A. To tha S-T-E-Y, girl you 'tastey'."

"Tastey" does not "tasty" spell. There is no "E" in the word (except for the one right after the "H" in "the"). Nor is there one in the word "tasty."

Secondly, and this is just a personal thing, "Ferg" is the last name-prefix I would have chosen to be connected to the suffix "-licious." Ferg makes me think of Ferguson which reminds me of the red-headed brother from Clarissa Explains It All.



Now that's Fergalicious.

rock on, granny

I was watching Family Matters today (don't hate) on my break from classes.

As I was preparing myself to enjoy the gentle ethnic humor stylings of Reginald Vel Johnson, I noticed something on the opening credits.

In the her solo shot, Mother Winslow is persuing through a magazine.

That magazine...is Rolling Stone.

Rock on, Mother Winslow. Rock on.