But there are some runners-up. If this doesn't fit or I don't like it, here are some others I like:
What do y'all think?
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
dress success
I think. I need a dress for J's fancy Christmas party. Ok, he didn't say it was fancy, but I feel like it will be. And I want it to be. I mean, there's going to be an open bar! Okawesomeright!?! Anyway, I want an excuse to dress up all nice and feel pretty. I want a new dress, and I think I found it. However, it's only available online, so Imma have to order it and hope it comes in time. Here's a picture of the dress:
But there are some runners-up. If this doesn't fit or I don't like it, here are some others I like:
What do y'all think?
But there are some runners-up. If this doesn't fit or I don't like it, here are some others I like:
What do y'all think?
PSAs from the p-a-s-t
Oh, how I remember all of these...this first one I used to find especially terrifying on Saturday mornings. That was when I used to see a lot of these...
The dad in the next one doesn't look cool enough to smoke weed in front of his kids. At least, enough so that this aspiring drummer would pick up on it. And sheesh, talk about defensive. Easy, junior.
Here's the one that everyone knows—brain on drugs=fried egg. However, it bothers me that he says, "THIS is drugs." It's the whole subject-verb agreement thing, I think. I mean, if the man poured oil into a pan and said "THESE are drugs," I think it'd still sound weird. Maybe if he said "This is an example of an illegal substance."
And hahaha...this next one I SO remember. "I'm not a chicken, you're a turkey!" And I have to agree with one of the commenters on the youtube page: Who would offer pot to a nine year old? Maybe if you smoke weed and then watch TMNT, it'll make more sense. Still, if one of the turtles told ME to stay off the stuff, I know I'd take it seriously.
Re: the below video: Pee Wee Herman is a GREAT role model. I think they use the same "serious" music noise on this one as the swimming pool one. It reminds me of the opening for A Current Affair which can hear here.
This next ad I don't remember personally, but I've seen it before on something else, I believe. I love how the singing pills rhyme "serious," "delirious," "fear of us," and "dangerous." Once the pills start talking to you, it's probably time to lay off the hard candy.
This is just...awful. These people have no rhythm. At all. God, this sucks.
And here...the REAL kids on the block..."walter dos drugs."
But she DID party all night! Who lied?
And now, with all of those, I leave you this, one of my favorite childhood memories regarding anti-drug PSAs. I remember watching this cartoon feature in school every year. Where else can you get Winnie the Pooh talking about smack and crank? Awesome.
The dad in the next one doesn't look cool enough to smoke weed in front of his kids. At least, enough so that this aspiring drummer would pick up on it. And sheesh, talk about defensive. Easy, junior.
Here's the one that everyone knows—brain on drugs=fried egg. However, it bothers me that he says, "THIS is drugs." It's the whole subject-verb agreement thing, I think. I mean, if the man poured oil into a pan and said "THESE are drugs," I think it'd still sound weird. Maybe if he said "This is an example of an illegal substance."
And hahaha...this next one I SO remember. "I'm not a chicken, you're a turkey!" And I have to agree with one of the commenters on the youtube page: Who would offer pot to a nine year old? Maybe if you smoke weed and then watch TMNT, it'll make more sense. Still, if one of the turtles told ME to stay off the stuff, I know I'd take it seriously.
Re: the below video: Pee Wee Herman is a GREAT role model. I think they use the same "serious" music noise on this one as the swimming pool one. It reminds me of the opening for A Current Affair which can hear here.
This next ad I don't remember personally, but I've seen it before on something else, I believe. I love how the singing pills rhyme "serious," "delirious," "fear of us," and "dangerous." Once the pills start talking to you, it's probably time to lay off the hard candy.
This is just...awful. These people have no rhythm. At all. God, this sucks.
And here...the REAL kids on the block..."walter dos drugs."
But she DID party all night! Who lied?
And now, with all of those, I leave you this, one of my favorite childhood memories regarding anti-drug PSAs. I remember watching this cartoon feature in school every year. Where else can you get Winnie the Pooh talking about smack and crank? Awesome.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
step inside
I’m so tired of worrying and feeling like I’m never going to be quite the person I want to be.
Ever since I was younger, I felt like I had my idea of what I wanted to do and be. When I was in high school, I was editor of the yearbook and frequently contributed small editorials to our little newspaper. My teachers praised me as a good writer and a “very intelligent girl.” I did well in school. Graduated with top honors. Scholarships.
When I went to college and attended some of my first honors, I was in for such a rude awakening. My first honors English Comp paper came back to me with a letter I’d not been familiar with. After some talking with my teacher and some serious relearning, I got better. My papers got better. I was praised once again by teachers I revered and respected.
About halfway into my college career, I worked up the nerve to go down to the school newspaper office and say, “I want to write.” I got my first assignment, something simple. I went on to write several more things for the paper. I wrote several stories for reporting and writing classes. One of my in-depth assignments won me an award. My teachers again showered with me with wonderful words and encouraged me to pursue what I thought I wanted—to be a writer. In my mind, I became convinced that my skill was with the editing aspect of things, though I still wanted to consider myself a writer. My senior year I served as copy editor for the paper. I enjoyed editing stories for content and grammar, making my marks and cleaning things up. Classmates would ask me to look over their papers, and I did so gleefully. I enjoyed writing, but there were so many times that I would just freeze and I felt like the right words would never come. I felt more comfortable in hacking apart what someone else had put together.
My dream internship was always to work at Southern Living. I wanted to work with the copy editors, learn more about the business, and really hone my skills. However, I soon became very conflicted as to whether or not this was what I wanted. Even worse, when I became mixed in with all the other interns from around the country, I couldn’t help but feel cheated. All the others (mostly girls) had already completed several internships. They came from bigger schools that had a better focus on journalism and other specialized areas, which didn’t hold up well next my communication degree with a focus in print journalism. Even worse, I felt jealousy pangs for something else that all the other girls had that I didn’t—drive. Determination. Go-getter-ness. Nearing the end of my internship, the others had all had writing assignments, interviews, job opportunities. I had nothing. I had no confidence, no skills, and no interviews.
Fast-forward to now. I got a job, but not exactly doing what I wanted. I feel lost. I feel like the world is moving so fast around me and there’s nothing I can do about it. I don’t feel like an inspired writer, I don’t think I’m good enough to really do anything, and I just sit in my little pit of despair, wishing I was any of my other friends who have all the abilities I only thought I once had. I’ve had one or two other writing assignments outside of work, but it seems that no matter what I do, it’s never as good as all my other friends who are out there living the dream I always had. I feel like I’ll never be good enough to go places. I don’t have the experience I should have already gotten by now. I’m too scared to go after anything. I wait forever to do assignments because I psych myself out and think I just can’t do it. My biggest fear: I’ll never be the person I always wanted to be. I think too much, too far in the future, and I give myself a headache stressing about things that haven’t even happened yet. I wallow in a cloud of “what-if” and I can’t seem to make any sense out of anything I do. I don’t know enough. I don’t comprehend well. I don’t, I can’t, I won’t. I can’t get these contractions out of my vocabulary. My mind is moving too fast. My head feels full. I just want to live one day without feeling the weight of my own world on my shoulders. I’m tired. I want to be inspired. I want to be talented. I want to be motivated. I want experience. I want, I want, I want. Nothing I ever do is good enough. The worst feeling in the world is too be so proud of something you’ve done only to realize you were all wrong all along.
I wish I had the experiences my friends have had. Work experience, life experience. I wish I had their talents. I wish I had their skills. I wish I had their opportunities. I wish I were a better writer. I wish I was the Summer I always wanted to grow up to be, the Summer my parents always thought I would be, the Summer that all my old friends think that I’m busy becoming. I want to move. I want to get out. I wish I had the prestige and the importance that goes along with the phrase “I work in publishing.” I don't read enough of the right books. I don't know the right authors. I don't quote the right people. I don't know enough about history or politics. I don't know how to state my opinions. I don't quote the right song lyrics. I don't listen to the right music. I don't know enough about current affairs. I don't even know if I could tell you where India is on a map.
I feel like I’m stuck in a place of always saying I’m going to do this or that and saying it and thinking it so much that I feel like I’ve actually done it, which provides me with the only sense of accomplishment I have. I need motivation. I want to want to do things. I hate always wanting to go to sleep, because that’s the only time I don’t feel like I have to worry about my next move, my next step, my next day of continuing to remain in the same place.
I feel lost.
Ever since I was younger, I felt like I had my idea of what I wanted to do and be. When I was in high school, I was editor of the yearbook and frequently contributed small editorials to our little newspaper. My teachers praised me as a good writer and a “very intelligent girl.” I did well in school. Graduated with top honors. Scholarships.
When I went to college and attended some of my first honors, I was in for such a rude awakening. My first honors English Comp paper came back to me with a letter I’d not been familiar with. After some talking with my teacher and some serious relearning, I got better. My papers got better. I was praised once again by teachers I revered and respected.
About halfway into my college career, I worked up the nerve to go down to the school newspaper office and say, “I want to write.” I got my first assignment, something simple. I went on to write several more things for the paper. I wrote several stories for reporting and writing classes. One of my in-depth assignments won me an award. My teachers again showered with me with wonderful words and encouraged me to pursue what I thought I wanted—to be a writer. In my mind, I became convinced that my skill was with the editing aspect of things, though I still wanted to consider myself a writer. My senior year I served as copy editor for the paper. I enjoyed editing stories for content and grammar, making my marks and cleaning things up. Classmates would ask me to look over their papers, and I did so gleefully. I enjoyed writing, but there were so many times that I would just freeze and I felt like the right words would never come. I felt more comfortable in hacking apart what someone else had put together.
My dream internship was always to work at Southern Living. I wanted to work with the copy editors, learn more about the business, and really hone my skills. However, I soon became very conflicted as to whether or not this was what I wanted. Even worse, when I became mixed in with all the other interns from around the country, I couldn’t help but feel cheated. All the others (mostly girls) had already completed several internships. They came from bigger schools that had a better focus on journalism and other specialized areas, which didn’t hold up well next my communication degree with a focus in print journalism. Even worse, I felt jealousy pangs for something else that all the other girls had that I didn’t—drive. Determination. Go-getter-ness. Nearing the end of my internship, the others had all had writing assignments, interviews, job opportunities. I had nothing. I had no confidence, no skills, and no interviews.
Fast-forward to now. I got a job, but not exactly doing what I wanted. I feel lost. I feel like the world is moving so fast around me and there’s nothing I can do about it. I don’t feel like an inspired writer, I don’t think I’m good enough to really do anything, and I just sit in my little pit of despair, wishing I was any of my other friends who have all the abilities I only thought I once had. I’ve had one or two other writing assignments outside of work, but it seems that no matter what I do, it’s never as good as all my other friends who are out there living the dream I always had. I feel like I’ll never be good enough to go places. I don’t have the experience I should have already gotten by now. I’m too scared to go after anything. I wait forever to do assignments because I psych myself out and think I just can’t do it. My biggest fear: I’ll never be the person I always wanted to be. I think too much, too far in the future, and I give myself a headache stressing about things that haven’t even happened yet. I wallow in a cloud of “what-if” and I can’t seem to make any sense out of anything I do. I don’t know enough. I don’t comprehend well. I don’t, I can’t, I won’t. I can’t get these contractions out of my vocabulary. My mind is moving too fast. My head feels full. I just want to live one day without feeling the weight of my own world on my shoulders. I’m tired. I want to be inspired. I want to be talented. I want to be motivated. I want experience. I want, I want, I want. Nothing I ever do is good enough. The worst feeling in the world is too be so proud of something you’ve done only to realize you were all wrong all along.
I wish I had the experiences my friends have had. Work experience, life experience. I wish I had their talents. I wish I had their skills. I wish I had their opportunities. I wish I were a better writer. I wish I was the Summer I always wanted to grow up to be, the Summer my parents always thought I would be, the Summer that all my old friends think that I’m busy becoming. I want to move. I want to get out. I wish I had the prestige and the importance that goes along with the phrase “I work in publishing.” I don't read enough of the right books. I don't know the right authors. I don't quote the right people. I don't know enough about history or politics. I don't know how to state my opinions. I don't quote the right song lyrics. I don't listen to the right music. I don't know enough about current affairs. I don't even know if I could tell you where India is on a map.
I feel like I’m stuck in a place of always saying I’m going to do this or that and saying it and thinking it so much that I feel like I’ve actually done it, which provides me with the only sense of accomplishment I have. I need motivation. I want to want to do things. I hate always wanting to go to sleep, because that’s the only time I don’t feel like I have to worry about my next move, my next step, my next day of continuing to remain in the same place.
I feel lost.
Friday, October 24, 2008
Nancy Drew and the Case of the Missing Peanut Butter
I love peanut butter. I do. I like it on sandwiches, on toast, on crackers, with pretzels...it's so good. About a month ago, my dad came to visit me here in Bham. After we had dinner, he took me to buy some groceries. When we passed the pb aisle, I decided to go ahead and pick up a jar since I was about 1/4 of the way from being done with my current canister of deliciousness.
The next day, I decided I want a pb half sandwich, or a "bend it back," as an old roommate and dear friend of mine refers to them. I went for the peanut butter, and I just couldn't resist opening that brand-new jar. For the next few days, I continued to dip from both jars, even though I knew I should just use the old one until it was gone.
One day, I went to get the newest peanut butter, only to realize that it was nowhere to be found. I looked everywhere. All over the cabinets, the kitchen, even the den and living room. I questioned Dave underneath a hot lamp, but he gave me no useful information. Where was the peanut butter? I demanded to know.
I begrudgingly used the rest of my other peanut butter until it was gone. Then I had none. I wanted a pb sammie sooooo bad, but I had none. And I couldn't justify buying more when I knew there was an almost full jar...somewhere.
Last night I caved. I had just gotten paid, and I rationalized that if the other one turned up, I wouldn't have to buy any for a while.
As I was putting up groceries, I went to move the the bread machine that was on my counter, blocking the bottom cabinet. Let me just say that I looked in these cabinets, though I never completely moved the bread machine. As I went to pick it up, I was met with a sight for sore eyes: My peanut butter had fallen, just lying on the counter behind the bread maker, waiting for me to come and rescue it from the dark prison it had been for at least a week.
Why is it that you only find things like that (well, not necessarily food things, but other personal items) until you've given up on them and decided to find a replacement? Now I have two jars of peanut butter again.
Note: I realized throughout the course of this blog I referred to my "jar" of peanut butter, and that's what everyone calls it, unless you use the Southern "a thing of peanut butter;" however, this pb is in a plastic container. What do you call that? I think I said canister earlier, but that doesn't feel right. Plastic jar? Or does jar always denote being made of glass? Hmmm....
The next day, I decided I want a pb half sandwich, or a "bend it back," as an old roommate and dear friend of mine refers to them. I went for the peanut butter, and I just couldn't resist opening that brand-new jar. For the next few days, I continued to dip from both jars, even though I knew I should just use the old one until it was gone.
One day, I went to get the newest peanut butter, only to realize that it was nowhere to be found. I looked everywhere. All over the cabinets, the kitchen, even the den and living room. I questioned Dave underneath a hot lamp, but he gave me no useful information. Where was the peanut butter? I demanded to know.
I begrudgingly used the rest of my other peanut butter until it was gone. Then I had none. I wanted a pb sammie sooooo bad, but I had none. And I couldn't justify buying more when I knew there was an almost full jar...somewhere.
Last night I caved. I had just gotten paid, and I rationalized that if the other one turned up, I wouldn't have to buy any for a while.
As I was putting up groceries, I went to move the the bread machine that was on my counter, blocking the bottom cabinet. Let me just say that I looked in these cabinets, though I never completely moved the bread machine. As I went to pick it up, I was met with a sight for sore eyes: My peanut butter had fallen, just lying on the counter behind the bread maker, waiting for me to come and rescue it from the dark prison it had been for at least a week.
Why is it that you only find things like that (well, not necessarily food things, but other personal items) until you've given up on them and decided to find a replacement? Now I have two jars of peanut butter again.
Note: I realized throughout the course of this blog I referred to my "jar" of peanut butter, and that's what everyone calls it, unless you use the Southern "a thing of peanut butter;" however, this pb is in a plastic container. What do you call that? I think I said canister earlier, but that doesn't feel right. Plastic jar? Or does jar always denote being made of glass? Hmmm....
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Protester Parkway
Right now I’m browsing apartments here in Bham because I’m not terribly satisfied with the place I’m living in now. I mean, I like it, but due to some extenuating circumstances, I’m a little perturbed with my current dwellings.
I started with a simple Internet search in the surrounding area. I’d like something that is close to work, fairly affordable, with washer/dryer connects, preferably a dishwasher, and that accepts pets. The dishwasher, though, is negotiable. I found several that could possibly work, wrote down the address, Googlemapped it up, and then printed the directions out so I could peruse these apartments after work.
I found most of them fairly easily, though there were one or two that gave me a little trouble. Anyway, I finally found the one that had evaded me for the better part of about half an hour. It was in a good spot, affordable (cheaper than I’m paying now), and had a laundry facility on site. Looked okay to me.
However, I started driving down the street and noticed several people dotting the street side all the way back down to the main road. They were holding signs, I noticed. I squinted as I got closer to read what they said:
“Pray to end abortion!” and “Abortion is murder!” and “All babies want to get borned!”
Okay, that last one was made up. But seriously, it was like a scene straight out of Juno. These people stared at me as I cruised by, a confuzzled look on my face. They pointed their signs at me and even moved as I moved. There more signs, but I couldn’t quite read them all. There might’ve even been a McCain/Palin sign or two in there.
My confusion was met with realization as I approached the end of the street. The business on the corner sparked it all—Planned Parenthood of Birmingham.
Excellent. I think I’ve pretty much marked that one off the list. It didn’t even have a dishwasher anyway. They should put that information on the Web site: “Rent, $500. Roadside morality lessons, free!”
I started with a simple Internet search in the surrounding area. I’d like something that is close to work, fairly affordable, with washer/dryer connects, preferably a dishwasher, and that accepts pets. The dishwasher, though, is negotiable. I found several that could possibly work, wrote down the address, Googlemapped it up, and then printed the directions out so I could peruse these apartments after work.
I found most of them fairly easily, though there were one or two that gave me a little trouble. Anyway, I finally found the one that had evaded me for the better part of about half an hour. It was in a good spot, affordable (cheaper than I’m paying now), and had a laundry facility on site. Looked okay to me.
However, I started driving down the street and noticed several people dotting the street side all the way back down to the main road. They were holding signs, I noticed. I squinted as I got closer to read what they said:
“Pray to end abortion!” and “Abortion is murder!” and “All babies want to get borned!”
Okay, that last one was made up. But seriously, it was like a scene straight out of Juno. These people stared at me as I cruised by, a confuzzled look on my face. They pointed their signs at me and even moved as I moved. There more signs, but I couldn’t quite read them all. There might’ve even been a McCain/Palin sign or two in there.
My confusion was met with realization as I approached the end of the street. The business on the corner sparked it all—Planned Parenthood of Birmingham.
Excellent. I think I’ve pretty much marked that one off the list. It didn’t even have a dishwasher anyway. They should put that information on the Web site: “Rent, $500. Roadside morality lessons, free!”
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Bathroom Brouhaha
So I work in this old historic building. We share it with another company. And while we remain fairly separate, there is one element in which we are all forced together: the bathroom.
While the bathroom has been the source of a few stories for me before, I think this story is on a different plain.
I will preface this story by saying this: When I’m in the bathroom, that is MY time. Time for me. Not only to do what I’ve gotta do, but also to reflect and enjoy one or two precious moments of silence and savor the time that I do not have to talk or interact with anyone else. I’m not ashamed (okay, maybe a little) to admit that I like to wait until everyone else has left the bathroom before I will emerge from my stall. I hope to avoid those awkward conversations at the sink where you feel the need to say things like “Morning” or “Brr! Sure is a cold one today, eh?” These are only slightly worse than those pre-stall meetings where you see someone you DO indeed work with, and they feel the need to talk to you as you conduct business (see stall talkers).
Anyway. The women at the other office here are a little…how can I say this…snooty. There are several attractive younger women and a few older women, and I always feel as if they look at me with such disdain when I’m entering the bathroom. Which is funny, considering I know what everyone goes into said room to do, and no matter how great and wonderful they think they are, they are not above (for lack of a better way to put it) going number two. They have a large set of drawers alongside the wall in the vestibule type area of the bathroom, each of which is labeled with their names (yeah, I looked. Sue me.) in which they can put personal effects. And there is one thing it seems they all have—a toothbrush.
I don’t know this because I looked in every drawer, but instead I know this because they are always. Brushing. Their. Teeth. Always. I ‘m not sure if they all have really bad teeth or if they are all just that concerned with good oral hygiene.
Again, I digress. Excessive brushing is not at the heart of the story, though the bathroom behavior of my neighbors is. Just this morning, I was in the bathroom, minding myself and reveling in the silence that had settled in. I hear someone walk in. However, this person does not go to a stall. I hear her rummaging around in the drawers. Then she goes over to the sink to settle in. I sigh, knowing she won’t be leaving any time soon. Little did I know that this lady in the loo would be taking commandeering the commode (oh, yeah. Check that alliteration.) to a whole new level.
As I exit the roomy handicapped stall that I am so fond of, I see that this woman (yes, woman, older, gray hair, so-so appearance) is not only brushing her teeth, but there is a makeup bag with various products strewn about on the counter and she has plugged up a curling iron. It was 1130! And yes, I said woman. She was older than my mother, but concerned enough that her dark silvery locks didn’t have that voluminous bounce as did the youngsters in her office. So concerned that she felt the need to curl her hair in the community bathroom, even though we were well into our 8-hour workday. I mean really.
Have any of you ever encountered something…strange in the bathroom?
While the bathroom has been the source of a few stories for me before, I think this story is on a different plain.
I will preface this story by saying this: When I’m in the bathroom, that is MY time. Time for me. Not only to do what I’ve gotta do, but also to reflect and enjoy one or two precious moments of silence and savor the time that I do not have to talk or interact with anyone else. I’m not ashamed (okay, maybe a little) to admit that I like to wait until everyone else has left the bathroom before I will emerge from my stall. I hope to avoid those awkward conversations at the sink where you feel the need to say things like “Morning” or “Brr! Sure is a cold one today, eh?” These are only slightly worse than those pre-stall meetings where you see someone you DO indeed work with, and they feel the need to talk to you as you conduct business (see stall talkers).
Anyway. The women at the other office here are a little…how can I say this…snooty. There are several attractive younger women and a few older women, and I always feel as if they look at me with such disdain when I’m entering the bathroom. Which is funny, considering I know what everyone goes into said room to do, and no matter how great and wonderful they think they are, they are not above (for lack of a better way to put it) going number two. They have a large set of drawers alongside the wall in the vestibule type area of the bathroom, each of which is labeled with their names (yeah, I looked. Sue me.) in which they can put personal effects. And there is one thing it seems they all have—a toothbrush.
I don’t know this because I looked in every drawer, but instead I know this because they are always. Brushing. Their. Teeth. Always. I ‘m not sure if they all have really bad teeth or if they are all just that concerned with good oral hygiene.
Again, I digress. Excessive brushing is not at the heart of the story, though the bathroom behavior of my neighbors is. Just this morning, I was in the bathroom, minding myself and reveling in the silence that had settled in. I hear someone walk in. However, this person does not go to a stall. I hear her rummaging around in the drawers. Then she goes over to the sink to settle in. I sigh, knowing she won’t be leaving any time soon. Little did I know that this lady in the loo would be taking commandeering the commode (oh, yeah. Check that alliteration.) to a whole new level.
As I exit the roomy handicapped stall that I am so fond of, I see that this woman (yes, woman, older, gray hair, so-so appearance) is not only brushing her teeth, but there is a makeup bag with various products strewn about on the counter and she has plugged up a curling iron. It was 1130! And yes, I said woman. She was older than my mother, but concerned enough that her dark silvery locks didn’t have that voluminous bounce as did the youngsters in her office. So concerned that she felt the need to curl her hair in the community bathroom, even though we were well into our 8-hour workday. I mean really.
Have any of you ever encountered something…strange in the bathroom?
Friday, October 17, 2008
style and glass
Last night I was over at a friend’s house to watch The Office and enjoy some delicious German-inspired cuisine. We had bratwursts, sauerbraten, ginger cookies, and my contribution, soft pretzels.
The soft pretzels were fairly easy to make, but there was just a lot of rising and kneading time. It was about 2 hours later after I started that we were able to enjoy these buttery and delicious treats. They were a little bit of a pain to roll; it was difficult getting them thin enough and long enough to twist into pretzel shapes. But with the aid of Craig’s cutting board and countertop, I made it happen.
Fast-forward a little bit. We’ve all enjoyed our food, and are saying our goodbyes. I had made one last pretzel with the remaining dough and decided to take it home with me. Once I arrived at my apartment, I began putting things away. But there that pretzel was. Taunting me in its little Ziploc bag. I was considering waiting and just taking it to work with me in the morning, but….I couldn’t.
I reached into the bag and tore off a chunk and proceeded to it. Yum! I did a few more things around the apartment, promising myself that I’d just take the rest of my treat to work in the morning.
Easier said than done.
I went back and helped myself to another piece. So, here I am, nomming away at this yummy pretzel, when suddenly…CRUNCH.
Something was not right.
I had bitten down into something…crunchy. Thinking it was just a clump of sugar or something from the dough, I bit down again.
CRUNCH.
Ok, this was weird. I spit out the chewed-up pretzel piece and began to examine it. That’s when I saw what made the CRUNCH:
A piece of glass.
That’s right, glass. I have no clue how it got in there or what it wanted with me, but there was glass in my doughy delight. Needless to say, I did not finish the rest of the pretzel, though I did examine it further for any more intruders. Maybe I should’ve bitten into the glass sooner. Oh, well.
Anyone else have any other weird stories about food surprises?
The soft pretzels were fairly easy to make, but there was just a lot of rising and kneading time. It was about 2 hours later after I started that we were able to enjoy these buttery and delicious treats. They were a little bit of a pain to roll; it was difficult getting them thin enough and long enough to twist into pretzel shapes. But with the aid of Craig’s cutting board and countertop, I made it happen.
Fast-forward a little bit. We’ve all enjoyed our food, and are saying our goodbyes. I had made one last pretzel with the remaining dough and decided to take it home with me. Once I arrived at my apartment, I began putting things away. But there that pretzel was. Taunting me in its little Ziploc bag. I was considering waiting and just taking it to work with me in the morning, but….I couldn’t.
I reached into the bag and tore off a chunk and proceeded to it. Yum! I did a few more things around the apartment, promising myself that I’d just take the rest of my treat to work in the morning.
Easier said than done.
I went back and helped myself to another piece. So, here I am, nomming away at this yummy pretzel, when suddenly…CRUNCH.
Something was not right.
I had bitten down into something…crunchy. Thinking it was just a clump of sugar or something from the dough, I bit down again.
CRUNCH.
Ok, this was weird. I spit out the chewed-up pretzel piece and began to examine it. That’s when I saw what made the CRUNCH:
A piece of glass.
That’s right, glass. I have no clue how it got in there or what it wanted with me, but there was glass in my doughy delight. Needless to say, I did not finish the rest of the pretzel, though I did examine it further for any more intruders. Maybe I should’ve bitten into the glass sooner. Oh, well.
Anyone else have any other weird stories about food surprises?
Saturday, October 4, 2008
how nice.
So, my mom asked me about my blog site the other day. Bless her heart, she's adorable. Anyway, I gave it to her, and then later on, I get a text from another family member asking for the address, too. Yay, readers! But it gets better. My mom (who works at a bank) was talking to one of my favorite English teachers from high school, and mother told her what I was doing, and about my "Web site." (She doesn't realize it's just a blog site.) The teacher asked for the address, and my mom gave it to her, but noted that sometimes my language is..."colorful." Meh. Anyway...it's nice to know or at least pretend there are people reading my stuffs ;)
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
what if I stumble, what if I fall...
So, get this. I went home over lunch to try and clean up around my apartment. My dad is coming to visit, and I know how he'll complain if my dwelling is as messy as it has been lately. Everything's going well, and I decide to take out the trash before I leave.
The way my building is set up is that it is one big building containing 8 units. the dumpster is off to the left side, which kinda sucks and makes me want to take the trash out less often than is required. It's also kinda sketch over there. But I digress.
I was walking down the sidewalk over to the bare area where the dumpster is, carrying my box o trash and minding my own, when suddenly, I lose my step.
Now, I don't know who is to blame—my balance, my box-packing skills, my ability to walk and do other things at the same time, gravity, or the stupidfuckingsidewalk.
I've decided to go with the stupidfuckingsidewalk.
Where was I? Oh yeah. I lose my step, along with my balance. My trash box hit the ground, peppering the ground with my trash bits. I hit the stupidfuckingsidewalk with my hand, but not before I braced myself with my right knee, which took the brunt of the fall. It was awful. I also expelled my frustration by making several grunt-like whimpering noises and eventually, crying.
I tore my knee up, and my big toe on my right foot got it pretty bad: The sidewalk (excuse me, the stupidfuckingsidewalk) + the force with which I fell tore the skin away from my toenail leaving me with a giant gaping hole at the top of my toe. Which hurts. It's as bad as it sounds.
The mailman saw the whole thing.
I proceeded the only way I knew how: I cried a little to myself and felt sorry for me, and then I called my mother.
The way my building is set up is that it is one big building containing 8 units. the dumpster is off to the left side, which kinda sucks and makes me want to take the trash out less often than is required. It's also kinda sketch over there. But I digress.
I was walking down the sidewalk over to the bare area where the dumpster is, carrying my box o trash and minding my own, when suddenly, I lose my step.
Now, I don't know who is to blame—my balance, my box-packing skills, my ability to walk and do other things at the same time, gravity, or the stupidfuckingsidewalk.
I've decided to go with the stupidfuckingsidewalk.
Where was I? Oh yeah. I lose my step, along with my balance. My trash box hit the ground, peppering the ground with my trash bits. I hit the stupidfuckingsidewalk with my hand, but not before I braced myself with my right knee, which took the brunt of the fall. It was awful. I also expelled my frustration by making several grunt-like whimpering noises and eventually, crying.
I tore my knee up, and my big toe on my right foot got it pretty bad: The sidewalk (excuse me, the stupidfuckingsidewalk) + the force with which I fell tore the skin away from my toenail leaving me with a giant gaping hole at the top of my toe. Which hurts. It's as bad as it sounds.
The mailman saw the whole thing.
I proceeded the only way I knew how: I cried a little to myself and felt sorry for me, and then I called my mother.
Friday, August 29, 2008
a sexy cosmo-not.
Once again, I have to thank the brilliant writers over at Cosmopolitan magazine for these sexy, sexy tips.
Temperature Tease
Forget about just stroking your man with a simple pair of satin panties! For a real treat, pop those silky numbers in the freezer a day before you're ready for action. Then loosely wrap the icy fabric around his package and gently slide it up and down.
And if you happen to forget the panties in the icebox, voila! Instead ice cube for a sexy cocktail. And I do mean cocktail…but seriously. Panties in the freezer? The only thing more ridiculous than planning this sensual man-member massage ahead of time is the after move listed below…
But act fast — the heat coming off your man's below-the-belt region will melt the chill rapidly. So once the panties hit room temp, go the opposite route and really warm things up. Paget suggests microwaving a damp washcloth for about 15 seconds. Then use it to rub his member in an up-and-down motion, just as you did with the underthings.
“Wait, honey hold on! Hold that thought! I have to run into the kitchen to microwave this damp washrag for 15 seconds! It’s going to be so sexy, I swear!”
Naked Chef
Incorporating food into your passion play is a classic carnal activity. Turning your bodies into a sexy buffet is a fresh, tasty spin. Take a few of your favorite erotically appealing flavor combinations, like peanut butter and honey or whipped cream and chocolate sauce. Put a dollop of, say, peanut butter on an area where you'd like to be licked (avoiding your genitals). Then dot the honey on the same spot on the opposite side of your body. Instruct your man to first lick off one flavor and then make his way over to the other, providing a pleasurable sensation for you and a flavorful sensation for him. Continue mixing up yummy treats in symmetric spots all over your body.
Okay, since when is peanut butter an “erotically appealing” food? I have never (okay, maybe that one time) found myself so completely turned on whilst preparing myself a satisfying PB&J. And I feel like people that take advantage of this tip are just asking for ants. Honey? Cool whip? Chocolate sauce? What is this, your bedroom or the dessert bar at Ryan’s Steakhouse?
Pleasure Map
Okay, now this is going to sound a little out-there, but trust us, guys say it feels un-freakin'-believable. Heat up some massage oil, and put it into a turkey baster. Then use the baster to draw shapes, spell out naughty words, or create trails on his body — from his neck, over his arms, then down his back, butt, and legs. "The hot oil moving in specific lines will excite the skin more than a broad stroke of oil would," explains sex therapist Ian Kerner, Ph.D., author of He Comes Next. Once you've left your hot, slippery mark, knead your designs.
Ooookkkk…..I’m thinking, if I’m a guy, about to get it on with a girl, and she comes at me with a turkey baster, I’m outta there. All I have to say.
Body Paint
For a unique sensation, use a clean artist's paintbrush to tickle each other's skin. "Take turns running it across the inner arms, behind the knees, over the tops of the feet — any area where you're very sensitive," explains Paget. "The bristles arouse the nerve endings, sending a message to the brain that you're yearning for more touch and sensation." For varying effects, test out different brush sizes.
Wow, nothing sexier than a great, big, bristly…paint brush.
Naughty Pearl Necklace
Believe it or not, this country-club accoutrement can be a passion prop. Pick up a 36-inch fake strand (this trick will ruin the real deal) and wear it all day so your body warms up the balls. "When you're ready to romp, take off the pearls and cover them generously with lube," suggests Paget. "Coil the pearls around the shaft of his penis comfortably but snuggly enough that the beads rest against his package."
I have to stop right here and say that the phrase “wear them all day so that your body warms up the balls” has to be the greatest phrase ever printed. Ever.
And I also like the idea that you have to tell someone not not to use their good pearls to douse in oil and wrap around your man’s shaft as an “erotic passion prop.”
Intertwine your fingers and place the palms of your hand on either side of his penis. Next, slide your hands up and down in a wave motion, causing the warm, smooth beads to roll over the length of his shaft.
Has anyone ever worn a pearl necklace? Have you ever had your hair get caught on one? Do I need to say anything more?
Scrunchie Tip 2007
If you've kept up with your Cosmo sex tips, you may remember reading that a scrunchie can be used on a man's member to help him maintain an erection. Now we're upping the ante and taking that technique in a new direction. Start by stacking six scrunchies on top of each other over his package. "Then remove them one by one using your lips and tongue," says St. Claire. "As each piece is removed, it releases a little bit of pressure in his penis, which will make his orgasm more intense when it happens. Plus, the movement of the fabric will feel wild on his skin."
I want to meet the woman still wearing scrunchies in 2007 that is getting laid. And I also want to meet the man who wants to have six scrunchies stacked on his member. Of course, I’m sure there are…height requirements for this raunchy ride as well. Just how big are the scrunchies in question? This just doesn’t sound sexy to me.
Frisky French Kiss
Mix up your usual oral sex routine by having him take his above-the-neck technique below the belt. "Even if his skills are already stellar, it's a fun, unique, and pleasurable experience to have him French kiss your down-there area the way he would your lips," says Jane Bogart, coordinator of health promotion at the University of California at Santa Cruz and author of Sexploration. He can tickle the area with his tongue, wiggle it in a circular motion from top to bottom, and gently suck the skin.
NO comment. (Except this: Did we really read this in ninth grade???)
The W
When moving down south, many women converge on their man's General, inadvertently ignoring the surrounding areas. But his pelvic region has tons of sensitive spots aching for attention of their own.
His…General?
Stuck on You
During intercourse, you're all wrapped up in each other. So extend that carnal concept even further by literally tying yourselves together. Take a really long piece of sturdy plastic wrap (long enough to fit around your body about eight times). Then fold it in half, twist it into a long rope that fits snuggly around both of your bodies twice, and secure it with a knot at your waist so you're locked together. (You can also use a Pilates stretch band or a knitted scarf that has a bit of give.) Whether you then get into girl-on-top, missionary, or straddle him face-to-face, you won't be able to move more than a few inches from each other. "This not only increases the intimacy but also the fun factor, as you find inventive ways to move in sync," says Bogart.
This is absolutely ridiculous. It sounds like too much work.
Passion Prop Play
To put a creative spin on standard missionary, stroke his back with a few sensual, around-the-house items. Keep a paddlebrush, a soft scarf, and a baseball (yes, a baseball) on your bedside table. While he's on top, alternate between scratching his back and butt with the bristles of the brush, stroking him with the scarf, and rolling the baseball over his skin. "The changes in sensation will keep him on his toes during the act and provide him with an extra dose of pleasure," says Kerner.
What? Doesn’t everyone keep a baseball on their nightstand?
Not-So-Hot Moves
These may sound hot, but they're not.
The move: Using food below the belt during oral sex
Reality check: Tasty treats can be erotic, but putting sugary edibles down south can lead to a vaginal infection.
The words "vaginal infection" are sure to stop any ambitious bedroom chefs dead in their tracks.
The move: Dripping warm wax on your erogenous zones
Reality check: If it's too hot, the wax will adhere to your nipples or inner thighs and sear your skin.
Sexy.
The move: Going way too far with the superkinky stuff
Reality check: Light love taps can make the action more playful; tying each other up can feel dangerously lusty. But anything more extreme (wooden paddles, whips, chains) may be too intense for most.
Yeah, screw that. Wrap me up in Saran wrap instead any day.
Temperature Tease
Forget about just stroking your man with a simple pair of satin panties! For a real treat, pop those silky numbers in the freezer a day before you're ready for action. Then loosely wrap the icy fabric around his package and gently slide it up and down.
And if you happen to forget the panties in the icebox, voila! Instead ice cube for a sexy cocktail. And I do mean cocktail…but seriously. Panties in the freezer? The only thing more ridiculous than planning this sensual man-member massage ahead of time is the after move listed below…
But act fast — the heat coming off your man's below-the-belt region will melt the chill rapidly. So once the panties hit room temp, go the opposite route and really warm things up. Paget suggests microwaving a damp washcloth for about 15 seconds. Then use it to rub his member in an up-and-down motion, just as you did with the underthings.
“Wait, honey hold on! Hold that thought! I have to run into the kitchen to microwave this damp washrag for 15 seconds! It’s going to be so sexy, I swear!”
Naked Chef
Incorporating food into your passion play is a classic carnal activity. Turning your bodies into a sexy buffet is a fresh, tasty spin. Take a few of your favorite erotically appealing flavor combinations, like peanut butter and honey or whipped cream and chocolate sauce. Put a dollop of, say, peanut butter on an area where you'd like to be licked (avoiding your genitals). Then dot the honey on the same spot on the opposite side of your body. Instruct your man to first lick off one flavor and then make his way over to the other, providing a pleasurable sensation for you and a flavorful sensation for him. Continue mixing up yummy treats in symmetric spots all over your body.
Okay, since when is peanut butter an “erotically appealing” food? I have never (okay, maybe that one time) found myself so completely turned on whilst preparing myself a satisfying PB&J. And I feel like people that take advantage of this tip are just asking for ants. Honey? Cool whip? Chocolate sauce? What is this, your bedroom or the dessert bar at Ryan’s Steakhouse?
Pleasure Map
Okay, now this is going to sound a little out-there, but trust us, guys say it feels un-freakin'-believable. Heat up some massage oil, and put it into a turkey baster. Then use the baster to draw shapes, spell out naughty words, or create trails on his body — from his neck, over his arms, then down his back, butt, and legs. "The hot oil moving in specific lines will excite the skin more than a broad stroke of oil would," explains sex therapist Ian Kerner, Ph.D., author of He Comes Next. Once you've left your hot, slippery mark, knead your designs.
Ooookkkk…..I’m thinking, if I’m a guy, about to get it on with a girl, and she comes at me with a turkey baster, I’m outta there. All I have to say.
Body Paint
For a unique sensation, use a clean artist's paintbrush to tickle each other's skin. "Take turns running it across the inner arms, behind the knees, over the tops of the feet — any area where you're very sensitive," explains Paget. "The bristles arouse the nerve endings, sending a message to the brain that you're yearning for more touch and sensation." For varying effects, test out different brush sizes.
Wow, nothing sexier than a great, big, bristly…paint brush.
Naughty Pearl Necklace
Believe it or not, this country-club accoutrement can be a passion prop. Pick up a 36-inch fake strand (this trick will ruin the real deal) and wear it all day so your body warms up the balls. "When you're ready to romp, take off the pearls and cover them generously with lube," suggests Paget. "Coil the pearls around the shaft of his penis comfortably but snuggly enough that the beads rest against his package."
I have to stop right here and say that the phrase “wear them all day so that your body warms up the balls” has to be the greatest phrase ever printed. Ever.
And I also like the idea that you have to tell someone not not to use their good pearls to douse in oil and wrap around your man’s shaft as an “erotic passion prop.”
Intertwine your fingers and place the palms of your hand on either side of his penis. Next, slide your hands up and down in a wave motion, causing the warm, smooth beads to roll over the length of his shaft.
Has anyone ever worn a pearl necklace? Have you ever had your hair get caught on one? Do I need to say anything more?
Scrunchie Tip 2007
If you've kept up with your Cosmo sex tips, you may remember reading that a scrunchie can be used on a man's member to help him maintain an erection. Now we're upping the ante and taking that technique in a new direction. Start by stacking six scrunchies on top of each other over his package. "Then remove them one by one using your lips and tongue," says St. Claire. "As each piece is removed, it releases a little bit of pressure in his penis, which will make his orgasm more intense when it happens. Plus, the movement of the fabric will feel wild on his skin."
I want to meet the woman still wearing scrunchies in 2007 that is getting laid. And I also want to meet the man who wants to have six scrunchies stacked on his member. Of course, I’m sure there are…height requirements for this raunchy ride as well. Just how big are the scrunchies in question? This just doesn’t sound sexy to me.
Frisky French Kiss
Mix up your usual oral sex routine by having him take his above-the-neck technique below the belt. "Even if his skills are already stellar, it's a fun, unique, and pleasurable experience to have him French kiss your down-there area the way he would your lips," says Jane Bogart, coordinator of health promotion at the University of California at Santa Cruz and author of Sexploration. He can tickle the area with his tongue, wiggle it in a circular motion from top to bottom, and gently suck the skin.
NO comment. (Except this: Did we really read this in ninth grade???)
The W
When moving down south, many women converge on their man's General, inadvertently ignoring the surrounding areas. But his pelvic region has tons of sensitive spots aching for attention of their own.
His…General?
Stuck on You
During intercourse, you're all wrapped up in each other. So extend that carnal concept even further by literally tying yourselves together. Take a really long piece of sturdy plastic wrap (long enough to fit around your body about eight times). Then fold it in half, twist it into a long rope that fits snuggly around both of your bodies twice, and secure it with a knot at your waist so you're locked together. (You can also use a Pilates stretch band or a knitted scarf that has a bit of give.) Whether you then get into girl-on-top, missionary, or straddle him face-to-face, you won't be able to move more than a few inches from each other. "This not only increases the intimacy but also the fun factor, as you find inventive ways to move in sync," says Bogart.
This is absolutely ridiculous. It sounds like too much work.
Passion Prop Play
To put a creative spin on standard missionary, stroke his back with a few sensual, around-the-house items. Keep a paddlebrush, a soft scarf, and a baseball (yes, a baseball) on your bedside table. While he's on top, alternate between scratching his back and butt with the bristles of the brush, stroking him with the scarf, and rolling the baseball over his skin. "The changes in sensation will keep him on his toes during the act and provide him with an extra dose of pleasure," says Kerner.
What? Doesn’t everyone keep a baseball on their nightstand?
Not-So-Hot Moves
These may sound hot, but they're not.
The move: Using food below the belt during oral sex
Reality check: Tasty treats can be erotic, but putting sugary edibles down south can lead to a vaginal infection.
The words "vaginal infection" are sure to stop any ambitious bedroom chefs dead in their tracks.
The move: Dripping warm wax on your erogenous zones
Reality check: If it's too hot, the wax will adhere to your nipples or inner thighs and sear your skin.
Sexy.
The move: Going way too far with the superkinky stuff
Reality check: Light love taps can make the action more playful; tying each other up can feel dangerously lusty. But anything more extreme (wooden paddles, whips, chains) may be too intense for most.
Yeah, screw that. Wrap me up in Saran wrap instead any day.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
shot through the arm, and you're to blame...
...who gave Gardasil such a bad name?
So, at my last doctor's visit, he recommended that I get the Gardasil shot, also known as the HPV vaccine. It's supposed to safeguard you against the virus that causes cervical cancer. As afraid as I am of needles (they cause me to have panic attacks, no joke), I decided this would probably be the best thing for me to do.
The vaccine is three injections, spaced over six months. It hurts like holy hell. The first one wasn't so bad. This last one, which I had on Monday, make me curse and almost punch the nurse (who is lovely, by the way). But like I said, I know it's a necessary thing.
I came to work Monday AM after my second injection, ready to be productive. As I went to the kitchen, one of my co-workers approached me. She asked me how my day was, I replied that it was fine, excepting the early-morning needle vaccine pumped into my arm. I made conversation about the vaccine, saying that they were starting to require it in schools.
"Well, I just don't agree with that," she said. "The government telling me I have to put something my body. I can't believe you did that."
This upset me. When another woman walked in and said her doctor recommended the shot for her 13-year-old daughter, said co-worker went at it again.
"Your daughter is too young! You need to read up on that. There have been complications from that."
???? Like I'm some fool who just wanders into exam rooms and asks to be shot up? Trust me, I wouldn't have gotten the vaccine if I didn't think it was important. She pointed out that there have been problems reported with the shot. However, those are rare and there is still yet to be proof linking so-called "side effects" to the Gardasil shot. People get sick from the flu shot sometimes! But they continue to get it.
When I argued the fact that it protects against a virus that causes a large percentage of cervical cancer, she said this: "Well, no one dies from cervical cancer."
Are you freaking kidding me.
Cervical cancer was once one of the leading causes of cancer-related death in women, according to the American Cancer Society. And yes, the death rate has gone down, but that is due to increased awareness of the disease and more frequent pap smears, no matter how old you are. And regardless if NO one died from cancer, any cancer, it's never a pleasant experience. The way my doctor put it to me was this: Shots may hurt, but biopsies and chemo and treatment hurt more. Do what's best.
I still defend my decision to have the shot, but I was still offended by this woman's vehement response to my choice.
More about Gardasil:
http://www.gardasil.com/
More about cervical cancer: http://www.cancer.org/docroot/CRI/content/CRI_2_4_1X_What_are_the_key_statistics_for_cervical_cancer_8.asp
So, at my last doctor's visit, he recommended that I get the Gardasil shot, also known as the HPV vaccine. It's supposed to safeguard you against the virus that causes cervical cancer. As afraid as I am of needles (they cause me to have panic attacks, no joke), I decided this would probably be the best thing for me to do.
The vaccine is three injections, spaced over six months. It hurts like holy hell. The first one wasn't so bad. This last one, which I had on Monday, make me curse and almost punch the nurse (who is lovely, by the way). But like I said, I know it's a necessary thing.
I came to work Monday AM after my second injection, ready to be productive. As I went to the kitchen, one of my co-workers approached me. She asked me how my day was, I replied that it was fine, excepting the early-morning needle vaccine pumped into my arm. I made conversation about the vaccine, saying that they were starting to require it in schools.
"Well, I just don't agree with that," she said. "The government telling me I have to put something my body. I can't believe you did that."
This upset me. When another woman walked in and said her doctor recommended the shot for her 13-year-old daughter, said co-worker went at it again.
"Your daughter is too young! You need to read up on that. There have been complications from that."
???? Like I'm some fool who just wanders into exam rooms and asks to be shot up? Trust me, I wouldn't have gotten the vaccine if I didn't think it was important. She pointed out that there have been problems reported with the shot. However, those are rare and there is still yet to be proof linking so-called "side effects" to the Gardasil shot. People get sick from the flu shot sometimes! But they continue to get it.
When I argued the fact that it protects against a virus that causes a large percentage of cervical cancer, she said this: "Well, no one dies from cervical cancer."
Are you freaking kidding me.
Cervical cancer was once one of the leading causes of cancer-related death in women, according to the American Cancer Society. And yes, the death rate has gone down, but that is due to increased awareness of the disease and more frequent pap smears, no matter how old you are. And regardless if NO one died from cancer, any cancer, it's never a pleasant experience. The way my doctor put it to me was this: Shots may hurt, but biopsies and chemo and treatment hurt more. Do what's best.
I still defend my decision to have the shot, but I was still offended by this woman's vehement response to my choice.
More about Gardasil:
http://www.gardasil.com/
More about cervical cancer: http://www.cancer.org/docroot/CRI/content/CRI_2_4_1X_What_are_the_key_statistics_for_cervical_cancer_8.asp
Monday, June 16, 2008
I wanna run to you
One thing I've noticed about moving to the city of Birmingham and living and working within the confines of the city: There are so many runners. All sort and shapes and sizes. But the ones that seem to catch my eye the most are the old men.
Daaaaaaaang.
There are all these really old, gray, wrinkly men that run constantly on the street I work on and even where I live. Is it wrong that I saw a man the other day that looked like Wilford Brimley from the neck up and delicious from the neck down and wanted to drool? His legs were amazing, all muscly and sinewy and strong. I mean, really. It's a crime to be that old and look that good.
I wish I had a runner's drive and dedication. But I just can't do it. I never could run when I was in school. I hated it. I got all out of breath and itchy and wanted to throw up. Now, I love a good walk, and you get basically the same benefits without all the stress on your joints, but it doesn't sound as cool to say "I'm going out for a walk" as it does when someone says "I'm going for a run." I used to like to draw a line down the middle and say "I'm going for a jog," because now that I can do. I like to blame it on my knee (which does prevent me from doing much more than a swift walk or light jog), but I really know it's because I hate to run.
But God bless the men who don't hate it. And the girls who are always running on my street? I hate them.
I think I'll stick to walking and yoga.
Daaaaaaaang.
There are all these really old, gray, wrinkly men that run constantly on the street I work on and even where I live. Is it wrong that I saw a man the other day that looked like Wilford Brimley from the neck up and delicious from the neck down and wanted to drool? His legs were amazing, all muscly and sinewy and strong. I mean, really. It's a crime to be that old and look that good.
I wish I had a runner's drive and dedication. But I just can't do it. I never could run when I was in school. I hated it. I got all out of breath and itchy and wanted to throw up. Now, I love a good walk, and you get basically the same benefits without all the stress on your joints, but it doesn't sound as cool to say "I'm going out for a walk" as it does when someone says "I'm going for a run." I used to like to draw a line down the middle and say "I'm going for a jog," because now that I can do. I like to blame it on my knee (which does prevent me from doing much more than a swift walk or light jog), but I really know it's because I hate to run.
But God bless the men who don't hate it. And the girls who are always running on my street? I hate them.
I think I'll stick to walking and yoga.
Friday, June 13, 2008
hey, your son is on line toot...
For those fearful of flatulence, turn away from this blog now.
Ok...anyone still there? Good.
So, today I'm in my office, which is really an open workspace with three other designers, sometimes a fourth. Today, I was sitting at my desk, doing my own thing, when I realize I need to retrieve a file from the drawers under my desk. I lean over, rustle through my papers to find the needed paper, when I did it.
Pfffft.
That's right. I let one go, right there in my office-slash-workspace.
Luckily, there were only two other designers up there with me, and it was not of neck-choking, gagging-for-air variety. It was strictly air. However, i was then thrust into the situation of having to exercise some damage control.
I'm not very proud of what happened next.
I immediately began making happy little farting noises with my mouth. "Pffft, pffft, pfft..." and so it went. That way, I figured if someone said something like "Was that you? Did you fart?" or "Did you hear that?" I could respond with, "Huh? What? Oh, I was making fart noises with my mouth earlier, maybe that was what you heard. Ha, ha, ha, that's me, I'm just so quirky. Pffft, pfft, pfft..."
God, I need help.
Ok...anyone still there? Good.
So, today I'm in my office, which is really an open workspace with three other designers, sometimes a fourth. Today, I was sitting at my desk, doing my own thing, when I realize I need to retrieve a file from the drawers under my desk. I lean over, rustle through my papers to find the needed paper, when I did it.
Pfffft.
That's right. I let one go, right there in my office-slash-workspace.
Luckily, there were only two other designers up there with me, and it was not of neck-choking, gagging-for-air variety. It was strictly air. However, i was then thrust into the situation of having to exercise some damage control.
I'm not very proud of what happened next.
I immediately began making happy little farting noises with my mouth. "Pffft, pffft, pfft..." and so it went. That way, I figured if someone said something like "Was that you? Did you fart?" or "Did you hear that?" I could respond with, "Huh? What? Oh, I was making fart noises with my mouth earlier, maybe that was what you heard. Ha, ha, ha, that's me, I'm just so quirky. Pffft, pfft, pfft..."
God, I need help.
what's the deal, pickle?
Sometimes things happen to me that just make me want to cry. Like, sit in the middle of wherever I am and bawl. Call me overdramatic, I don't care. (Actually, I do, and if you said that to my face, I'd probably collapse in a heap at your feet and commence the over-emoting.)
Anyway. I remember once hearing my mother say, "You know, Autumn and I just think everything bad happens to us. Everything bad really does happen to Summer."
Honestly. If there is a hole to fall in, a banana peel to trip over, or a bucket to step in, I will surely be the one to provided unintended comic relief.
The other day, I went to the grocery store after work. It was pouring down rain, but I brave those falling drops to purchase some pantry essentials. While shopping, a jar of pickles caught my eye. I haven't had pickles in so long! I thought. I picked up a jar and went about my way.
When I got home, it was still raining, and I had several bags. I pulled out my trusty umbrella and walked over the passenger side to retrieve my wares. As I turned one way, I noticed a box of pasta fall out. I hastily picked it up and turned to get my other bags. Then I heard the sound of glass splintering. What the hell was that? I thought. I turned around, wondering what would make such a noise.
It was my brand-new jar of pickles, lying naked on the grass, surrounding by the glass that once held them safely.
This was one of those moments where I wanted to cry. I felt so bad leaving them there, all alone on the sidewalk.
I think a dog came by and ate them one day. At least somebody benefitted from my misfortune.
I returned to the a scene a day later, prepared to mourn.
Anyway. I remember once hearing my mother say, "You know, Autumn and I just think everything bad happens to us. Everything bad really does happen to Summer."
Honestly. If there is a hole to fall in, a banana peel to trip over, or a bucket to step in, I will surely be the one to provided unintended comic relief.
The other day, I went to the grocery store after work. It was pouring down rain, but I brave those falling drops to purchase some pantry essentials. While shopping, a jar of pickles caught my eye. I haven't had pickles in so long! I thought. I picked up a jar and went about my way.
When I got home, it was still raining, and I had several bags. I pulled out my trusty umbrella and walked over the passenger side to retrieve my wares. As I turned one way, I noticed a box of pasta fall out. I hastily picked it up and turned to get my other bags. Then I heard the sound of glass splintering. What the hell was that? I thought. I turned around, wondering what would make such a noise.
It was my brand-new jar of pickles, lying naked on the grass, surrounding by the glass that once held them safely.
This was one of those moments where I wanted to cry. I felt so bad leaving them there, all alone on the sidewalk.
I think a dog came by and ate them one day. At least somebody benefitted from my misfortune.
I returned to the a scene a day later, prepared to mourn.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
how much is a memory worth?
We've all been there before. You bump into someone at the supermarket, or around town, and when they offer up a warm hello, you feel a twinge of guilt because you can't remember how you know them. Or worse, you can't remember their name.
Or sometimes, when you're looking for something, like your keys or your glasses, and you look and look, only to find them in your purse, or perched on your head. You laugh to yourself, and think, "I must be losing my mind."
Now think about this: You're surrounded by people you don't know, but who all seem to know you. It's impossible to find things you need, and even harder to remember where you're supposed to put them. Time is a limitless concept; days and nights and weeks and months all fade into each other. You're in a strange place that you recognize vaguely, but you don't know where you are. You just want to go home.
My grandmother has Alzheimer's, and this is what life is like for her every day. Times ten.
Let me back up a little. My grandparents have always lived right across the street from me. My dad's two sisters live beside us, all three families on the same street across from my Maw Maw and Paw Paw, as we all called them. About ten years ago, my grandfather suffered a massive heart attack. It was so sudden, so unexpected. Just out of school for the day, I was across the street, alone, waiting for my parents to come home from work when I saw all the flashing lights and heard the fire trucks. He died instantly. We were all worried about my grandmother, and my dad would go out to stay with her at night. I spent Christmas Eve there that year. But everything seemed to be okay, as good as it could've been.
About two years ago, my parents started noticing little things about my grandmother. She would lose her glasses, or insist she'd lost them, and they'd be on the dresser. She'd lost a lot of weight, and she seemed to have trouble remembering little things. At first, we just chalked it up to being old. But it got worse. My dad would find pills on the floor. Upon opening a cabinet, my mother noticed an empty fish stick box next an unopened box of crackers. One afternoon, all the spoons disappeared—we soon realized that she'd thrown them all away. She was losing so much weight because she was forgetting to eat. When she almost started a fire on the gas stove in the kitchen, my dad decided that someone would have to stay with her more often.
Then some things were disappearing from around the house.
One day, I noticed some pictures were missing. They were of my sister. One by one, they came down, off the shelves, and off the wall. Then my pictures were gone. It finally came to the point where the only pictures that remained were very old, not including the three family pictures about the couch from when we'd had church directory pictures taken.
With the pictures went the memories.
I called my grandmother's house one day to speak to my dad. I asked for him, and when she said he was gone, I asked her to tell him to please call Summer. "Which one are you again?" she asked. It only got worse after her pacemaker was put in and she came home from the hospital.
She's convinced that my dad has brought her to some house, that he found her somewhere and brought her there. All the mirrors have either been removed or taped over so that she doesn't feel like "that woman" is watching her. She thinks my Aunt Phyllis is some girl who my dad has paid to sit with her—she doesn't even recognize her own daughter. The last time I visited her, we'd talk about people and she'd have to ask me who was living and who wasn't.
I live in Birmingham now, so I don't get to see my family as much as I like. I rely on my daily reports from my mother and father to see how she's doing. And it never gets better. I can see the toll it takes on my family, esp my dad. To me, it's sad, because she's my old grandmother. But that's my dad's mom. She used to take care of him, now he has to take care of her. I hope and pray that my parents never have to ask me who I am. Or who they are, as my grandmother is slowly starting to forget herself.
I can't imagine how sad and lonely she must be, and how hard it is for any of us to even begin to understand what she's going through. There are so many moments in my life that I want so badly to forget, but I hope the day never comes when I can't remember anything, even those things that I don't want to.
Or sometimes, when you're looking for something, like your keys or your glasses, and you look and look, only to find them in your purse, or perched on your head. You laugh to yourself, and think, "I must be losing my mind."
Now think about this: You're surrounded by people you don't know, but who all seem to know you. It's impossible to find things you need, and even harder to remember where you're supposed to put them. Time is a limitless concept; days and nights and weeks and months all fade into each other. You're in a strange place that you recognize vaguely, but you don't know where you are. You just want to go home.
My grandmother has Alzheimer's, and this is what life is like for her every day. Times ten.
Let me back up a little. My grandparents have always lived right across the street from me. My dad's two sisters live beside us, all three families on the same street across from my Maw Maw and Paw Paw, as we all called them. About ten years ago, my grandfather suffered a massive heart attack. It was so sudden, so unexpected. Just out of school for the day, I was across the street, alone, waiting for my parents to come home from work when I saw all the flashing lights and heard the fire trucks. He died instantly. We were all worried about my grandmother, and my dad would go out to stay with her at night. I spent Christmas Eve there that year. But everything seemed to be okay, as good as it could've been.
About two years ago, my parents started noticing little things about my grandmother. She would lose her glasses, or insist she'd lost them, and they'd be on the dresser. She'd lost a lot of weight, and she seemed to have trouble remembering little things. At first, we just chalked it up to being old. But it got worse. My dad would find pills on the floor. Upon opening a cabinet, my mother noticed an empty fish stick box next an unopened box of crackers. One afternoon, all the spoons disappeared—we soon realized that she'd thrown them all away. She was losing so much weight because she was forgetting to eat. When she almost started a fire on the gas stove in the kitchen, my dad decided that someone would have to stay with her more often.
Then some things were disappearing from around the house.
One day, I noticed some pictures were missing. They were of my sister. One by one, they came down, off the shelves, and off the wall. Then my pictures were gone. It finally came to the point where the only pictures that remained were very old, not including the three family pictures about the couch from when we'd had church directory pictures taken.
With the pictures went the memories.
I called my grandmother's house one day to speak to my dad. I asked for him, and when she said he was gone, I asked her to tell him to please call Summer. "Which one are you again?" she asked. It only got worse after her pacemaker was put in and she came home from the hospital.
She's convinced that my dad has brought her to some house, that he found her somewhere and brought her there. All the mirrors have either been removed or taped over so that she doesn't feel like "that woman" is watching her. She thinks my Aunt Phyllis is some girl who my dad has paid to sit with her—she doesn't even recognize her own daughter. The last time I visited her, we'd talk about people and she'd have to ask me who was living and who wasn't.
I live in Birmingham now, so I don't get to see my family as much as I like. I rely on my daily reports from my mother and father to see how she's doing. And it never gets better. I can see the toll it takes on my family, esp my dad. To me, it's sad, because she's my old grandmother. But that's my dad's mom. She used to take care of him, now he has to take care of her. I hope and pray that my parents never have to ask me who I am. Or who they are, as my grandmother is slowly starting to forget herself.
I can't imagine how sad and lonely she must be, and how hard it is for any of us to even begin to understand what she's going through. There are so many moments in my life that I want so badly to forget, but I hope the day never comes when I can't remember anything, even those things that I don't want to.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
thanks a lot, jerk.
So, here's the sitch. I go home every day for lunch. I don't have the money to go out to eat all the time, and I am too lazy to just pack a lunch. Yesterday, I do like I always do and head to the apartment. As I'm getting in my car to go, I notice the backseat is looking bright. I turned my head and see that the back passenger side window is busted.
WTF. Seriously.
The glass was still intact, but it was completely spiderwebbed. I saw a man weedeating when I first arrived, but I just don't believe a rock would do this kind of damage. At least, not one that a weedeater would pick up.
Then I saw something else that made me a tad suspicious: a croquet mallet not but a few feet from my car.
What the hell?!? I don't live in the ghetto! I have never had this happen to me! Gah!
This is the damage. The hole wasn't there originally, but as I drove down the bumpy streets of Birmingham, chunks of it began to fall.
And this is the reason I suspect foul play. I took the weapon in question and placed it in my car. Somebody's next game of croquet is going to be very difficult. Take that, vandal.
WTF. Seriously.
The glass was still intact, but it was completely spiderwebbed. I saw a man weedeating when I first arrived, but I just don't believe a rock would do this kind of damage. At least, not one that a weedeater would pick up.
Then I saw something else that made me a tad suspicious: a croquet mallet not but a few feet from my car.
What the hell?!? I don't live in the ghetto! I have never had this happen to me! Gah!
This is the damage. The hole wasn't there originally, but as I drove down the bumpy streets of Birmingham, chunks of it began to fall.
And this is the reason I suspect foul play. I took the weapon in question and placed it in my car. Somebody's next game of croquet is going to be very difficult. Take that, vandal.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
as soon as, as soon as, as soon as...
I hate when I feel like things are out of control. When some aspect of my life that I can't get a handle on, it makes me want to control anything else around.
I clean.
I'm not the neatest person, but sometimes I get on these binges where nothing is ever straight enough or neat enough. I'm having company tonight, so I have a reason to have cleaned, but there are also some aspects of my life that I feel I can't get in order. So then I start cleaning and organizing. And if I feel like I can't do it (ie, my room looks awful), I give up and spend as little time in that room as possible.
Ugh.
Or I organize. I start making lists and detailing every little thing wrong with my life, like a "fix-it" to-do list. Of course, I never really have the satisfaction of crossing anything off the list.
Right now I'm having some issues with money (then again, who isn't ALWAYS struggling with money?), so I made a little Excel spreadsheet of what bills need to be paid and when, how much, etc.
I make post-its reminding me to do stuff. I make so many reminders to the point where I feel like I've already done whatever it is that needed to be done. I visualize myself succeeding at whatever it is that I'm having trouble with to the point where I think I've already fixed it.
But I haven't.
Kinda like I picture myself going running or walking or working out to the point where I honestly think I've already done it. I even feel tired.
I always tell myself, "So much is going on right now. As soon as everything settles down, as soon as I pay this off, as soon as, as soon as..." But it never comes.
I'm such a control freak. But an unmotivated control freak.
I clean.
I'm not the neatest person, but sometimes I get on these binges where nothing is ever straight enough or neat enough. I'm having company tonight, so I have a reason to have cleaned, but there are also some aspects of my life that I feel I can't get in order. So then I start cleaning and organizing. And if I feel like I can't do it (ie, my room looks awful), I give up and spend as little time in that room as possible.
Ugh.
Or I organize. I start making lists and detailing every little thing wrong with my life, like a "fix-it" to-do list. Of course, I never really have the satisfaction of crossing anything off the list.
Right now I'm having some issues with money (then again, who isn't ALWAYS struggling with money?), so I made a little Excel spreadsheet of what bills need to be paid and when, how much, etc.
I make post-its reminding me to do stuff. I make so many reminders to the point where I feel like I've already done whatever it is that needed to be done. I visualize myself succeeding at whatever it is that I'm having trouble with to the point where I think I've already fixed it.
But I haven't.
Kinda like I picture myself going running or walking or working out to the point where I honestly think I've already done it. I even feel tired.
I always tell myself, "So much is going on right now. As soon as everything settles down, as soon as I pay this off, as soon as, as soon as..." But it never comes.
I'm such a control freak. But an unmotivated control freak.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
what's in a name?
I love it when people use my name when they are talking to me. I think it shows a certain amount of respect, if you will, to refer to someone directly and not just treat your interaction like a routine chore. I usually try to use someone's name at least once in a conversation. If it's my superior, I usually greet them with their name.
This whole thought came back up this morning when I first arrived at work. I was in the ladies' room, trying to avoid Stall Talkers, and I was on my way out when I heard, "Summer?" I walked back in to see who it was. It was a woman i work with here, with whom I have never really talked. She was just letting me know her response to an email I'd sent out to several employees regarding a project we're working on in Product Development. I thanked her for letting me know (using her name), and went about my way.
This is what struck me: I've never even spoken to her, and I think that e-mail was the first contact we had. However, she knew who I was and cared enough to use my name rather than be like "Hey!" There are some other people here at the company that say "Good morning Summer!" when I see them in the hall, and it usually makes my day.
I will say this, though. I worked in a restaurant for over five years, and I had to wear a nametag. While I always gave my name to customers at my tables (in addition to the tag), and I would so much rather someone call out my name rather than snap at me or say "hey you!" it kinda creeped me out to have people call me by name when I had no clue who they were. Not so much my tables, but just random people in the restaurant. Yeesh.
This whole thought came back up this morning when I first arrived at work. I was in the ladies' room, trying to avoid Stall Talkers, and I was on my way out when I heard, "Summer?" I walked back in to see who it was. It was a woman i work with here, with whom I have never really talked. She was just letting me know her response to an email I'd sent out to several employees regarding a project we're working on in Product Development. I thanked her for letting me know (using her name), and went about my way.
This is what struck me: I've never even spoken to her, and I think that e-mail was the first contact we had. However, she knew who I was and cared enough to use my name rather than be like "Hey!" There are some other people here at the company that say "Good morning Summer!" when I see them in the hall, and it usually makes my day.
I will say this, though. I worked in a restaurant for over five years, and I had to wear a nametag. While I always gave my name to customers at my tables (in addition to the tag), and I would so much rather someone call out my name rather than snap at me or say "hey you!" it kinda creeped me out to have people call me by name when I had no clue who they were. Not so much my tables, but just random people in the restaurant. Yeesh.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
quit stalling
There is something so sacred about certain places. Churches. Cemeteries. Libraries. Small bookstores.
Bathrooms.
Once I enter that swinging door that separates me from the rest of the world, it is purely me-time. I want my bathroom time to be about one thing, and one thing only. Ok. Sometimes two things. But that's beside the point.
One thing that I absolutely cannot stand is bathroom meetings. They are always so awkward, unless it's your very best friend in the world. I know what we are both about to do or have just done, and I don't really want to talk about it. If I hear the door swing open and I think I won't have enough time to make a hasty getaway, I sit. And I'm not even kidding. I've had battles with people that probably don't even know it, and a few who do know it, because they are on my level.
I've also encountered a new breed now that I've been working in an office for the past several months: The Stall Talker.
I remember one of my first Stall Talkers at The Magazine. It was another intern, and we met at the front bathroom door. She followed me in. I made small talk and then proceeded to enter my stall.
But she wasn't finished.
"So what are you guys doing this weekend?" she asked, as I was in mid-stream.
Honestly? Can't this wait?
"Um, not sure," I replied. You also have to think about the fact that there are other people in there, too. For Pete's sake, there were about 10 stalls total.
"Well, we're having a party if you're interested" —pause, flush— "just give me a call."
I was mortified.
My new company is no different. I was in the stall of the mere three bathroom facility, when the woman next to me began spouting off.
"Oh, great. I hate it when people use the last of the TP. Don't you? I just hate it. Luckily there's an unopened roll. Now I have to replace it. At least I didn't get caught without, you know? Oh, what cute shoes!"
I had no choice but to respond as best I could. Which in this case, was a shaky "Mmm-hmm."
Let's keep the commode conversations to a minimum, people.
Bathrooms.
Once I enter that swinging door that separates me from the rest of the world, it is purely me-time. I want my bathroom time to be about one thing, and one thing only. Ok. Sometimes two things. But that's beside the point.
One thing that I absolutely cannot stand is bathroom meetings. They are always so awkward, unless it's your very best friend in the world. I know what we are both about to do or have just done, and I don't really want to talk about it. If I hear the door swing open and I think I won't have enough time to make a hasty getaway, I sit. And I'm not even kidding. I've had battles with people that probably don't even know it, and a few who do know it, because they are on my level.
I've also encountered a new breed now that I've been working in an office for the past several months: The Stall Talker.
I remember one of my first Stall Talkers at The Magazine. It was another intern, and we met at the front bathroom door. She followed me in. I made small talk and then proceeded to enter my stall.
But she wasn't finished.
"So what are you guys doing this weekend?" she asked, as I was in mid-stream.
Honestly? Can't this wait?
"Um, not sure," I replied. You also have to think about the fact that there are other people in there, too. For Pete's sake, there were about 10 stalls total.
"Well, we're having a party if you're interested" —pause, flush— "just give me a call."
I was mortified.
My new company is no different. I was in the stall of the mere three bathroom facility, when the woman next to me began spouting off.
"Oh, great. I hate it when people use the last of the TP. Don't you? I just hate it. Luckily there's an unopened roll. Now I have to replace it. At least I didn't get caught without, you know? Oh, what cute shoes!"
I had no choice but to respond as best I could. Which in this case, was a shaky "Mmm-hmm."
Let's keep the commode conversations to a minimum, people.
Monday, March 31, 2008
pickup game
This weekend I went to see Eliot Morris with a few of my friends (including The Conservative) at the Workplay theatre. The show ended up consisting of Eliot plus three other guys, and the show was aptly named “Guys With Guitars.” I was really impressed with everyone, and it was a great show.
But that is not the reason for this blog.
Before we headed to Workplay, we decided to get some dinner at the local Italian eatery. My friend Craig and I ordered and then headed out to the patio to find a seat. We were just talking, and I heard some at the table closest to us say something about “the girl with the camera.” Well, I had just taken a picture of Craig and me, so naturally I assumed they were talking about me. This bothered me a bit, but I brushed it off.
Soon after, our other two friends (one of which was The Conservative) arrived at the table. While waiting for our food, one of the guys at aforementioned table approached us, asking to borrow our Parmesan cheese, of which we had none. He returned to his seat. Not but a few minutes later, he came back, and this time he sat down.
“Here’s the deal,” he said, looking directly at me. “My girlfriend, the one over there in the pink shirt (she had gone inside for the moment)? She thinks you are absolutely gorgeous.”
I paused, look around. “Me?” I asked, incredulously.
“Yeah,” he said. “And it would really just mean a lot if you would go over there and introduce yourself to her.”
WTF????
This is the strangest thing that has ever happened to me. “How do I know you’re not setting me up?” I asked. “How do I know I’m not going to go over there, introduce myself, and everyone be all ‘who the hell are you?’”
He persisted saying he wasn’t trying to set me up, and then my friend Jenny asked him why he wanted me to do it. He said that his other friends didn’t think he would go over there and ask me, so I guess they just dared him to.
Then he looked at Craig and said, “Now, I know you’re with this guy here, I mean you’re obviously together.” Craig and I looked at each other and I quickly explained that no, we were not “together.”
At this point, said girlfriend had made her way to the patio and came over to our table. “Hello,” I said.
Slightly if not very intoxicated, she said “Heeyyyyyy!!!!! I thinkyour’rereallypretty (those words were a little slurred)…can I have a hug?”
A hug?
“Um, sure,” I stammered, still taken a bit aback by the whole situation. “What’s your name?” I asked.
“Alex,” she breathed.
“Oh, is that short for anything?”
“Alexis…what’s your name?”
“Summer.”
“Oh…is that short for anything?”
I just looked at her. “Summer….Hunt?”
This exchange went on for a bit, and it concluded with them asking where we were going that night. We told them, and when we left they waved their goodbyes, saying maybe they would see us there.
We did not see them.
Also...my friend that went with us told me that The Conservative said that we are dating.
I feel better.
But that is not the reason for this blog.
Before we headed to Workplay, we decided to get some dinner at the local Italian eatery. My friend Craig and I ordered and then headed out to the patio to find a seat. We were just talking, and I heard some at the table closest to us say something about “the girl with the camera.” Well, I had just taken a picture of Craig and me, so naturally I assumed they were talking about me. This bothered me a bit, but I brushed it off.
Soon after, our other two friends (one of which was The Conservative) arrived at the table. While waiting for our food, one of the guys at aforementioned table approached us, asking to borrow our Parmesan cheese, of which we had none. He returned to his seat. Not but a few minutes later, he came back, and this time he sat down.
“Here’s the deal,” he said, looking directly at me. “My girlfriend, the one over there in the pink shirt (she had gone inside for the moment)? She thinks you are absolutely gorgeous.”
I paused, look around. “Me?” I asked, incredulously.
“Yeah,” he said. “And it would really just mean a lot if you would go over there and introduce yourself to her.”
WTF????
This is the strangest thing that has ever happened to me. “How do I know you’re not setting me up?” I asked. “How do I know I’m not going to go over there, introduce myself, and everyone be all ‘who the hell are you?’”
He persisted saying he wasn’t trying to set me up, and then my friend Jenny asked him why he wanted me to do it. He said that his other friends didn’t think he would go over there and ask me, so I guess they just dared him to.
Then he looked at Craig and said, “Now, I know you’re with this guy here, I mean you’re obviously together.” Craig and I looked at each other and I quickly explained that no, we were not “together.”
At this point, said girlfriend had made her way to the patio and came over to our table. “Hello,” I said.
Slightly if not very intoxicated, she said “Heeyyyyyy!!!!! I thinkyour’rereallypretty (those words were a little slurred)…can I have a hug?”
A hug?
“Um, sure,” I stammered, still taken a bit aback by the whole situation. “What’s your name?” I asked.
“Alex,” she breathed.
“Oh, is that short for anything?”
“Alexis…what’s your name?”
“Summer.”
“Oh…is that short for anything?”
I just looked at her. “Summer….Hunt?”
This exchange went on for a bit, and it concluded with them asking where we were going that night. We told them, and when we left they waved their goodbyes, saying maybe they would see us there.
We did not see them.
Also...my friend that went with us told me that The Conservative said that we are dating.
I feel better.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
tell me what you want, what you really really want
There are some things that I miss so very much about my childhood. Being virtually worry-free, having my summers all to myself, and quite possibly the best part of all—sleepovers.
Two of my gal pals came over this weekend and we had the best time ever. We started out by going to the Bessemer Flea Market. and while there were several amusing characters and entertaining finds, I was, at best, slightly let down. We went from there t purchase supplies for the sleepover—sodas, snacks, and the quintessential slumber party food: pizza. We also made yummy spinach artichoke dip, watched Girls Next Door on DVD, and played Mall Madness. The one thing that was slightly different about this girls' night from those of my school days was the fact that we each had a bottle of liquor to help the party along. It was a lot more fun when we made up dances to Spice Girls songs with a slight buzz.
If only I could take a day or two to spend as my childhood self...it's so nice to think about not having a care in the world. Don't get me wrong, I don't think I'd do it all over again. There are things I would different if I knew then what I know now. But chances are, I'd probably make all the same mistakes.
Two of my gal pals came over this weekend and we had the best time ever. We started out by going to the Bessemer Flea Market. and while there were several amusing characters and entertaining finds, I was, at best, slightly let down. We went from there t purchase supplies for the sleepover—sodas, snacks, and the quintessential slumber party food: pizza. We also made yummy spinach artichoke dip, watched Girls Next Door on DVD, and played Mall Madness. The one thing that was slightly different about this girls' night from those of my school days was the fact that we each had a bottle of liquor to help the party along. It was a lot more fun when we made up dances to Spice Girls songs with a slight buzz.
If only I could take a day or two to spend as my childhood self...it's so nice to think about not having a care in the world. Don't get me wrong, I don't think I'd do it all over again. There are things I would different if I knew then what I know now. But chances are, I'd probably make all the same mistakes.
seriously, cosmo?
Sometimes I get a little bored, and my mind tends to wander while I'm on the internet. I hardly ever peruse magazine Web sites online, but somehow I came across Cosmo.com. This one article's teaser caught my eye, and I felt so compelled to laugh out loud. I feel as if I must share this with you.
The article was "Sex Tips From Guys," and here are a few of the sparkling gems I chose to disclose to you, my friends. My comments are below:
"The night after I got a big promotion, my girl announced that was going to give me only oral sex—all night." Kenneth, 32
Oh really, Kenneth? My only hope is that you rewarded her with a huge tube of Chap-It and some Ibuprofen.
"My fiance will lean back on the bed and use her fingers to spread herself wide. It's as if she's inviting me to explore her body." Art, 29
Maybe she just had an itch.
"Wet your lips and moan that you can't to taste me." Sam, 22
You have got to be freaking kidding me. Sam,22 has seen way too many porn movies.
"An ex once came to bed in a soaking wet t-shirt. The sight was jaw dropping." Nick, 30
Not too mention unpractical and unhealthy. She could have caught her death of cold.
"News flash: Guys have nipples too." Rory, 21
WTF??? Are you serious? Guys have nipples too?
"Wear silk gloves to bed and rub them against sensitive regions, like my treasure trail." Louis, 24
Oh yes, let me get out one of my many, many pairs of silk gloves. And treasure trail? Really?
"My girlfriend pretend not to want to kiss me. I had to pry her mouth open passionately with my tongue." Ron, 25
Maybe she wasn't pretending, Ron. That's not foreplay; it's date rape.
"Do what my first girl did: Moan my name while I pressure you." Eddie, 28
Must we dwell on the past, Eddie? "Eddie...oh, Eddie...Eddie..." That does sound like mystical music.
"Right before I climax, spread your legs wide. It allows me plunge really deeply as I explode with pleasure." Meyer, 26
'Explode with pleasure'? Really? Who wrote this, Meyer, 26 or Fabio?
"While we were going at it from behind, this woman I was with let out a guttral scream. I'd sure like to hear that again." Nick, 28
Why don't you try punching her in the face?
"Brush your teeth with some minty toothpaste before going down on me. It'll feel extra shivery." Patrick, 24
Doesn't that defeat the purpose of brushing your teeth?
"My old girlfriend would have me pull out so she could rub my shaft against her external wetness." Spence, 22
'External wetness'? That sounds like a phrase you'd use after the one, "i peed my pants."
"One night, my girlfriend stopped the action and pointed to a camera she had set up in the corner." Justin, 21
That sounds like an episode of Law & Order waiting to happen.
The article was "Sex Tips From Guys," and here are a few of the sparkling gems I chose to disclose to you, my friends. My comments are below:
"The night after I got a big promotion, my girl announced that was going to give me only oral sex—all night." Kenneth, 32
Oh really, Kenneth? My only hope is that you rewarded her with a huge tube of Chap-It and some Ibuprofen.
"My fiance will lean back on the bed and use her fingers to spread herself wide. It's as if she's inviting me to explore her body." Art, 29
Maybe she just had an itch.
"Wet your lips and moan that you can't to taste me." Sam, 22
You have got to be freaking kidding me. Sam,22 has seen way too many porn movies.
"An ex once came to bed in a soaking wet t-shirt. The sight was jaw dropping." Nick, 30
Not too mention unpractical and unhealthy. She could have caught her death of cold.
"News flash: Guys have nipples too." Rory, 21
WTF??? Are you serious? Guys have nipples too?
"Wear silk gloves to bed and rub them against sensitive regions, like my treasure trail." Louis, 24
Oh yes, let me get out one of my many, many pairs of silk gloves. And treasure trail? Really?
"My girlfriend pretend not to want to kiss me. I had to pry her mouth open passionately with my tongue." Ron, 25
Maybe she wasn't pretending, Ron. That's not foreplay; it's date rape.
"Do what my first girl did: Moan my name while I pressure you." Eddie, 28
Must we dwell on the past, Eddie? "Eddie...oh, Eddie...Eddie..." That does sound like mystical music.
"Right before I climax, spread your legs wide. It allows me plunge really deeply as I explode with pleasure." Meyer, 26
'Explode with pleasure'? Really? Who wrote this, Meyer, 26 or Fabio?
"While we were going at it from behind, this woman I was with let out a guttral scream. I'd sure like to hear that again." Nick, 28
Why don't you try punching her in the face?
"Brush your teeth with some minty toothpaste before going down on me. It'll feel extra shivery." Patrick, 24
Doesn't that defeat the purpose of brushing your teeth?
"My old girlfriend would have me pull out so she could rub my shaft against her external wetness." Spence, 22
'External wetness'? That sounds like a phrase you'd use after the one, "i peed my pants."
"One night, my girlfriend stopped the action and pointed to a camera she had set up in the corner." Justin, 21
That sounds like an episode of Law & Order waiting to happen.
Friday, March 7, 2008
adventures in moving
So as some or most of you may know, I've recently moved from my home in Homewood at Mountain Woods (Hoods) apartments to another apartment closer to the downtown area. Though I love where the place is at, and there are many pluses that won me over in the end, it has been no easy feat.
We started packing up and moving my stuff last Saturday at about 7 in the morning. We didn't finish until 7 at night. I'm serious. It was ridiculous. I don't know how in the world I managed to accumulate so much crap! There were boxes upon boxes of things. And then there was the furniture. I have to give it to my dad, though. He kept his cool the whole day. I think it also helped that my bro-in-law and Craig came to help. He wouldn't dare show out in front of them.
Unfortunately, I had no utilities until Monday, and I was forced to drive home to Gadsden Saturday night. I soon realized that in our haste to pack everything, important stuff was stowed away. My shoes being one thing. Mother and I had one pair between us, and I ended up winning the right to wear them. My purse was also gone, along with my debit card and license. And sadly, I packed up all my clothes leaving me nothing to wear to work on Monday. I was forced to go buy a new pair of pants (it was torture) and search for things in my car (I found a sweater).
On Monday, I was called by the water people so that I could meet them out there to turn on the water. I waited around for an hour to no avail. When I finally called, asking where this waterman was, they told me that it was simply a courtesy call and I would have to turn my water on myself. Myself! I arrived home in a huff, determined to have water.
I took the wrench my father lent me down to the meter and ran across a streak of good luck. My neighbor (Paul of A7, as I have come to know him now) was outside, and he was so kind to turn my water on for me. However, I still had no heat.
Tuesday, the kind man from Alagasco came for to turn on my gas. We managed to get me hot water and a gas stove. When he went outside to light the pilot light, though, he was startled to discover that my furnace was rather old. He told he probably light it, but he really wanted me to have heat. He lit it, and when he turned on the heat, it made a really loud noise. He stepped out on the back porch area to take a look, and right at that moment, a giant fireball escaped out the back and blew the chamber door off (not that I really know what that means). He freaked out and told me that he had to tag it; it had to go. I called my landlord, and she was all, "we'll send someone to have a look." Gas man got on the phone and was all, "Nuh-uh, it's gotta go now."
That night, a kind old Hispanic gentleman brought me a space heater, "por la noche," which I gratefully accepted. Wednesday they repaired the damage, but I still feel as if I could be in some sort of danger.
Aside from all this, there are so many things to be done. I have seven different windows that need blinds and a window in the shower of my bathroom. There's paint over everything. On the floors, on the plug outlets, on the doors...and there are very few electrical outlets as it is. I'm missing light fixtures. My fridge is a little off-kilter in that it rocks back and forth. I haven't unpacked everything. I need rugs. Sigh. It's exciting, because it's my first place of my own that I've not shared with a roommate, but it's overwhelming.
On the bright side, I really like my job. I miss SL, but I know that I wouldn't have been able to find a job there. Here I'm getting to try a lot of different things, and I've got the ever-elusive insurance. Wonderful.
We started packing up and moving my stuff last Saturday at about 7 in the morning. We didn't finish until 7 at night. I'm serious. It was ridiculous. I don't know how in the world I managed to accumulate so much crap! There were boxes upon boxes of things. And then there was the furniture. I have to give it to my dad, though. He kept his cool the whole day. I think it also helped that my bro-in-law and Craig came to help. He wouldn't dare show out in front of them.
Unfortunately, I had no utilities until Monday, and I was forced to drive home to Gadsden Saturday night. I soon realized that in our haste to pack everything, important stuff was stowed away. My shoes being one thing. Mother and I had one pair between us, and I ended up winning the right to wear them. My purse was also gone, along with my debit card and license. And sadly, I packed up all my clothes leaving me nothing to wear to work on Monday. I was forced to go buy a new pair of pants (it was torture) and search for things in my car (I found a sweater).
On Monday, I was called by the water people so that I could meet them out there to turn on the water. I waited around for an hour to no avail. When I finally called, asking where this waterman was, they told me that it was simply a courtesy call and I would have to turn my water on myself. Myself! I arrived home in a huff, determined to have water.
I took the wrench my father lent me down to the meter and ran across a streak of good luck. My neighbor (Paul of A7, as I have come to know him now) was outside, and he was so kind to turn my water on for me. However, I still had no heat.
Tuesday, the kind man from Alagasco came for to turn on my gas. We managed to get me hot water and a gas stove. When he went outside to light the pilot light, though, he was startled to discover that my furnace was rather old. He told he probably light it, but he really wanted me to have heat. He lit it, and when he turned on the heat, it made a really loud noise. He stepped out on the back porch area to take a look, and right at that moment, a giant fireball escaped out the back and blew the chamber door off (not that I really know what that means). He freaked out and told me that he had to tag it; it had to go. I called my landlord, and she was all, "we'll send someone to have a look." Gas man got on the phone and was all, "Nuh-uh, it's gotta go now."
That night, a kind old Hispanic gentleman brought me a space heater, "por la noche," which I gratefully accepted. Wednesday they repaired the damage, but I still feel as if I could be in some sort of danger.
Aside from all this, there are so many things to be done. I have seven different windows that need blinds and a window in the shower of my bathroom. There's paint over everything. On the floors, on the plug outlets, on the doors...and there are very few electrical outlets as it is. I'm missing light fixtures. My fridge is a little off-kilter in that it rocks back and forth. I haven't unpacked everything. I need rugs. Sigh. It's exciting, because it's my first place of my own that I've not shared with a roommate, but it's overwhelming.
On the bright side, I really like my job. I miss SL, but I know that I wouldn't have been able to find a job there. Here I'm getting to try a lot of different things, and I've got the ever-elusive insurance. Wonderful.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
water under the bridge...
By now, most everyone has heard about the crazy Vietnamese man Lam Luong who chucked his four children off a bridge in Dauphin Islan.
It's an absolutely terrifying story, and I can't imagine what that woman must be going through. The kids were aged 4 months to 3 years, and I don't even want to know what was going through their minds as someone they trusted picked them up and flung them to their deaths.
However.
That being said, one must try to find some sort of light side in the wake of a tragedy such as this. Though this is a horrifying tale of bad parenting, there is only one thing more horrifying than the deaths of the children.
And that is the woman that CNN chose to speak to and broadcast in a video I found on CNN.com.
Some still photos:
Here this lady is, in all her glory. All the reporters seem to be hanging on to her every word.
Can you blame them? She looks like a pretty credible source.
"Thems was just BABIES! Baybies...them dint deserve that...thems was BAYBIES!!!"
Check out that sweet hairdo. Two scrunchies—that do ain't goin nowhere.
This is the moment where she just got fed up with all the reporters and decided to leave.
Look. At. That. Face.
She's outta here.
The reporters later explained that she felt so moved and compelled to lay flowers at the site.
Silk flowers.
These kids are DEAD lady. You couldn't have sprung for some live ones? Or at least taken the time to rip them out of someone else's yard on your way over?
This is Alabama they way the world sees us, folks.
It's an absolutely terrifying story, and I can't imagine what that woman must be going through. The kids were aged 4 months to 3 years, and I don't even want to know what was going through their minds as someone they trusted picked them up and flung them to their deaths.
However.
That being said, one must try to find some sort of light side in the wake of a tragedy such as this. Though this is a horrifying tale of bad parenting, there is only one thing more horrifying than the deaths of the children.
And that is the woman that CNN chose to speak to and broadcast in a video I found on CNN.com.
Some still photos:
Here this lady is, in all her glory. All the reporters seem to be hanging on to her every word.
Can you blame them? She looks like a pretty credible source.
"Thems was just BABIES! Baybies...them dint deserve that...thems was BAYBIES!!!"
Check out that sweet hairdo. Two scrunchies—that do ain't goin nowhere.
This is the moment where she just got fed up with all the reporters and decided to leave.
Look. At. That. Face.
She's outta here.
The reporters later explained that she felt so moved and compelled to lay flowers at the site.
Silk flowers.
These kids are DEAD lady. You couldn't have sprung for some live ones? Or at least taken the time to rip them out of someone else's yard on your way over?
This is Alabama they way the world sees us, folks.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
snow big deal
So this weekend, we got some snow. Finally. Everyone was waiting for it, though I was still not quite certain it was even cold enough to snow. But snow and behold, there it was, covering my apartment complex on Saturday morning.
I remember talking to my mom, either the day of or the night before, and she said, "I saw on the news that ya'll are supposed to get some snow this weekend. Have you been to the store? Do you have enough supplies?"
The first words out of my mouth were, "Yes, mother. I have milk and bread, and a jug of water in the fridge."
Then I stopped myself. I don't even know why I said that. I'm not particularly fond of milk, and I don't have anything to put in between the bread in the first place. Why does every feel the need to run out and get bread and milk as soon as the weather gets bad? We've been doing that since before I could remember.
I remember talking to my mom, either the day of or the night before, and she said, "I saw on the news that ya'll are supposed to get some snow this weekend. Have you been to the store? Do you have enough supplies?"
The first words out of my mouth were, "Yes, mother. I have milk and bread, and a jug of water in the fridge."
Then I stopped myself. I don't even know why I said that. I'm not particularly fond of milk, and I don't have anything to put in between the bread in the first place. Why does every feel the need to run out and get bread and milk as soon as the weather gets bad? We've been doing that since before I could remember.
Friday, January 11, 2008
not-so-cordial cherry
I've written a blog before about the many disgusting flavors of soda there are out there. Pepsi and Coke have each had their own foray into flavored fizzies, but when it all comes down, Dr. Pepper has really taken it to the next level. A level that I, and perhaps some others, was not quite prepared for.
Kaitie and I were in the sketchy Wal-Mart (the one out on Lakeshore - Stephanie, you know what I mean) purchasing some necessary items. We'd been discussing purchasing a soda inside, and soon after we walked in, Kaitie announced that she was really in the mood for Cherry Vanilla Diet Dr. Pepper, but hadn't seen one in a while.
As we walked over the cooler near the front of the store, I gave out a cry - I thought I had actually found a CVDDP.
Alas, I was mistaken. Upon closer scrutiny, I realized that this was not a CVDDP, nor was it Berries 'N Cream, or any of the others. No, no. It was worse.
Yes, folks, it was Cherry Chocolate Diet Dr. Pepper.
On a whim (actually, we debated about whether or not to drink it for a few minutes), we decided to check it out. I took the first swig. When it first hit my tongue, I was thinking, "Okay, not so bad."
Then came the after taste.
It was so nasty. It was just....ugh. I don't even know how to describe it. Weirdly enough, it did taste like chocolate and cherries.
And crap. Don't let those cute little cherries dripping with chocolate fool you. Aesthetics are only half the battle (or the bottle, rather), my friend.
Here is the description you can find on the Dr. Pepper Web site:
I have to say, I wasn't quite 100% satisfied. I wasn't even 50%. I was almost willing to trade in some extra calories for some flavor. Thank GOD it's only for a limited time. I can't imagine many tears will be shed when they take this little jewel off the shelves.
Bottom line: No soda should ever incorporate the flavor of chocolate. Never.
Kaitie and I were in the sketchy Wal-Mart (the one out on Lakeshore - Stephanie, you know what I mean) purchasing some necessary items. We'd been discussing purchasing a soda inside, and soon after we walked in, Kaitie announced that she was really in the mood for Cherry Vanilla Diet Dr. Pepper, but hadn't seen one in a while.
As we walked over the cooler near the front of the store, I gave out a cry - I thought I had actually found a CVDDP.
Alas, I was mistaken. Upon closer scrutiny, I realized that this was not a CVDDP, nor was it Berries 'N Cream, or any of the others. No, no. It was worse.
Yes, folks, it was Cherry Chocolate Diet Dr. Pepper.
On a whim (actually, we debated about whether or not to drink it for a few minutes), we decided to check it out. I took the first swig. When it first hit my tongue, I was thinking, "Okay, not so bad."
Then came the after taste.
It was so nasty. It was just....ugh. I don't even know how to describe it. Weirdly enough, it did taste like chocolate and cherries.
And crap. Don't let those cute little cherries dripping with chocolate fool you. Aesthetics are only half the battle (or the bottle, rather), my friend.
Here is the description you can find on the Dr. Pepper Web site:
I have to say, I wasn't quite 100% satisfied. I wasn't even 50%. I was almost willing to trade in some extra calories for some flavor. Thank GOD it's only for a limited time. I can't imagine many tears will be shed when they take this little jewel off the shelves.
Bottom line: No soda should ever incorporate the flavor of chocolate. Never.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
cape (cod) crusader
Whelp...I just booked my flight - I'm going to see my dear sweet biffle, Melanie, January 24-30. I'm so psyched! I can't wait. I haven't been to Massachusetts in a little over two years. We're going to see G. Love in Boston the Friday night I'll be there - superfun.
And in other news...who is this joker? He's on Law and Order Criminal Intent and looks like Patrick Swayze. I just don't like the looks of him.
And in other news...who is this joker? He's on Law and Order Criminal Intent and looks like Patrick Swayze. I just don't like the looks of him.
when red-eye goes horribly awry
I was fixing some old pictures to put online from a friend's birthday, and I realized that I had a ridiculous amount of red-eye to correct. In order to make sure my friends didn't look like posessed demons in all the pictures, I sat down to work.
If any of you have ever used the red-eye reduction function, you know that it has a tendency to not work. Or worse, it has a tendency to turn other things blackish-blue. Sadly, while touching up a picture of my friend Kevin, this happened:
It reminds me of the commercial that Joey did on Friend's for Ichiban, Lipstick for Men!
I will never be able to look at/think about this picture (of Kevin) and not laugh.
I'm laughing now.
More on Ichiban:
If any of you have ever used the red-eye reduction function, you know that it has a tendency to not work. Or worse, it has a tendency to turn other things blackish-blue. Sadly, while touching up a picture of my friend Kevin, this happened:
It reminds me of the commercial that Joey did on Friend's for Ichiban, Lipstick for Men!
I will never be able to look at/think about this picture (of Kevin) and not laugh.
I'm laughing now.
More on Ichiban:
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
No, no - after you
This morning while I was in the elevator, I was joined by a gentleman with a rolling case (not sure if it was of the suit- or brief- variety, but either way, it had wheels). We both entered on the first floor, and soon found out we were both headed to the third floor.
At the second floor, we made an unexpected stop, and were consequently joined by a well-dressed young woman and her Starbucks. She was on her way to the fifth floor, and would be along for the ride as well.
As we approached the third floor, the doors opened, and the young woman scooted back as to let us both through. I motioned to Rolling Case Man, and said, "Go on, you first."
To which he replied, "No, no - after you."
This little tennis match went on for about 20 seconds, when I finally relented and went out the elevator doors. As I exited, I heard the girl in the elevator sigh and say, "I just love Southerners."
So do I, lady in the elevator. So do I.
(***This week is traditionally when the new interns start to fill in, and they come from all over the US. I'm under the assumption that she was the new corporate intern, seeing as the old one (a good friend of mine) just left a week ago.)
At the second floor, we made an unexpected stop, and were consequently joined by a well-dressed young woman and her Starbucks. She was on her way to the fifth floor, and would be along for the ride as well.
As we approached the third floor, the doors opened, and the young woman scooted back as to let us both through. I motioned to Rolling Case Man, and said, "Go on, you first."
To which he replied, "No, no - after you."
This little tennis match went on for about 20 seconds, when I finally relented and went out the elevator doors. As I exited, I heard the girl in the elevator sigh and say, "I just love Southerners."
So do I, lady in the elevator. So do I.
(***This week is traditionally when the new interns start to fill in, and they come from all over the US. I'm under the assumption that she was the new corporate intern, seeing as the old one (a good friend of mine) just left a week ago.)
Thursday, January 3, 2008
publishing humor
I just so happened to click the "next blog" button on my browser window, and the very next blog had a post of publishing jokes. I thought they were cute :) The first one is my favorite, but you can check out the original for the entire post.
Q: How many copy editors does it take to screw in a light bulb?
A: I can't tell whether you mean 'change a light bulb' or 'have sex in a light bulb'. Can we reword it to remove the ambiguity?
Q: How many copy editors does it take to screw in a light bulb?
A: I can't tell whether you mean 'change a light bulb' or 'have sex in a light bulb'. Can we reword it to remove the ambiguity?
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