Re: actually there are no more choices. Life is set! The future is now! I'm going to Senegal with the Peace Corps in March! Yeah!
Already, my to-do list is growing. I need to eat as much disgusting American food as is humanely possible between now and then. I need to decide whether I will still be becoming part of the Apple computer generation with this new news. I need to find a clever saying involving the name SENEGAL to use for my going away karaoke party (all I have right now is "Sin and Gall!" We can do better). So I guess, in those ways, many choices remain. But I am super excited and borderline terrified about the sudden reality of leaving for two years. Especially after I googled 'Peace Corps Senegal' and found blogs about volunteers slaughtering scorpions in their rooms and sleeping on beds made of sticks. I mean, isolation, culture shock, the pressure to make a difference, blah blah blah -- but seriously, BED OF STICKS? Suddenly, I wonder... will that be the line I just. can't. cross. ?
We'll see. I'm sure there are leaves or something I can use to soften my bed of sticks.
Plus, I already passed the first pivotal choice by choosing BOTH options. That happened when the UPS man rang my doorbell at 2:15 last Thursday. I knew that my Peace Corps assignment was coming and I'd have to sign for it, but I had seriously just put some popcorn in the microwave. I didn't know what to do. You can't just stop microwaving popcorn. But the doorbell was ringing (IT WAS MY FUTURE, I HAD TO ANSWER). So after a moment where I literally started running to the door, then stopped and looked at the microwave, then started running again, then moved back to the microwave, I sprinted down the stairs, whipped open our numerous doors, yelled 'I'M SORRY I'M COOKING POPCORN I DON'T HAVE MUCH TIME', signed my "name," grabbed my package, and then ran back upstairs. It hadn't even been 30 seconds. The popcorn was far from done. Win. Win. Moments like this give me Peace Corps confidence.
Around these parts, I've kept busy with what has become my natural schedule... guard babies, dance badly yet proudly in the back row of classes with semi-professional dancers, write skits about clown murder and singularity robots that no one 'gets' for my writing classes, celebrate holidays. I had a dandy Halloween that involved two uses of the increasingly infamous gold-sequined dress (TIME OUT, DILEMMA: DO I BRING IT TO AFRICA???). The first night, I wore it with a few padlocks and bike locks around my neck and called myself GOLDILOCKS. Get it? The second night I wore it with a nasty wig, 80s blazer, cowgirl boots, and a giant stuffed bra and called myself DOLLY PARTON. On that night, I truly toed the line between being Dolly Parton and just looking like a transvestite. Again, CHOICES. I also gained newfound empathy for ladies with generous bosoms. I'm not going to lie, my back was aching by the end of the night. Also, my rack was so incredibly large that I honestly couldn't see when my skirt was riding a little higher than usual. Also, people felt free to feel me up all night, like my chest was some blarney stone or something. Girls with the big girls got it rough, I see that now.
This is really just all I have to say. Wait, that's never true. But this chair is really uncomfortable and I just want to stop. Also, I do want to say that Bristol's success on Dancing with the Stars has me very frightened about the future of America. People brush it off as "just a TV show" but no. This is the most-watched TV show in America. If this many people are taking Bristol Palin's success on it seriously... then you know, YOU KNOW that Sarah Palin is watching and taking notes and realizing that she can become president if these same people vote, just once, on a cold Tuesday in November. Call me paranoid and conspiratorial, but RIP America. Also, I just love that kid from Cory in the House.
Clearly, it is time for this post to end.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Ode to Dinosaurs and Donuts
At least 15 years have passed now, to the point where I feel comfortable talking about the fact that I used to watch Barney. Yeah. I did. Thinking about it brings back memories of intense shame, and I can remember thinking that I was way too old to be watching Barney. I was like 6. Maybe 7. But Barney was the GO-TO insult of the elementary school. It was the death blow. All a cool kid had to do was hum the bars to that "I love you" song, replace 'love' with 'hate,' and boom. Instant street cred, instant coolness. So, naturally, I kept my Barney watching on the dl at school.
I would make my sister watch it so that I could watch it. But in hindsight, I mean, HELLO. I was like 7. There were like 13 year old girls on that show (Lucy). Clearly it was not only aimed at toddlers. Clearly they were baiting second grade girls with their use of cool tweens for us to look up to (Lucy).
The other day, I played my same old tricks on the baby. Yeah that's right HEY BABY INSTEAD OF THOMAS THE TANK ENGINE TODAY YOU SHOULD WATCH BARNEY and I will be right here next to you also watching it. So that I can reminsce about my childhood and wonder what happened to that little black boy with the glasses or Hispanic Tina or Kathy with the annoying teddy bear or Alex or wait is that me mixing up Ghostwriter characters those were completely different shows WHATEVER we watched Barney. And the baby HATED it. It is not a show for babies. He was so freaked out. Everyone was talking too fast. And singing. Oh, and the whole "watch the stuffed dinosaur blow up into a scary, lifesize monster" thing didn't sit well with him either.
But anyway, GUESS WHAT HAPPENED TO ME TODAY!! I got a groupon for discounted dance classes, so obvi I was all over that. And when I go to research the dance studio... I FIND THIS:
instructor bios
I would make my sister watch it so that I could watch it. But in hindsight, I mean, HELLO. I was like 7. There were like 13 year old girls on that show (Lucy). Clearly it was not only aimed at toddlers. Clearly they were baiting second grade girls with their use of cool tweens for us to look up to (Lucy).
The other day, I played my same old tricks on the baby. Yeah that's right HEY BABY INSTEAD OF THOMAS THE TANK ENGINE TODAY YOU SHOULD WATCH BARNEY and I will be right here next to you also watching it. So that I can reminsce about my childhood and wonder what happened to that little black boy with the glasses or Hispanic Tina or Kathy with the annoying teddy bear or Alex or wait is that me mixing up Ghostwriter characters those were completely different shows WHATEVER we watched Barney. And the baby HATED it. It is not a show for babies. He was so freaked out. Everyone was talking too fast. And singing. Oh, and the whole "watch the stuffed dinosaur blow up into a scary, lifesize monster" thing didn't sit well with him either.
But anyway, GUESS WHAT HAPPENED TO ME TODAY!! I got a groupon for discounted dance classes, so obvi I was all over that. And when I go to research the dance studio... I FIND THIS:
instructor bios
Pia Hamilton
Owner, Instructor
Pia has been dancing since the age of 3. As a kid, Pia played the character "Min" on the popular children's television show, "Barney and Friends". Pia continued to dance throughout high school and college, receiving numerous awards and trophies, including scholarships to study in New York and Los Angeles. She has studied with the renowned Paula Morgan, with whom she assisted internationally in Italy, Canada, as well as in the U.S.
ARE YOU KIDDING ME? ARE YOU KIDDING ME?
THEY WENT ON TO BECOME SUCCESSFUL ADULTS! I am going to finally get to dance and, if I decide to ignore that it is a dance class and be super creepy, sing with one of Barney's friends of Barney and Friends. Completely without any sarcasm, can I just say I am totally STOKED? THIS IS FRUIT AND NUTZ!
In other 90s flashbacks, last weekend was PUMPKINFEST! What is Pumpkinfest? Oh just a holiday I made up, no big deal. I went home to Valpo to do pumpkin things with Laura and Maggie, but luckily those things did not include watching the Christina Ricci film Pumpkin. But they did involve pumpkin lattes, pumpkin patches, pumpkin slingshots, pregnant goats, pumpkin seeds, and pumpkin Heidi Montags. Also, Pumpkinfest included me wearing my 1997 Popcorn Princess sash and tiara all around the Lake County pumpkin patch. This was done because Laura and Maggie told me to. But let's face it, we all know that I wanted to relive the glory days, right? Again, let me reiterate that I am no longer ashamed of my guilty pleasures of the 90s and/or today. But the weird part was that NO ONE SAID A DAMN WORD TO ME about my outfit. How can anyone let some washed up county princess parading around a public farm in an aged tiara and sash pass by without a word? No, "Oh you were the Popcorn Princess?" No "What is that?" No "Why are you wearing that, psycho?" No requests for autographs? What is wrong with my state? What is happening to country folk when THEY CAN'T EVEN EMBRACE OR MAKE FUN OF ANYONE ANYMORE? ???????????
But seriously, another good part of Pumpkinfest was pumpkin donuts. I drove for miles to get those. They were worth it. Then again, it seems like donuts are the only thing worth anything to me these days. Today I had two. But it's no big deal, one of the moms I work for is a dietician, and she told me that you can't get diabetes just by eating a ton of sugar.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Crime and Changes in the Hood
So as I write this from the comfort of my cushy nanny job, Brandy, this blog's co-writer and co-founder, is attempting to backpack across the Himalaya mountains in India, braving the sun, the wind, the rain, and the elements, all while probably living on mere vegetables and curry (though she was pretty much already living on that here anyway). But yes! Brandy is gone. She kind of stopped writing a long time ago, which was sad. Because she was definitely still here. But with a snap a crackle and a pop, she is suddenly gone, for an indefinite amount of time. The name of this blog suddenly seems obsolete and weird. Oh well.
I'm still here.
Before Brandy left, we actually had a brush with the law. DA-DA-DAAAAAAAAA!!! Too bad my first sentence told you where I am, or else maybe you would think I AM IN JAIL! I'm not. I'm still here. But Brandy and I decided to do some September cleaning, clear out our closets, and sell our things along with all of the other free-wheeling hobos at the Logan Square Farmer's Market. You know, the ones who just sprawl out their stuff in the grass and hope people on their way to buy vegetables decide they want an old dress or an AV converter plug. In our first five minutes, we were wildly successful. Our main demographic seemed to be middle aged Hispanic women, they just really loved our clothes. But there was one middle aged Hispanic woman who didn't like our stuff: A LADY COP! Yeah, a lady cop came and busted our flea market. She threatened to fine us and made us pack up and leave. I felt like a gypsy. But then we just "sold" stuff from our porch, and when I say "sold," I mean we read magazines and drank lemonade and watched our leashed cat interact with passing dogs while no one bought our stuff. Capitalism!
My love of television recently hit a high (or low?) point when I found myself watching the finale of Bachelor Pad with our landlord, Joe. You may remember him as Robin Tunney's (Empire Records, The Craft) uncle or cousin or something. Yeah. But that happened. He was over, snaking the drain. Somehow ended up commenting on Tenley and Jake Pavelka with me in our living room. Somehow I ended up being able to carry on a very lively conversation with him on these subjects. And now it's Gossip Girl season, and I might even get into Dancing with the Stars. Jennifer Grey was reduced to tears over the memory of Patrick Swayze, so someone please explain to me how I can turn away from this show.
It is also football season. Yay! Watching the first game at an ND bar here in Chicago, I asked aloud who our quarterback was and was immediately smited by everyone around me. I don't know how everyone else knew who our quarterback was, it was the first game of the season! This is ridiculous! Why am I being punished for this?! I forgave my friends after they helped me do pushups in the middle of the bar. Last weekend, I went to South Bend for the game experience but not the game. To me, the game experience is going to Perkins dressed like a ghetto cowgirl with my uncle, then disrupting a few radio shows and getting a Pumpkin Spice Latte, then eating a traditional pasta dinner with Brookens and Tmoney before we head to the Backer where I inevitably get borderline violent after one Long Island Iced Tea. On game day, I found another fun use for my gold sequined Miami dress, and a lot of old people took paparazzi photos of me as I aimlessly wandered through the Joyce Lot looking for anyone I recognized, forgetting that I know no one in the city of South Bend anymore.
I also randomly got to see Moby for free, but it was kind of sad because I didn't recognize him when he took the stage. And how many 40 year old bald men can prompt such a strong crowd reaction? Apparently, for me, the answer is MORE THAN ONE.
So yeah, I finally sent my Peace Work medical paperwork in, but yeah, I'm pretty sure some stuff is going to be sent back because I made a lot of mistakes and tried to correct them. So it is just a packet of contradictions. Until my future comes through, I will continue to nurture these young children, dance, write, and wait for Mallory to come back to Chicago. Word!
I'm still here.
Before Brandy left, we actually had a brush with the law. DA-DA-DAAAAAAAAA!!! Too bad my first sentence told you where I am, or else maybe you would think I AM IN JAIL! I'm not. I'm still here. But Brandy and I decided to do some September cleaning, clear out our closets, and sell our things along with all of the other free-wheeling hobos at the Logan Square Farmer's Market. You know, the ones who just sprawl out their stuff in the grass and hope people on their way to buy vegetables decide they want an old dress or an AV converter plug. In our first five minutes, we were wildly successful. Our main demographic seemed to be middle aged Hispanic women, they just really loved our clothes. But there was one middle aged Hispanic woman who didn't like our stuff: A LADY COP! Yeah, a lady cop came and busted our flea market. She threatened to fine us and made us pack up and leave. I felt like a gypsy. But then we just "sold" stuff from our porch, and when I say "sold," I mean we read magazines and drank lemonade and watched our leashed cat interact with passing dogs while no one bought our stuff. Capitalism!
My love of television recently hit a high (or low?) point when I found myself watching the finale of Bachelor Pad with our landlord, Joe. You may remember him as Robin Tunney's (Empire Records, The Craft) uncle or cousin or something. Yeah. But that happened. He was over, snaking the drain. Somehow ended up commenting on Tenley and Jake Pavelka with me in our living room. Somehow I ended up being able to carry on a very lively conversation with him on these subjects. And now it's Gossip Girl season, and I might even get into Dancing with the Stars. Jennifer Grey was reduced to tears over the memory of Patrick Swayze, so someone please explain to me how I can turn away from this show.
It is also football season. Yay! Watching the first game at an ND bar here in Chicago, I asked aloud who our quarterback was and was immediately smited by everyone around me. I don't know how everyone else knew who our quarterback was, it was the first game of the season! This is ridiculous! Why am I being punished for this?! I forgave my friends after they helped me do pushups in the middle of the bar. Last weekend, I went to South Bend for the game experience but not the game. To me, the game experience is going to Perkins dressed like a ghetto cowgirl with my uncle, then disrupting a few radio shows and getting a Pumpkin Spice Latte, then eating a traditional pasta dinner with Brookens and Tmoney before we head to the Backer where I inevitably get borderline violent after one Long Island Iced Tea. On game day, I found another fun use for my gold sequined Miami dress, and a lot of old people took paparazzi photos of me as I aimlessly wandered through the Joyce Lot looking for anyone I recognized, forgetting that I know no one in the city of South Bend anymore.
I also randomly got to see Moby for free, but it was kind of sad because I didn't recognize him when he took the stage. And how many 40 year old bald men can prompt such a strong crowd reaction? Apparently, for me, the answer is MORE THAN ONE.
So yeah, I finally sent my Peace Work medical paperwork in, but yeah, I'm pretty sure some stuff is going to be sent back because I made a lot of mistakes and tried to correct them. So it is just a packet of contradictions. Until my future comes through, I will continue to nurture these young children, dance, write, and wait for Mallory to come back to Chicago. Word!
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
The baby is a dog. Also, Lisa reveals a secret life
So yeah, today, I finally realized something important about baby Cooper: HE THINKS HE IS A DOG.
Cooper has a few quirks. Among them, inhaling food like a snuffluffagus, hitting me, and saying "DINGDINGDINGDING" over and over. But he also does a weird thing where, instead of welcoming a visitor, immediately upon his or her entrance, he frantically finds something. Like, I enter the house every morning and the baby freaks out looking for his toys. His ball. His spoon. Anything. It's like how he announces your presence or something, and he never really looks at you, but he does it when his parents come home and when I show up. Whatever. But I mentioned it to the mom yesterday, and she was like, "Ha, just like the dog."
JUST LIKE THE DOG.
She had no idea how right she was! And now, NOW, the baby has started welcoming visitors by bringing them toys from the dog's toy basket. And trying to drink out of the dog bowl. OH MY GOD THE BABY THINKS HE IS A DOG.
I don't know how this happened. Then again, I do know how. I am only with the baby for three days a week. His father works during the week, and his mother works three days. THEREFORE, his most constant companion is the dog. So should I really feel like a failure because the baby is choosing to mimic his most steadfast teacher instead of me? Actually yes. Yes, I should. Because I am part of the human race, the one that invented fire and wheels and blenders. And acting. But oh well. At least for the moment, the baby could stand to learn some things from the dog, mostly in the going to the bathroom on command and not wandering off towards oncoming traffic departments.
So yeah, I'm just babysitting. Waiting for the doctor's office to finish my Peace Corps paperwork. I finally finished all my tests, at least for the time being, but I worry that my application is going to be flagged since I accidentally marked that my entire family suffers from extreme mental illness, and I did it in pen. So I anticipate the Peace Corps wanting to run some psychological tests on me before they really let me in. Personally, I think that my success in surviving the numerous blood tests -- BY MYSELF, in the hot hot heat, with a resting heart rate of 49 therefore I was basically a zombie -- proves my mental capabilities. But we shall see.
I spent a recent weekend working at Lollapalooza, and this year, I was "promoted" (?) to PROGRAM DISTRIBUTION. This meant I got to work inside the festival and stand near the Perry's stage and dance to techno in the rain, all factors that made people scared to actually ask me anything. I also was given boxes of programs to distribute. Obviously. So I threw a lot of them into crowds like confetti, yelling the most ridiculous things I could think of like "THESE ARE LIKE DRUGS WITHOUT DRUGS" and "IF I DON'T GET RID OF ALL OF THESE LADY GAGA WILL NOT PERFORM." Most people indulged me, but probably only due to the fact that I was wearing sequins.
I've really been trying to embrace the arts lately, which has been fun. At a recent improv class, we all had to go around and tell each other our strengths. Apparently my strength is playing slightly demented characters and trusting my acting friends to hurl me around the stage with their strong arms. Go me!
I went to a lovely dance performance the other night, but as I was crossing the street, an Escalade tried to hit me. I had the walk sign. So I made eye contact with the driver, which cuts down your chance of death by like 90%, because it's about the mammalian connection, but this guy looked me in the eye AND STEPPED ON THE GAS. So for the first time in my life, I flipped off a driver. Later I felt guilty because he looked like he might have been of Indian or Middle Eastern descent -- and what if he thought I was trying to say something about the mosque at the 9/11 site? Because I am totally for the mosque. And maybe he wanted to hit me because other people are against the mosque and he was having a super shitty day. I don't know. I still enjoyed the dance performance. I went to more dance performances over the weekend, but they turned out to be more like children's recitals than soul-quaking movement pieces. Dance is going to be my hobby.
So this is getting long, but I am going to be frank about a reality of my current life: I am super into TV. I mean, look at all of these other things I do, the things written about above. I have a life, right? I do. But then again, so much of my life currently revolves around my obsession with TV. Really bad TV too. I watch Bachelor Pad. I am obsessed with it. Like I join facebook groups encouraging contestants to date in real life. I watch Jersey Shore. I just finished this absolutely awful show called Plain Jane, which basically tells girls that if they get makeovers, guys won't be able to refuse them, and it is so horrible but I always watch it. Sometimes I think that TV is the new film, which was the new literature. But I do like to associate myself with literary culture. Except times have changed for this young woman, and I am super into TV.
I would talk more about TV but I am no John Siegel. Maybe I will discuss all of my favorite shows in my next post though.
LIFE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Cooper has a few quirks. Among them, inhaling food like a snuffluffagus, hitting me, and saying "DINGDINGDINGDING" over and over. But he also does a weird thing where, instead of welcoming a visitor, immediately upon his or her entrance, he frantically finds something. Like, I enter the house every morning and the baby freaks out looking for his toys. His ball. His spoon. Anything. It's like how he announces your presence or something, and he never really looks at you, but he does it when his parents come home and when I show up. Whatever. But I mentioned it to the mom yesterday, and she was like, "Ha, just like the dog."
JUST LIKE THE DOG.
She had no idea how right she was! And now, NOW, the baby has started welcoming visitors by bringing them toys from the dog's toy basket. And trying to drink out of the dog bowl. OH MY GOD THE BABY THINKS HE IS A DOG.
I don't know how this happened. Then again, I do know how. I am only with the baby for three days a week. His father works during the week, and his mother works three days. THEREFORE, his most constant companion is the dog. So should I really feel like a failure because the baby is choosing to mimic his most steadfast teacher instead of me? Actually yes. Yes, I should. Because I am part of the human race, the one that invented fire and wheels and blenders. And acting. But oh well. At least for the moment, the baby could stand to learn some things from the dog, mostly in the going to the bathroom on command and not wandering off towards oncoming traffic departments.
So yeah, I'm just babysitting. Waiting for the doctor's office to finish my Peace Corps paperwork. I finally finished all my tests, at least for the time being, but I worry that my application is going to be flagged since I accidentally marked that my entire family suffers from extreme mental illness, and I did it in pen. So I anticipate the Peace Corps wanting to run some psychological tests on me before they really let me in. Personally, I think that my success in surviving the numerous blood tests -- BY MYSELF, in the hot hot heat, with a resting heart rate of 49 therefore I was basically a zombie -- proves my mental capabilities. But we shall see.
I spent a recent weekend working at Lollapalooza, and this year, I was "promoted" (?) to PROGRAM DISTRIBUTION. This meant I got to work inside the festival and stand near the Perry's stage and dance to techno in the rain, all factors that made people scared to actually ask me anything. I also was given boxes of programs to distribute. Obviously. So I threw a lot of them into crowds like confetti, yelling the most ridiculous things I could think of like "THESE ARE LIKE DRUGS WITHOUT DRUGS" and "IF I DON'T GET RID OF ALL OF THESE LADY GAGA WILL NOT PERFORM." Most people indulged me, but probably only due to the fact that I was wearing sequins.
I've really been trying to embrace the arts lately, which has been fun. At a recent improv class, we all had to go around and tell each other our strengths. Apparently my strength is playing slightly demented characters and trusting my acting friends to hurl me around the stage with their strong arms. Go me!
I went to a lovely dance performance the other night, but as I was crossing the street, an Escalade tried to hit me. I had the walk sign. So I made eye contact with the driver, which cuts down your chance of death by like 90%, because it's about the mammalian connection, but this guy looked me in the eye AND STEPPED ON THE GAS. So for the first time in my life, I flipped off a driver. Later I felt guilty because he looked like he might have been of Indian or Middle Eastern descent -- and what if he thought I was trying to say something about the mosque at the 9/11 site? Because I am totally for the mosque. And maybe he wanted to hit me because other people are against the mosque and he was having a super shitty day. I don't know. I still enjoyed the dance performance. I went to more dance performances over the weekend, but they turned out to be more like children's recitals than soul-quaking movement pieces. Dance is going to be my hobby.
So this is getting long, but I am going to be frank about a reality of my current life: I am super into TV. I mean, look at all of these other things I do, the things written about above. I have a life, right? I do. But then again, so much of my life currently revolves around my obsession with TV. Really bad TV too. I watch Bachelor Pad. I am obsessed with it. Like I join facebook groups encouraging contestants to date in real life. I watch Jersey Shore. I just finished this absolutely awful show called Plain Jane, which basically tells girls that if they get makeovers, guys won't be able to refuse them, and it is so horrible but I always watch it. Sometimes I think that TV is the new film, which was the new literature. But I do like to associate myself with literary culture. Except times have changed for this young woman, and I am super into TV.
I would talk more about TV but I am no John Siegel. Maybe I will discuss all of my favorite shows in my next post though.
LIFE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Sunday, July 25, 2010
The Worst Night of My Life
LESSONS I LEARNED IN THE EARLY MORNING HOURS OF JULY 11TH
Don't change anyone's birthday plans for them. This can only end in the world slapping you with an open faced karma sandwich across the face.
Don't brush off the fact that your phone is dead.
Even if you check for your keys in your purse, and you hear them, and you feel them, THEY MIGHT NOT BE THERE, IT MIGHT JUST BE BOBBY PINS AND DIMES.
Always memorize a few other phone numbers than simply the one belonging to your half-deaf roommate.
Fix your spastic, non-working doorbell in case a crisis arises, such as in the event of having no phone and no keys and no contacts at 3:30am.
Always check the backyard for the possibility that a roommate is spooning with a boy in the dewy grass at 3:30am.
Don't tell a cabbie, "Yeah, you can leave, it's under control! Someone is here at this other house to help me!" if you do not know if that's true.
Avoid loitering in short dresses near parks populated with shady characters at 3:30am.
Avoid crying in the above situation.
Avoid pounding on your neighbor's door in an emotional frenzy in the above situation.
Avoid attracting unnecessary attention to yourself in the above situation.
Try to befriend people in your neighborhood who have doorbells that work.
Try to at least befriend a few people in a few surrounding neighborhoods.
If you finally find a friend with a working doorbell, be sure to identify yourself with first and last name. Then be sure to say THIS IS AN EMERGENCY LET ME IN so that they know you aren't a crazy crackwhore.
When you leave in the morning, try to get ahold of one of your roommates. Don't just leave. Don't just think that daylight will fix everything. Use the resources of internet and telephone available to you. Don't just leave!
If you just leave, you are a dipshit.
In essence, YES. I locked myself out of my EFFING house at 3:30am and had no phone and had NOWHERE. TO. GO. I suffered from PTSD for a few days afterward, and I remain nervous about leaving the house for any reason at all, because now I just want to be here all the time, always. I encourage anyone who has had a similar experience to speak up and speak out and let people know that you survived and this experience happened to you but IT DOES NOT DEFINE YOU. I am working through it. But I survived being on the street of Chicago.
Don't change anyone's birthday plans for them. This can only end in the world slapping you with an open faced karma sandwich across the face.
Don't brush off the fact that your phone is dead.
Even if you check for your keys in your purse, and you hear them, and you feel them, THEY MIGHT NOT BE THERE, IT MIGHT JUST BE BOBBY PINS AND DIMES.
Always memorize a few other phone numbers than simply the one belonging to your half-deaf roommate.
Fix your spastic, non-working doorbell in case a crisis arises, such as in the event of having no phone and no keys and no contacts at 3:30am.
Always check the backyard for the possibility that a roommate is spooning with a boy in the dewy grass at 3:30am.
Don't tell a cabbie, "Yeah, you can leave, it's under control! Someone is here at this other house to help me!" if you do not know if that's true.
Avoid loitering in short dresses near parks populated with shady characters at 3:30am.
Avoid crying in the above situation.
Avoid pounding on your neighbor's door in an emotional frenzy in the above situation.
Avoid attracting unnecessary attention to yourself in the above situation.
Try to befriend people in your neighborhood who have doorbells that work.
Try to at least befriend a few people in a few surrounding neighborhoods.
If you finally find a friend with a working doorbell, be sure to identify yourself with first and last name. Then be sure to say THIS IS AN EMERGENCY LET ME IN so that they know you aren't a crazy crackwhore.
When you leave in the morning, try to get ahold of one of your roommates. Don't just leave. Don't just think that daylight will fix everything. Use the resources of internet and telephone available to you. Don't just leave!
If you just leave, you are a dipshit.
In essence, YES. I locked myself out of my EFFING house at 3:30am and had no phone and had NOWHERE. TO. GO. I suffered from PTSD for a few days afterward, and I remain nervous about leaving the house for any reason at all, because now I just want to be here all the time, always. I encourage anyone who has had a similar experience to speak up and speak out and let people know that you survived and this experience happened to you but IT DOES NOT DEFINE YOU. I am working through it. But I survived being on the street of Chicago.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Lisa's Review of Pitchfork
So right now, my apostrophe key isn't working. I don't know how this will affect this post. It takes me about 7 jabs to make it work. Will my desire for correctly spelled contractions outpace the frenzied enthusiasm that always overtakes me on this blog? I DON'T KNOW. I don't know what is going to happen.
But anyway, I will now review Pitchfork! I am not in any way qualified for this endeavor. I didn't even go on Saturday, and also, I am clearly biased toward a few, simple things:
1. I like concerts where people are dancing all around me. Sometimes I just happen to be next to people on PCP. Sometimes everyone is dancing except the people around me who aren't on PCP or love and instead are on something like excessive alcohol, which is a depressant so maybe it inhibits dancing? Whatever, these things ruin or catapult a concert for me.
2. I like concerts where I can sing along with the words. Yeah, so sue me. I don't like new things. I like old things, comfortable things, like T-shirts I've had for years and popcorn. And I like being able to sing along, damnit.
3. I like when I can hear and understand poignant lyrics. If someone is trying to be poignant and I cannot understand them, boo. Boo. Boooooooo.
4. I like to be in one place at one time. I am not a genie! So sometimes, I may be unable to comment on what other "rock" "journalists" say were "the best shows ever." I may say that MY show was the best show ever. Maybe this is because my show WAS the best show ever. Maybe this is because I did not have a chance to see the ACTUAL best show ever. But WHATEVER these are my OPINIONS.
Okay, I think those are the important points. Onto the review/fun observations and events!
On Friday, I arrived, alone, as is typical for me at Pitchfork, 2 out 3 years. I immediately made a quiet friend wearing racing sunglasses who is in the Navy. We sat in the shade and listened, but did not look at, the Tallest Man on Earth, because, as every freaking music writer will remind you, he is not actually the tallest man on earth. I know. Spoiler alert! Whatever, height is about confidence. Or is it? But I thought his sounds were pretty great. I went and ate some free Clif Bar samples after that... BECAUSE A LIFE CHANGING EXPERIENCE WAS UPON ME.
My obsession with Robyn attacked me unpronounced. Our affair is only a few weeks old, but it is passionate, much like any new relationship. I tell everyone about her. I watch her videos constantly. I look to her for advice (hmm, I'm bored tonight, but no one wants to go out... what should I do, Swedish pop princess? GUESS I'LL JUST DANCE ON MY OWN! or hmm I think I was just sexually harassed, how do I feel about this, Robyn please help? YOU DON'T CALL ME SEXY UNLESS I SAY YOU CAN). I also try to dress like her. I didn't say it was a healthy relationship. But suffice to say, Robyn's set was the one I was most looking forward to.
And she did not disappoint! Backed by a band that looked strangely like ABBA with long hair, beards, and white suits, she danced the hell out of the heat and got most of the crowd dancing. I was especially impressed by her ability to inspire clearly straight teenage boys to dance. That, in my mind, is pop music success. Friday continued with a a set by Broken Social Scene that began as a tremor somewhere in the ocean and ended as a glorious tsunami, in a good magnificent way, and a set by Modest Mouse that reaffirmed my belief in their pretentiousness, which is a personal opinion that may have been exasperated by my escalating cold symptoms, but whatever, they pissed me off. And not just because they didn't play Float On, but partially. I just think at a festival you should play your big song for the half of the crowd who may not have been blessed with elite musical access during the 90s to familiarize themselves with your splendid other albums.
Anyway. On Saturday I was sick and slept all day, but I did catch the online live feed of Free Energy (good!), Jon Spencer Blues Explosion (sexy man in leather pants!), and Wolf Parade (nostalgia and happiness!). I also made a giant batch of cookies, so I felt good about that day.
But Sunday Sunday Sunday! The impending, the arrival! I arrived excited to see Girls and quickly turned mopey, because I did not like their set. I understand the whole idea that they lack potential live, but I had heard good things. These things were wrong. Their set was really mellow, more mellow than their album, but then, to pick things up, they just started playing all of their instruments at once to form a weird alien combat noise for like 5 minutes. I was standing in front of a little 7 month old baby, and the baby just screamed. Screamed and screamed and screamed. I was with my friend MK, and we were like, WHY DON'T THE PARENTS GET THE BABY OUT OF THERE! But I was also thinking, this baby is perceptive and my heart is screaming in the same way for this madness to end.
Next I saw Beach House, which was so incredibly lovely that I decided it was on par with Robyn's set. Plus, they had sparkly confetti party decorations (ALSO SOMETHING I LIKE THAT GIVES BONUS POINTS). I went to see part of Local Natives as well, and they were pretty good, I enjoyed it, but what made the biggest impression on me was how glaringly and obviously Texan the band was. Then MK told me they are actually from LA. Could've fooled me with those mustaches and flannel.
I gorged myself with curry and layed on the grass, listening to Surfer Blood and St. Vincent in the distance. I jammed out a little to Major Lazer at a dance party with some friends, but I spent much time out of the crowd. I am at a point in my life where I no longer feel the need to be at the forefront of every show! I can enjoy music from a distance, among friends. I can relax! I can be an adult.
Except when it comes to Sleigh Bells.
My decision to see Sleigh Bells over Big Boi was not one I took lightly. I pondered it, but eventually decided I wanted the Sleigh Bells EXPERIENCE. I wanted to the pulse and throb of a crowd. I wanted to see the crazy lady.
And did I, did I. Thanks to half of the Benz family, we were set up pretty near the stage. Everyone, I repeat, everyone in that crowd knew what was coming. Everyone knew Sleigh Bells was gonna get CRAZY, so everyone was pushing to the front of the stage from the beginning of Neon Indian, the preceding set. I was there.
And when Sleigh Bells started, I got even closer to the sweaty high smelly people around me. There was one huge push and WHAM! Of course, the purse that I've had for over two years, the purse that has survived Italy, Spain, France, Uganda, Club Fever, numerous Backer nights, and months of abuse immediately broke and tumbled into the mosh pit. Such is the power of Sleigh Bells. I frantically started pushing people out of the way and searching the ground for it, keenly aware that if I bent down for more than half a second, I would be trampled and killed instantly. Somehow, after 3 minutes of hell, I spotted the purse, and then used my elbows to escape the crowd. God gave us elbows for a reason. So that girls can wear big earrings in crowds and so that people can escape crowds. I made it out. I thought my adventure was over.
But lo and behold, for the third time in a row during my Pitchfork experience, I run into a completely random person at the Stage B moshpit! And my crazy friend of a friend Anton somehow convinces me to return to the moshpit for the last few Sleigh Bells songs... so in we go. And of course, I lose my shoes. And of course, people are stepping on my feet, elbowing me in the thigh, dislocating my shoulders.
And of course, at the end of the show, Alexis Krauss, aka the girl singer, decides to jump into the crowd, right on top of me.
I cannot hold her up. I'M NOT EVEN WEARING SHOES. Luckily, drunk teenage boys come to my rescue. When it's all over, I talk with them, and I'm like, "I can't believe I held her up!" And they say, "I can't believe I touched her tit!"
So, it don't get any more rock n roll than that. I don't care what anyone else says, Sleigh Bells wins. Thank you Pitchfork, and good night.
But anyway, I will now review Pitchfork! I am not in any way qualified for this endeavor. I didn't even go on Saturday, and also, I am clearly biased toward a few, simple things:
1. I like concerts where people are dancing all around me. Sometimes I just happen to be next to people on PCP. Sometimes everyone is dancing except the people around me who aren't on PCP or love and instead are on something like excessive alcohol, which is a depressant so maybe it inhibits dancing? Whatever, these things ruin or catapult a concert for me.
2. I like concerts where I can sing along with the words. Yeah, so sue me. I don't like new things. I like old things, comfortable things, like T-shirts I've had for years and popcorn. And I like being able to sing along, damnit.
3. I like when I can hear and understand poignant lyrics. If someone is trying to be poignant and I cannot understand them, boo. Boo. Boooooooo.
4. I like to be in one place at one time. I am not a genie! So sometimes, I may be unable to comment on what other "rock" "journalists" say were "the best shows ever." I may say that MY show was the best show ever. Maybe this is because my show WAS the best show ever. Maybe this is because I did not have a chance to see the ACTUAL best show ever. But WHATEVER these are my OPINIONS.
Okay, I think those are the important points. Onto the review/fun observations and events!
On Friday, I arrived, alone, as is typical for me at Pitchfork, 2 out 3 years. I immediately made a quiet friend wearing racing sunglasses who is in the Navy. We sat in the shade and listened, but did not look at, the Tallest Man on Earth, because, as every freaking music writer will remind you, he is not actually the tallest man on earth. I know. Spoiler alert! Whatever, height is about confidence. Or is it? But I thought his sounds were pretty great. I went and ate some free Clif Bar samples after that... BECAUSE A LIFE CHANGING EXPERIENCE WAS UPON ME.
My obsession with Robyn attacked me unpronounced. Our affair is only a few weeks old, but it is passionate, much like any new relationship. I tell everyone about her. I watch her videos constantly. I look to her for advice (hmm, I'm bored tonight, but no one wants to go out... what should I do, Swedish pop princess? GUESS I'LL JUST DANCE ON MY OWN! or hmm I think I was just sexually harassed, how do I feel about this, Robyn please help? YOU DON'T CALL ME SEXY UNLESS I SAY YOU CAN). I also try to dress like her. I didn't say it was a healthy relationship. But suffice to say, Robyn's set was the one I was most looking forward to.
And she did not disappoint! Backed by a band that looked strangely like ABBA with long hair, beards, and white suits, she danced the hell out of the heat and got most of the crowd dancing. I was especially impressed by her ability to inspire clearly straight teenage boys to dance. That, in my mind, is pop music success. Friday continued with a a set by Broken Social Scene that began as a tremor somewhere in the ocean and ended as a glorious tsunami, in a good magnificent way, and a set by Modest Mouse that reaffirmed my belief in their pretentiousness, which is a personal opinion that may have been exasperated by my escalating cold symptoms, but whatever, they pissed me off. And not just because they didn't play Float On, but partially. I just think at a festival you should play your big song for the half of the crowd who may not have been blessed with elite musical access during the 90s to familiarize themselves with your splendid other albums.
Anyway. On Saturday I was sick and slept all day, but I did catch the online live feed of Free Energy (good!), Jon Spencer Blues Explosion (sexy man in leather pants!), and Wolf Parade (nostalgia and happiness!). I also made a giant batch of cookies, so I felt good about that day.
But Sunday Sunday Sunday! The impending, the arrival! I arrived excited to see Girls and quickly turned mopey, because I did not like their set. I understand the whole idea that they lack potential live, but I had heard good things. These things were wrong. Their set was really mellow, more mellow than their album, but then, to pick things up, they just started playing all of their instruments at once to form a weird alien combat noise for like 5 minutes. I was standing in front of a little 7 month old baby, and the baby just screamed. Screamed and screamed and screamed. I was with my friend MK, and we were like, WHY DON'T THE PARENTS GET THE BABY OUT OF THERE! But I was also thinking, this baby is perceptive and my heart is screaming in the same way for this madness to end.
Next I saw Beach House, which was so incredibly lovely that I decided it was on par with Robyn's set. Plus, they had sparkly confetti party decorations (ALSO SOMETHING I LIKE THAT GIVES BONUS POINTS). I went to see part of Local Natives as well, and they were pretty good, I enjoyed it, but what made the biggest impression on me was how glaringly and obviously Texan the band was. Then MK told me they are actually from LA. Could've fooled me with those mustaches and flannel.
I gorged myself with curry and layed on the grass, listening to Surfer Blood and St. Vincent in the distance. I jammed out a little to Major Lazer at a dance party with some friends, but I spent much time out of the crowd. I am at a point in my life where I no longer feel the need to be at the forefront of every show! I can enjoy music from a distance, among friends. I can relax! I can be an adult.
Except when it comes to Sleigh Bells.
My decision to see Sleigh Bells over Big Boi was not one I took lightly. I pondered it, but eventually decided I wanted the Sleigh Bells EXPERIENCE. I wanted to the pulse and throb of a crowd. I wanted to see the crazy lady.
And did I, did I. Thanks to half of the Benz family, we were set up pretty near the stage. Everyone, I repeat, everyone in that crowd knew what was coming. Everyone knew Sleigh Bells was gonna get CRAZY, so everyone was pushing to the front of the stage from the beginning of Neon Indian, the preceding set. I was there.
And when Sleigh Bells started, I got even closer to the sweaty high smelly people around me. There was one huge push and WHAM! Of course, the purse that I've had for over two years, the purse that has survived Italy, Spain, France, Uganda, Club Fever, numerous Backer nights, and months of abuse immediately broke and tumbled into the mosh pit. Such is the power of Sleigh Bells. I frantically started pushing people out of the way and searching the ground for it, keenly aware that if I bent down for more than half a second, I would be trampled and killed instantly. Somehow, after 3 minutes of hell, I spotted the purse, and then used my elbows to escape the crowd. God gave us elbows for a reason. So that girls can wear big earrings in crowds and so that people can escape crowds. I made it out. I thought my adventure was over.
But lo and behold, for the third time in a row during my Pitchfork experience, I run into a completely random person at the Stage B moshpit! And my crazy friend of a friend Anton somehow convinces me to return to the moshpit for the last few Sleigh Bells songs... so in we go. And of course, I lose my shoes. And of course, people are stepping on my feet, elbowing me in the thigh, dislocating my shoulders.
And of course, at the end of the show, Alexis Krauss, aka the girl singer, decides to jump into the crowd, right on top of me.
I cannot hold her up. I'M NOT EVEN WEARING SHOES. Luckily, drunk teenage boys come to my rescue. When it's all over, I talk with them, and I'm like, "I can't believe I held her up!" And they say, "I can't believe I touched her tit!"
So, it don't get any more rock n roll than that. I don't care what anyone else says, Sleigh Bells wins. Thank you Pitchfork, and good night.
Friday, July 9, 2010
Lost, Confused, and Shunned
Let me tell you one thing I have learned about life, kiddos -- it goes on! You can quote me on that, that is an original quotation that came from my brain and has nothing to do with anyone's facebook profile or inspirational tote bags owned by mother.
No but let's get serious! Things be crazy up in here! I have had numerous nervous breakdowns as of late pertaining to my car, aka hell in a wheeled handbasket. The title seems appropriate because that is how slowly my car would go to hell. In a handbasket, carried by an old man. In fact, the other day, Brandy compared my car to an old, old man that I should perhaps let die. Instead, I have continued to drive my car in desperate situations.
The first desperate situation was the wedding of my dear friend and occasional blog reader JOSEPH MANCUSO! I decided to attend his surburban Chicago wedding at the last minute, necessitating the use of the highway and my POS car. I had visions of sweeping into the wedding 20 minutes early, not sweaty, not appearing as though I have an addiction to caffeine pills, with a lovely kept hairstyle, with a smile, and not feeling as though I almost died. This vision is the complete opposite of how I felt. Google maps... you do not tell someone a trip will take them 20 minutes when it will take 80. No. If google is on the bring of taking over the world, we are doomed. But I made it to the wedding! And after a series of events that we can all laugh about now that they are passed, Joseph and Elyse Mancuso are now married and I was there!
But for my car, the worst was yet to come. Also, the worst was yet to come for me, in terms of panic attacks. I set out next weekend for my friend and occasional blog-reader Chris's graduation party. I left with a feeling of hunger in my belly, but whatevs, the trip was supposed to take about 30 minutes. No. Again, abandon your stock in Google, company is doomed, because it took my 90 HUNGRY MINUTES in which BETH NEIMAN TEXTED ME TO SAY THE PARTY WAS OUT OF FOOD and then I got LOST and I could find no one to help me and then MY MUFFLER FELL OFF so I pulled into a church parking lot and cried.
Eventually I made it to the party and it turned out Beth was lying. The party was enjoyable and redeeming. But what was not redeeming was when I got lost on the way home and ended up driving my shitty car all around the Southwest Side of Chicago at night by myself. But I'm still standing!
I have also been a witness and victim of violence lately. One night, I was riding my bike home and about two blocks from my house, I was blessed with the chance to see the kind of catfight I thought only existed at an Indiana County Fair. But alas no! Women in tube tops stabbing each other with stilettos and slamming the each other's heads into the concrete also takes place on tree-lined boulevards in Chicago! My personal experience with violence happened on what one would think is one of the happiest, most welcoming events in Chicago: The Gay Pride Parade.
I know what you're thinking. Lisa, did you make a homophobic remark? Did you make fun of someone's outfit? Did you yell a profanity? Did you refuse a free condom? NO. No to all of those things. I was cheering for equal rights, wearing a gold-sequined flapper costume, being respectful to children, and taking free condoms when they were thrown in my face. What was my crime?
CROSSING THE PARADE ROUTE.
I had to get to my improv class. I had no idea that I'd boxed myself into the middle loop of the longest parade in history, still going strong after two hours. So even though I'd heard horror stories of friends crossing the parade route to jeers and condoms thrown with ANGER, I had to make a run for it. And when I did, no one was happy.
I made it across only to be refused help climbing the opposite barricade. Everyone was yelling at me! It was so scary! Then someone said they would help me climb if I "would give them something." In hindsight, this could have been a prostitution solicitation, but I gave them my Mardi Gras beads. So they helped me over, but not before I slammed and ripped my thigh against the steel corkscrew barricade. And thus, dripping with blood and a dollar-bill sized green welt, I made it to improv.
You see, all of these stories have happy endings.
Other than those semi-painful memories, I've been having fun letting the World Cup break my heart, helping baby Cooper learn about his environment by being patient as he hurls rocks at my head, continuing to wear my helmet, attending rave puppet shows, and trying to survive in a room without air conditioning. We went to a Cubs games to celebrate Mallory's birthday and were treated to a semi-streaker who I'm pretty sure got tased and an 8-run sixth inning by Cincinnati. Excitement! I continue to live in what my friend Lindsay has termed my "Peace Corps gestation period." I don't know how far along I am in this Peace Corps preganancy, but I'd guess I'd have a few months before it looks like a Peace Corps baby/future, and about 9 until I give birth to going anywhere.
Sorry, that metaphor was weird. But we all need to be more open and comfortable when it comes to talking about these things.
No but let's get serious! Things be crazy up in here! I have had numerous nervous breakdowns as of late pertaining to my car, aka hell in a wheeled handbasket. The title seems appropriate because that is how slowly my car would go to hell. In a handbasket, carried by an old man. In fact, the other day, Brandy compared my car to an old, old man that I should perhaps let die. Instead, I have continued to drive my car in desperate situations.
The first desperate situation was the wedding of my dear friend and occasional blog reader JOSEPH MANCUSO! I decided to attend his surburban Chicago wedding at the last minute, necessitating the use of the highway and my POS car. I had visions of sweeping into the wedding 20 minutes early, not sweaty, not appearing as though I have an addiction to caffeine pills, with a lovely kept hairstyle, with a smile, and not feeling as though I almost died. This vision is the complete opposite of how I felt. Google maps... you do not tell someone a trip will take them 20 minutes when it will take 80. No. If google is on the bring of taking over the world, we are doomed. But I made it to the wedding! And after a series of events that we can all laugh about now that they are passed, Joseph and Elyse Mancuso are now married and I was there!
But for my car, the worst was yet to come. Also, the worst was yet to come for me, in terms of panic attacks. I set out next weekend for my friend and occasional blog-reader Chris's graduation party. I left with a feeling of hunger in my belly, but whatevs, the trip was supposed to take about 30 minutes. No. Again, abandon your stock in Google, company is doomed, because it took my 90 HUNGRY MINUTES in which BETH NEIMAN TEXTED ME TO SAY THE PARTY WAS OUT OF FOOD and then I got LOST and I could find no one to help me and then MY MUFFLER FELL OFF so I pulled into a church parking lot and cried.
Eventually I made it to the party and it turned out Beth was lying. The party was enjoyable and redeeming. But what was not redeeming was when I got lost on the way home and ended up driving my shitty car all around the Southwest Side of Chicago at night by myself. But I'm still standing!
I have also been a witness and victim of violence lately. One night, I was riding my bike home and about two blocks from my house, I was blessed with the chance to see the kind of catfight I thought only existed at an Indiana County Fair. But alas no! Women in tube tops stabbing each other with stilettos and slamming the each other's heads into the concrete also takes place on tree-lined boulevards in Chicago! My personal experience with violence happened on what one would think is one of the happiest, most welcoming events in Chicago: The Gay Pride Parade.
I know what you're thinking. Lisa, did you make a homophobic remark? Did you make fun of someone's outfit? Did you yell a profanity? Did you refuse a free condom? NO. No to all of those things. I was cheering for equal rights, wearing a gold-sequined flapper costume, being respectful to children, and taking free condoms when they were thrown in my face. What was my crime?
CROSSING THE PARADE ROUTE.
I had to get to my improv class. I had no idea that I'd boxed myself into the middle loop of the longest parade in history, still going strong after two hours. So even though I'd heard horror stories of friends crossing the parade route to jeers and condoms thrown with ANGER, I had to make a run for it. And when I did, no one was happy.
I made it across only to be refused help climbing the opposite barricade. Everyone was yelling at me! It was so scary! Then someone said they would help me climb if I "would give them something." In hindsight, this could have been a prostitution solicitation, but I gave them my Mardi Gras beads. So they helped me over, but not before I slammed and ripped my thigh against the steel corkscrew barricade. And thus, dripping with blood and a dollar-bill sized green welt, I made it to improv.
You see, all of these stories have happy endings.
Other than those semi-painful memories, I've been having fun letting the World Cup break my heart, helping baby Cooper learn about his environment by being patient as he hurls rocks at my head, continuing to wear my helmet, attending rave puppet shows, and trying to survive in a room without air conditioning. We went to a Cubs games to celebrate Mallory's birthday and were treated to a semi-streaker who I'm pretty sure got tased and an 8-run sixth inning by Cincinnati. Excitement! I continue to live in what my friend Lindsay has termed my "Peace Corps gestation period." I don't know how far along I am in this Peace Corps preganancy, but I'd guess I'd have a few months before it looks like a Peace Corps baby/future, and about 9 until I give birth to going anywhere.
Sorry, that metaphor was weird. But we all need to be more open and comfortable when it comes to talking about these things.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
MIAMI
Recently, my father gave me a gift: the gift of a 2 for 1 Delta Skymiles voucher. With any gift comes great responsibility, but luckily, Brandy and I are two ladies who know how to look good and act bad (that has nothing to do with anything, it's just a quote from the blockbuster Vivica A. Fox smash 'Two Can Play That Game'), and we quickly set out some guidelines to shape our dream vacation.
First of all, we decided to travel on my birthday. This would make people assume that this was a "birthday trip" which allows them to buy us drinks, celebrate us, and excuse our selfish and/or indulgent behaviors. Second of all, we decided to travel someplace neither of us had been before. This ruled out most of the continental US, except for Las Vegas and Miami. We chose Miami, because Las Vegas is gross. Third of all, we decided to buy ourselves special outfits for the trip with the plane ticket money we were saving.
All of these points became important.
FOR EXAMPLE: because we chose to travel the day after my birthday, I chose to throw a rager on the night of my birthday. Because I spent my 21st birthday at the European Parliament instead of throwing up in a classy South Bend bathroom! Because being hungover on a plane is crazy! And because I wanted my birthday weekend to start of right! Well it did start off right, and I enjoyed the company of my friends, but then it went quickly downhill, i.e. walking to the O'Hare Blue Line at 5am, wearing a rainbow dress alongside Brandy in a giant hat which was her only carry-on, which meant we were cute, but didn't change the fact that I wanted to vom.
First impressions of Miami: palm trees. very hot. inefficient information on public transit available at the airport. Two out of those three piss me off.
While riding the bus to our hostel (YES WE STAYED IN A HOSTEL THEY AREN'T JUST FOR EUROPE ANYMORE BUT MORE ON THAT LATER!), the bus stopped to let a shirtless man on. Now, my first reaction to this was, "WHAT?! What about 'no shirt no shoes no service?!' Miami is CRAZY yo!" But then the bus driver said, "Sir, you have no shirt, I can't let you on the bus." So what does this guy do? Of course, with his waxed chest, huge muscles, and at least 18 years, he starts crying. Crying and calling out, "Does anyone have a shirt? Please! Please! Does anyone have a shirt?" And tears are streaming down his face. And it is a strange moment on the bus, personally, I don't know if he's a panhandler out to steal clothes and resell them or what, but from the back of the bus, a white tank top gets thrown at him, so he gets on.
He sits across from us and starts to calm down, so this other guy reaches out, man to man, bro to bro to comfort him. He asks crying naked man what's wrong, and c.n.m says, "My grandmom... she's dead. And my girlfriend... she left me! No like, she just left me on the side of the road. She drove away. When I needed her! She took my shirt!" And the other guy nods with empathy and goes, "Man, I know, I was all set to marry this girl I met on facebook, and I even went and visited her in England, and then she dumped me! But then I found another girl on facebook and I'm moving to Scotland to be with her! Things work out!" During this whole conversation, an elderly Latina is vigorously praying in Spanish over the crying naked man. Wait, no, there was a little bit of English. The English part was "JESUS LOVES YOU HE IS THE ONLY ONE WHO WILL ALWAYS LOVE YOU JESUS."
So this was our first impression of Miami.
We had other incidents like...
- seeing the cast of Jersey Shore on the beach (Jersey Shore, now filming at Miami Beach, yeah, we know, it seems paradoxical, but IT WAS REAL)
- accidentally getting drunk because when you order one drink in Miami, they bring you a FISHBOWL. And then they tell you it's buy one get one free day, so they give you another one. And if you're leaving, they put the alcohol in a CUP for you so that you can carry it all around town.
- spinning around outdoor dance floors with Latin men
- befriending club bouncers and getting "insiderz tipz"
But probably the most intense part of our trip involved our HOSTEL. I had been excited about the hostel. I remembered my Euro-treks, exploring exotic cities by day, forming international friendships, and dancing until dawn. I expected these things from the hostel advertised as "THE BEST HOSTEL IN NORTH AMERICA," plus it came with free breakfast, free lunch, free dinner, free club outings, free beach towels, free ping pong, and many other free things. What I did not expect was a zombie cult-land hostel with a bleached blonde 35 year old puppetmaster commanding me to go out clubbing as he rollerbladed around the rec room. What I did not expect was a front desk attendant who, when I asked her how to get to Little Havana, said, "I've never been there?" and then pulled out a map of Miami and circled the words LITTLE HAVANA and gave it to me. I did not expect that when crackers and a tub of peanut butter were placed before me, this was to be my breakfast. I did not expect to meet a French sailor either, but these things happened! Also, there were fat disabled cockroaches crawling around the floor, but they didn't hurt anyone, just added to the ambiance.
But yeah, we did go out in Miami with our hostel, despite the hostel manager's weird peer pressure. Brandy wore sky high white heels that made people holler things like, "You're in Miami, your dress shouldn't cover your butt all the way!" and "Hey, Cheesecake." I wore a gold sequined dress that prompted Russian tourists to take pictures of me in the street and snarky gay men to cry, "What threw up all over her?" We started parties, we got our free drinks, we left parties early to catch our 4am flight.
So yes, Brandy and Lisa DID MIAMI. We saw her treasures and Lisa was, on one occasion, poisoned by her food. In the end, I think we both decided that we are Midwestern girls. I know this is not how most people thought the story would end. I know many people thought the story might involve a little more Gloria Estefan and a little less heatstroke, but that is not what happened. This was the story of Miami. Never forget.
Also, I just want to say that much has changed since my older entries, i.e. I am now obsessed with the babies I nanny for. And when I say obsessed, I mean I have started calling them "my babies."
First of all, we decided to travel on my birthday. This would make people assume that this was a "birthday trip" which allows them to buy us drinks, celebrate us, and excuse our selfish and/or indulgent behaviors. Second of all, we decided to travel someplace neither of us had been before. This ruled out most of the continental US, except for Las Vegas and Miami. We chose Miami, because Las Vegas is gross. Third of all, we decided to buy ourselves special outfits for the trip with the plane ticket money we were saving.
All of these points became important.
FOR EXAMPLE: because we chose to travel the day after my birthday, I chose to throw a rager on the night of my birthday. Because I spent my 21st birthday at the European Parliament instead of throwing up in a classy South Bend bathroom! Because being hungover on a plane is crazy! And because I wanted my birthday weekend to start of right! Well it did start off right, and I enjoyed the company of my friends, but then it went quickly downhill, i.e. walking to the O'Hare Blue Line at 5am, wearing a rainbow dress alongside Brandy in a giant hat which was her only carry-on, which meant we were cute, but didn't change the fact that I wanted to vom.
First impressions of Miami: palm trees. very hot. inefficient information on public transit available at the airport. Two out of those three piss me off.
While riding the bus to our hostel (YES WE STAYED IN A HOSTEL THEY AREN'T JUST FOR EUROPE ANYMORE BUT MORE ON THAT LATER!), the bus stopped to let a shirtless man on. Now, my first reaction to this was, "WHAT?! What about 'no shirt no shoes no service?!' Miami is CRAZY yo!" But then the bus driver said, "Sir, you have no shirt, I can't let you on the bus." So what does this guy do? Of course, with his waxed chest, huge muscles, and at least 18 years, he starts crying. Crying and calling out, "Does anyone have a shirt? Please! Please! Does anyone have a shirt?" And tears are streaming down his face. And it is a strange moment on the bus, personally, I don't know if he's a panhandler out to steal clothes and resell them or what, but from the back of the bus, a white tank top gets thrown at him, so he gets on.
He sits across from us and starts to calm down, so this other guy reaches out, man to man, bro to bro to comfort him. He asks crying naked man what's wrong, and c.n.m says, "My grandmom... she's dead. And my girlfriend... she left me! No like, she just left me on the side of the road. She drove away. When I needed her! She took my shirt!" And the other guy nods with empathy and goes, "Man, I know, I was all set to marry this girl I met on facebook, and I even went and visited her in England, and then she dumped me! But then I found another girl on facebook and I'm moving to Scotland to be with her! Things work out!" During this whole conversation, an elderly Latina is vigorously praying in Spanish over the crying naked man. Wait, no, there was a little bit of English. The English part was "JESUS LOVES YOU HE IS THE ONLY ONE WHO WILL ALWAYS LOVE YOU JESUS."
So this was our first impression of Miami.
We had other incidents like...
- seeing the cast of Jersey Shore on the beach (Jersey Shore, now filming at Miami Beach, yeah, we know, it seems paradoxical, but IT WAS REAL)
- accidentally getting drunk because when you order one drink in Miami, they bring you a FISHBOWL. And then they tell you it's buy one get one free day, so they give you another one. And if you're leaving, they put the alcohol in a CUP for you so that you can carry it all around town.
- spinning around outdoor dance floors with Latin men
- befriending club bouncers and getting "insiderz tipz"
But probably the most intense part of our trip involved our HOSTEL. I had been excited about the hostel. I remembered my Euro-treks, exploring exotic cities by day, forming international friendships, and dancing until dawn. I expected these things from the hostel advertised as "THE BEST HOSTEL IN NORTH AMERICA," plus it came with free breakfast, free lunch, free dinner, free club outings, free beach towels, free ping pong, and many other free things. What I did not expect was a zombie cult-land hostel with a bleached blonde 35 year old puppetmaster commanding me to go out clubbing as he rollerbladed around the rec room. What I did not expect was a front desk attendant who, when I asked her how to get to Little Havana, said, "I've never been there?" and then pulled out a map of Miami and circled the words LITTLE HAVANA and gave it to me. I did not expect that when crackers and a tub of peanut butter were placed before me, this was to be my breakfast. I did not expect to meet a French sailor either, but these things happened! Also, there were fat disabled cockroaches crawling around the floor, but they didn't hurt anyone, just added to the ambiance.
But yeah, we did go out in Miami with our hostel, despite the hostel manager's weird peer pressure. Brandy wore sky high white heels that made people holler things like, "You're in Miami, your dress shouldn't cover your butt all the way!" and "Hey, Cheesecake." I wore a gold sequined dress that prompted Russian tourists to take pictures of me in the street and snarky gay men to cry, "What threw up all over her?" We started parties, we got our free drinks, we left parties early to catch our 4am flight.
So yes, Brandy and Lisa DID MIAMI. We saw her treasures and Lisa was, on one occasion, poisoned by her food. In the end, I think we both decided that we are Midwestern girls. I know this is not how most people thought the story would end. I know many people thought the story might involve a little more Gloria Estefan and a little less heatstroke, but that is not what happened. This was the story of Miami. Never forget.
Also, I just want to say that much has changed since my older entries, i.e. I am now obsessed with the babies I nanny for. And when I say obsessed, I mean I have started calling them "my babies."
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Love and Politics
So I spent a great deal of the past month wrestling my health issues -- my tongue problem was diagnosed as "geographic tongue"... GOOGLE IT. Or let me condense what wikipedia told me about it:
"Its cause is uncertain... Its prevalence also varies by nationality (0.6% of Americans, 4% of young Iraqis, 2% of young Finns) and gender (females affected 3 times more than males).... More often found in non-smokers."
WHAT? I have the only malady in history exacerbated by not smoking? And am I a young Iraqi? I DON'T KNOW OR UNDERSTAND MY DISEASE.
Anyway, I was also pretty sure I had a mild form of mono for a few weeks, but with sunshine and cutting down my social life, that went away. Woo! Which was perfect because it ushered in a new era of my life. At first I hesitated to write about this new era in case my life took an exciting turn and I FELL IN LOVE. As this has not happened, and I have avoided facebook/technological contact with the at-one-time-possible-lover, I now feel okay about documenting this milestone in my life. Yes. I am a city girl, and now, at age 22, I have finally been on my first real-life city girl date.
Now, a city date is different from any other type of date. Any other type of date involves someone three degrees of separation or less from you. A city date is random and crazy! It is with a stranger! I hate strangers! At least I have for 22 years. Until I decided to open up my heart and finally let a city date happen.
It all started at 3:30am at the local nasty 80s dance bar: The Hangge Uppe. Yes. That is where I saw him. We will call him Diego just to be fair. Diego was not a drunken dirty buffoon like most patrons. No. Diego was not drunk and I talked to him about his homeland Argentina. Diego was a PhD student at the University of Chicago. THIS COULD BE LOVE! So when Diego asked me what I was doing and I told him I was a nanny and he asked me if I babysat 26 year olds, I decided to ignore the inherent creepiness of his words and chalk it up to cultural differences. So we agreed to go on a date!
Unfortunately, over the subsequent weeks, Diego repeatedly texted me asking if I could "babysit." This really grossed me out. Then another bad thing happened: I read Emma. Anyone who has read Emma or seen Emma or watched Clueless or knows anything about Jane Austen knows that these things are never good for male suitors. No one can be Paul Rudd. Sorry. But I decided to let the date happen. City date! My first city date!
Yeah, first mistake, by me: I ordered a hamburger. They brought me the biggest hamburger I have ever seen! I COULD NOT FIT IT IN MY MOUTH. I just... COULDN'T. There was just... NO POSSIBLE WAY. I tried to tear pieces off, but things like lettuce and tomatoes kept sliding off the bun as I ripped and landing in my lap. After about 30 minutes, I just let them take it away.
Second mistake: I asked Diego to tell me about his thesis. Since I've been kind of into nanny labor laws lately, and I like third world countries and stuff, I thought I might be able to handle his eco-babble. I was wrong. 15 minutes of my life, gone.
Third mistake: I dumped my drink on myself.
Fourth mistake: I told a Latin man that I was "into" feminist studies during the first 10 minutes of our date. He laughed and said women just like men with money. I tried to eloquently explain otherwise but he wouldn't take it. So to prove the idiocy of his point, I said, "Well, if you're going to say that, then you can say that men choose women based only on attractiveness." He said, "Yeah. So? That's important. I wouldn't buy an ugly car."
Fifth mistake: No, just look at the fourth mistake again.
Sixth mistake: Then he told me about some time when he found some guy's credit card at a bar and went on a shopping spree. Because everyone loves an identity thief!
Seventh mistake: Due to the utter uneventfulness of my FIRST CITY DATE, when I saw some ND kids headed to the airport on the El, I was unnecessarily harsh with them. With excitement and dreamy tones in their voices, they asked if I was working in the city. I snapped, "YOUR DEGREE IS NOT RECESSION PROOF!" I blame Diego for this.
So is this what being a city girl is?! Is this what city life dating is?! I don't want it! I don't care! Carrie Bradshaw lied! This was a dumb, dumb experience. Though I do like life experiences, so I guess I am richer from it.
I also went to an art show the other day and some old women asked if Brandy was my girlfriend. I guess I would choose her over Diego.
Anyway, I've been pretty happy lately. It's been nice outside, so I've been taking my children to the park a lot. Random homeless men always compliment me on the babies and tell me how alike we look. They aren't my babies, but whatever. Last week, Cooper and I were shown in a CBS News clip about deadly flea medication for dogs. Someone was at the park and taped us petting a dog. Like "Awww, let's get stock footage of a baby and a dog and THEN WHAM! Talk about how all of the dogs are going to die!" Still, I'm famous. Going to the park can be lonely though... because of the nanny politics. I'm... going to write about that in a different entry very shortly. It deserves its own entry. UNTIL THEN!
"Its cause is uncertain... Its prevalence also varies by nationality (0.6% of Americans, 4% of young Iraqis, 2% of young Finns) and gender (females affected 3 times more than males).... More often found in non-smokers."
WHAT? I have the only malady in history exacerbated by not smoking? And am I a young Iraqi? I DON'T KNOW OR UNDERSTAND MY DISEASE.
Anyway, I was also pretty sure I had a mild form of mono for a few weeks, but with sunshine and cutting down my social life, that went away. Woo! Which was perfect because it ushered in a new era of my life. At first I hesitated to write about this new era in case my life took an exciting turn and I FELL IN LOVE. As this has not happened, and I have avoided facebook/technological contact with the at-one-time-possible-lover, I now feel okay about documenting this milestone in my life. Yes. I am a city girl, and now, at age 22, I have finally been on my first real-life city girl date.
Now, a city date is different from any other type of date. Any other type of date involves someone three degrees of separation or less from you. A city date is random and crazy! It is with a stranger! I hate strangers! At least I have for 22 years. Until I decided to open up my heart and finally let a city date happen.
It all started at 3:30am at the local nasty 80s dance bar: The Hangge Uppe. Yes. That is where I saw him. We will call him Diego just to be fair. Diego was not a drunken dirty buffoon like most patrons. No. Diego was not drunk and I talked to him about his homeland Argentina. Diego was a PhD student at the University of Chicago. THIS COULD BE LOVE! So when Diego asked me what I was doing and I told him I was a nanny and he asked me if I babysat 26 year olds, I decided to ignore the inherent creepiness of his words and chalk it up to cultural differences. So we agreed to go on a date!
Unfortunately, over the subsequent weeks, Diego repeatedly texted me asking if I could "babysit." This really grossed me out. Then another bad thing happened: I read Emma. Anyone who has read Emma or seen Emma or watched Clueless or knows anything about Jane Austen knows that these things are never good for male suitors. No one can be Paul Rudd. Sorry. But I decided to let the date happen. City date! My first city date!
Yeah, first mistake, by me: I ordered a hamburger. They brought me the biggest hamburger I have ever seen! I COULD NOT FIT IT IN MY MOUTH. I just... COULDN'T. There was just... NO POSSIBLE WAY. I tried to tear pieces off, but things like lettuce and tomatoes kept sliding off the bun as I ripped and landing in my lap. After about 30 minutes, I just let them take it away.
Second mistake: I asked Diego to tell me about his thesis. Since I've been kind of into nanny labor laws lately, and I like third world countries and stuff, I thought I might be able to handle his eco-babble. I was wrong. 15 minutes of my life, gone.
Third mistake: I dumped my drink on myself.
Fourth mistake: I told a Latin man that I was "into" feminist studies during the first 10 minutes of our date. He laughed and said women just like men with money. I tried to eloquently explain otherwise but he wouldn't take it. So to prove the idiocy of his point, I said, "Well, if you're going to say that, then you can say that men choose women based only on attractiveness." He said, "Yeah. So? That's important. I wouldn't buy an ugly car."
Fifth mistake: No, just look at the fourth mistake again.
Sixth mistake: Then he told me about some time when he found some guy's credit card at a bar and went on a shopping spree. Because everyone loves an identity thief!
Seventh mistake: Due to the utter uneventfulness of my FIRST CITY DATE, when I saw some ND kids headed to the airport on the El, I was unnecessarily harsh with them. With excitement and dreamy tones in their voices, they asked if I was working in the city. I snapped, "YOUR DEGREE IS NOT RECESSION PROOF!" I blame Diego for this.
So is this what being a city girl is?! Is this what city life dating is?! I don't want it! I don't care! Carrie Bradshaw lied! This was a dumb, dumb experience. Though I do like life experiences, so I guess I am richer from it.
I also went to an art show the other day and some old women asked if Brandy was my girlfriend. I guess I would choose her over Diego.
Anyway, I've been pretty happy lately. It's been nice outside, so I've been taking my children to the park a lot. Random homeless men always compliment me on the babies and tell me how alike we look. They aren't my babies, but whatever. Last week, Cooper and I were shown in a CBS News clip about deadly flea medication for dogs. Someone was at the park and taped us petting a dog. Like "Awww, let's get stock footage of a baby and a dog and THEN WHAM! Talk about how all of the dogs are going to die!" Still, I'm famous. Going to the park can be lonely though... because of the nanny politics. I'm... going to write about that in a different entry very shortly. It deserves its own entry. UNTIL THEN!
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Becoming a life gangsta
Many people have lately told me that our blog has "fallen off the face of the Earth." These people are wrong and stupid, because anyone who thinks that Earth "has a face" has never seen a satellite image. Welcome to 2010! But yes, I will admit that the writing has been sparse, perhaps because the life has been plentiful? Or maybe the writing has been sparse, because I hate computers.
I realized, with the help of my dear friend Catie Peters, that my recent career choice may be rooted in a repulsion toward technology. Nanny is one of the few remaining jobs that allows me to avoid a computer at all costs! Except it would be much easier if the baby was a robot. Except, OH WAIT --
So I have figured out how to defuse the child. The screaming, crazy, whiny, needy, attention hungry, and literally hungry child. The answer... is fans. I'm not even kidding you. KID IS OBSESSED, in a weird way. In the beginning, it was a cute way. Like, I'd be walking through the living room and the kid would look up at the ceiling, see the fan, and kind of reach toward it and smile. Cute. "Maybe he'll be a scientist!" cried his family. Yeah it's been two months now. Kid is still psychotic over the fan and more. But it's become my favorite weapon. It doesn't matter why the baby is crying -- one day he like ate shampoo, pinched his fingers in a cabinet, and had the flu -- all I have to do is say, "FAN. LOOK AT THE FAN." and he shuts up SO FAST and stares at the ceiling with deferential wonder. I hope you are getting the latent creepiness of his stare.
Anyway, my ability to mind-control the baby has me thinking that I'm on my way to being a life gangsta. What are the other qualities of a life gangsta? Let's see...
- having a shitty shitty car. Yeah, my car died. I wouldn't have fixed it, but it's illegal to leave a car on the side of the road, so I had to shell out mad cash for some mechanic to make it run worse than it did before. Every time I start the car, it gets the shakes like some sort of drug addict for about 10 minutes and then dies 1-2 times as I attempt to pull onto the road. It also smells of noxious gas every time I drive, but that's gangsta, right?
- COWBOY BOOTS. I bought some cowboy boots. I found a fantastic thrift store around the corner, stocked all up on great finds.... only to find out they had no dressing room and no mirrors and no return policy. Consequently, I ended up buying a pair of pants that turned out to be little girls' size 14 and a pair of size 10 cowboy boots for 3 dolla. If I could wear the jeans, I would - LIKE A GANGSTA. And I do wear the boots, despite them giving me jolly green giant feet. GANGSTA.
- Oh yeah, I got aggressive at a bar. I mean, I didn't full on get thrown out like Brandy, but I did rile up some townies. NOTE: This exchange happened at my favorite bar in the world, The Linebacker Lounge, in South Bend.
(Lisa, trying to maneuver through the sardines in a can bar, sloshes a bit of drink on an irritable townie)
Lisa: Oh! Sorry!
I.T.: (rolling her eyes) WHAT THE FUCK?
Lisa: Um, excuse me?
I.T.: I said, WHAT. THe. FUCK!
Lisa: Are you kidding me? You're at The Backer. Are you seriously pissed off at me for getting a little bit of this on you? If you want to stay dry, don't come here.
I.T.: FUCK YOU!
Irritable Townie's friend: What the hell bitch!
Irritable Townie's friend #2: Don't fucking talk to her like that bitch!
Lisa: WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT ME TO DUMP THIS WHOLE DRINK ON YOU BITCH?!
I.T.F1: Fuck you!
ITF2: Yeah you better run little girl, there are five of us and only two of you!
Lisa: (as Teresa pushes her away) What the hell! What the hell!
These things happen, sometimes.
- Other gangsta things I've done include smoking candy cigarettes on the roof of my apartment, being so tired every weekend that I pretty much never go out, having weird welts on my tongue (I only write about that because I know it is not an STD and I am insanely curious about what is wrong with me and perhaps someone has some knowledge about this vexing issue in my life but I also realize there is a stigma associated with the problem and people probably assume I have an STD), and acting as a standardized patient at the English language center where I tutor (the doctor I work with is a radiologist and told me my tongue welts are probably from not eating meat. I do not agree. Except ... bahhahah nevermind, I'm not gonna go there).
Currently, I'm sitting on the bed, hanging out with our weird cat, being sick, as usual, because it's gangsta to have infectious diseases from infants. But I've been thinking about my future and I still want to maybe do the Peace Corps or teach English somewhere next year. If anyone can recommend a good program, holla back.
WORD. Yeah but it does feel pretty good to have a weekly schedule. Love it.
Oh and Brandy went to Japan and Germany, but those are her stories to tell. GANGSTAAAAA
I realized, with the help of my dear friend Catie Peters, that my recent career choice may be rooted in a repulsion toward technology. Nanny is one of the few remaining jobs that allows me to avoid a computer at all costs! Except it would be much easier if the baby was a robot. Except, OH WAIT --
So I have figured out how to defuse the child. The screaming, crazy, whiny, needy, attention hungry, and literally hungry child. The answer... is fans. I'm not even kidding you. KID IS OBSESSED, in a weird way. In the beginning, it was a cute way. Like, I'd be walking through the living room and the kid would look up at the ceiling, see the fan, and kind of reach toward it and smile. Cute. "Maybe he'll be a scientist!" cried his family. Yeah it's been two months now. Kid is still psychotic over the fan and more. But it's become my favorite weapon. It doesn't matter why the baby is crying -- one day he like ate shampoo, pinched his fingers in a cabinet, and had the flu -- all I have to do is say, "FAN. LOOK AT THE FAN." and he shuts up SO FAST and stares at the ceiling with deferential wonder. I hope you are getting the latent creepiness of his stare.
Anyway, my ability to mind-control the baby has me thinking that I'm on my way to being a life gangsta. What are the other qualities of a life gangsta? Let's see...
- having a shitty shitty car. Yeah, my car died. I wouldn't have fixed it, but it's illegal to leave a car on the side of the road, so I had to shell out mad cash for some mechanic to make it run worse than it did before. Every time I start the car, it gets the shakes like some sort of drug addict for about 10 minutes and then dies 1-2 times as I attempt to pull onto the road. It also smells of noxious gas every time I drive, but that's gangsta, right?
- COWBOY BOOTS. I bought some cowboy boots. I found a fantastic thrift store around the corner, stocked all up on great finds.... only to find out they had no dressing room and no mirrors and no return policy. Consequently, I ended up buying a pair of pants that turned out to be little girls' size 14 and a pair of size 10 cowboy boots for 3 dolla. If I could wear the jeans, I would - LIKE A GANGSTA. And I do wear the boots, despite them giving me jolly green giant feet. GANGSTA.
- Oh yeah, I got aggressive at a bar. I mean, I didn't full on get thrown out like Brandy, but I did rile up some townies. NOTE: This exchange happened at my favorite bar in the world, The Linebacker Lounge, in South Bend.
(Lisa, trying to maneuver through the sardines in a can bar, sloshes a bit of drink on an irritable townie)
Lisa: Oh! Sorry!
I.T.: (rolling her eyes) WHAT THE FUCK?
Lisa: Um, excuse me?
I.T.: I said, WHAT. THe. FUCK!
Lisa: Are you kidding me? You're at The Backer. Are you seriously pissed off at me for getting a little bit of this on you? If you want to stay dry, don't come here.
I.T.: FUCK YOU!
Irritable Townie's friend: What the hell bitch!
Irritable Townie's friend #2: Don't fucking talk to her like that bitch!
Lisa: WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT ME TO DUMP THIS WHOLE DRINK ON YOU BITCH?!
I.T.F1: Fuck you!
ITF2: Yeah you better run little girl, there are five of us and only two of you!
Lisa: (as Teresa pushes her away) What the hell! What the hell!
These things happen, sometimes.
- Other gangsta things I've done include smoking candy cigarettes on the roof of my apartment, being so tired every weekend that I pretty much never go out, having weird welts on my tongue (I only write about that because I know it is not an STD and I am insanely curious about what is wrong with me and perhaps someone has some knowledge about this vexing issue in my life but I also realize there is a stigma associated with the problem and people probably assume I have an STD), and acting as a standardized patient at the English language center where I tutor (the doctor I work with is a radiologist and told me my tongue welts are probably from not eating meat. I do not agree. Except ... bahhahah nevermind, I'm not gonna go there).
Currently, I'm sitting on the bed, hanging out with our weird cat, being sick, as usual, because it's gangsta to have infectious diseases from infants. But I've been thinking about my future and I still want to maybe do the Peace Corps or teach English somewhere next year. If anyone can recommend a good program, holla back.
WORD. Yeah but it does feel pretty good to have a weekly schedule. Love it.
Oh and Brandy went to Japan and Germany, but those are her stories to tell. GANGSTAAAAA
Friday, January 15, 2010
Nanny of the Year
Let me begin by saying that the past week has destroyed my body. It's funny -- new mothers often say this about babies. But they are usually referring to stretch marks, distorted vaginas, swollen ankles, and the loss of their beloved "six-packs" (though they should have lost those during the pregnancy if you know what I mean -- oh! alcohol/body-part wordplay!). Yeah but I never gave birth. AND YET. These children are destroying me.
It all started on Monday when I was holding one of my babies and I fell down the stairs. Yes. I fell down a flight of stairs while holding a small, vulnerable child. I was wearing very warm, very slippery socks. Life happens! But it was fine, I protected the baby from danger by ensuring that I took all of the shock, bruising, and scraping from the fall. The next day, I couldn't walk on my ankle and to this day, it still hurts to put pressure on my tailbone, aka do anything whatsoever, including sleeping and sitting. The baby was physically fine. But apparently, being hurtled through the air in my arms psychologically damaged him, and he has hated me all week.
Then again, he did have more trauma later in the week. On this point, I blame the dog. I have to do this interesting thing where I push the stroller through the ice and walk the dog at the same time. It's usually all gravy, but sometimes OTHER DOGS ATTACK. And on Wednesday, that happened. And the stroller totally got badass on two wheels. Everything fell out of the stroller. Except the baby. So while I endangered the baby AGAIN, I also saved him. AGAIN. By using the safety harness.
On Tuesday, I was babysitting a different baby, but trying to use my bum ankle. Consequently, when I picked her up to put her in her crib, again, I fell, into a giant fan and a window and then the ground. Again, I destroyed my legs and elbows but protected the baby physically from harm. On the other hand, she screamed bloody murder all night. I think she was having falling dreams.
Today, I was babysitting baby number 3, and guess who calls but GRANDMA! This grandmother and I have a complex relationship. She is the only other babysitter in the baby's life at this time, so I think she has some issues with me. I mean, she likes me because I give her nights off, but I also sense a secret competition. Lately though, the grandma has been cornering me, looking at me with a potent stare, and saying things like, "You're a good babysitter." Today, she called just to chat with me (?!) and ended the conversation by saying, "Thank you for babysitting.... my grandchild." Ominous? Or thankful? We'll say thankful and put it in my nomination for nanny of the year. BOOM.
Other things that have happened lately:
- Brandy is in Japan. I am often lonely and bored.
- Mallory and I befriended a band of middle-aged musicians. They played a cover of "Laughter in the Rain,"which apparently, is Mallory's favorite song. The best thing about friendship is learning something new about your friend every day!
- I went to go see the film Up in the Air by myself. By the time the movie ended, I realized that the message of the movie was "Don't go see movies by yourself."
- I started taking a weekly dance class in hopes of exploring my joy for dance and becoming physically fit. At the first class, the teacher announced that this dance method is "about resisting the urge to use your core muscles and retreat to the body movements we had as babies, without muscles." So I feel like I might not be building muscle in this class.
- I may or may not have been hit on by a lesbian in a bar. Some girl came up to me and asked if I was "weaseling or wormholing." Then she asked if I was going to leave the bar. All I was doing was standing next to Matt Thomas, drinking a beer. And forgive me, but do the words 'weaseling' and 'wormholing' not sound kind of sexual? And why did she ask me to leave with her? Do I give off lesbian vibes? Maybe she just works at a zoo or something though.
It all started on Monday when I was holding one of my babies and I fell down the stairs. Yes. I fell down a flight of stairs while holding a small, vulnerable child. I was wearing very warm, very slippery socks. Life happens! But it was fine, I protected the baby from danger by ensuring that I took all of the shock, bruising, and scraping from the fall. The next day, I couldn't walk on my ankle and to this day, it still hurts to put pressure on my tailbone, aka do anything whatsoever, including sleeping and sitting. The baby was physically fine. But apparently, being hurtled through the air in my arms psychologically damaged him, and he has hated me all week.
Then again, he did have more trauma later in the week. On this point, I blame the dog. I have to do this interesting thing where I push the stroller through the ice and walk the dog at the same time. It's usually all gravy, but sometimes OTHER DOGS ATTACK. And on Wednesday, that happened. And the stroller totally got badass on two wheels. Everything fell out of the stroller. Except the baby. So while I endangered the baby AGAIN, I also saved him. AGAIN. By using the safety harness.
On Tuesday, I was babysitting a different baby, but trying to use my bum ankle. Consequently, when I picked her up to put her in her crib, again, I fell, into a giant fan and a window and then the ground. Again, I destroyed my legs and elbows but protected the baby physically from harm. On the other hand, she screamed bloody murder all night. I think she was having falling dreams.
Today, I was babysitting baby number 3, and guess who calls but GRANDMA! This grandmother and I have a complex relationship. She is the only other babysitter in the baby's life at this time, so I think she has some issues with me. I mean, she likes me because I give her nights off, but I also sense a secret competition. Lately though, the grandma has been cornering me, looking at me with a potent stare, and saying things like, "You're a good babysitter." Today, she called just to chat with me (?!) and ended the conversation by saying, "Thank you for babysitting.... my grandchild." Ominous? Or thankful? We'll say thankful and put it in my nomination for nanny of the year. BOOM.
Other things that have happened lately:
- Brandy is in Japan. I am often lonely and bored.
- Mallory and I befriended a band of middle-aged musicians. They played a cover of "Laughter in the Rain,"which apparently, is Mallory's favorite song. The best thing about friendship is learning something new about your friend every day!
- I went to go see the film Up in the Air by myself. By the time the movie ended, I realized that the message of the movie was "Don't go see movies by yourself."
- I started taking a weekly dance class in hopes of exploring my joy for dance and becoming physically fit. At the first class, the teacher announced that this dance method is "about resisting the urge to use your core muscles and retreat to the body movements we had as babies, without muscles." So I feel like I might not be building muscle in this class.
- I may or may not have been hit on by a lesbian in a bar. Some girl came up to me and asked if I was "weaseling or wormholing." Then she asked if I was going to leave the bar. All I was doing was standing next to Matt Thomas, drinking a beer. And forgive me, but do the words 'weaseling' and 'wormholing' not sound kind of sexual? And why did she ask me to leave with her? Do I give off lesbian vibes? Maybe she just works at a zoo or something though.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Resolved
Happy New Year! 2009 is over! I am so happy. On New Year's Eve afternoon, I was driving Brandy to Target and I hit a dog. I feel this incident was very illustrative of 2009 as a whole. I was just driving, driving down the street, listening to my new "2009: Killer Tunes!" cd that my father made for me with his bare hands (yes it includes Kelly Clarkson AND Phoenix?! AND Jay-Z AND... U2?... YES IT DOES). Yeah, I was just jamming, driving down the road, being safe. Much like I was living my life for this whole year. And then WHAM, a fricking DOG BOUNDS out of nowhere, from between parked cars, jumping all over the road like Balto on crack. And I made some sort of crazed squealing scream sound and slammed on my brakes and basically stopped, but the dog still jumped onto my bumper. So much like 2009, adversity came out of nowhere, but I still reacted so well and knew what to do! But there was still destructive contact! Still! 2009!!!!
Yeah but then the dog just bounded away. He was fine. I just sat in my car and kept making that sound, and for some reason there were a million people on the sidewalks of this suburban street, and they all just stared at me. Like I was the weird one! Like the fricking dog wasn't the weird one here! What kind of dog just runs into a car out of nowhere?! What was this dog, the fricking lead character from Marley and Me? Yeah, NO. I was not the guilty party. And the dog was alive. So why the judgment?! Why? So even the dog survived 2009 and I survived 2009, there was still this overbearing sense of doom and judgment from everyone around me. 2009! DUMB! So then I went to Target. YEAH I DID. I WENT to TARGET. Just like I drove into 2010, alive, with the dog, thirsty for MORE.
Here are my resolutions:
1. Not hit any more dogs, like I did on New Year's Eve at 1:30pm on my way to Target.
2. Develop a more grown up taste in food, as my appetite has been slowing sliding toward that of an infant. FOR EXAMPLE, I don't know how to use spices, and I usually like eating things like plain bread and raw vegetables and CHEESE. I have acquired an addiction to soy milk hot chocolate and I have been drinking it every day. To me, this is the equivalent of a baby being addicted to formula. I am a big baby.
3. Embrace the art of dance.
4. Speak Spanish.
5. Stay hip on music, like the cool kids.
6. Not get swine flu, like Brandy (sorry girl)
7. Invest in cowboy boots
8. Not tear any more of my pants dancing to the bridge of Bad Romance at
9. Be alive more
10. Make more music videos in the living room
11. Not destroy people's souls
12. Have long hair
13. Stop stealing things just for the thrill of it like Winona
14. Learn how to read again
15. Resolve for more resolutions because HA Genie you can't outsmart me
Resolutions of people I know:
1. "get insurance"
2. "buy a car"
3. "stop getting diseases"
4. "find a wood working studio that I can go to without the owner ringing our doorbell at all hours and verbally assaulting my protective roommates"
Good ideas all around! Happy New Year! This list may be annotated at any time in the next 11.9707598167 months
Yeah but then the dog just bounded away. He was fine. I just sat in my car and kept making that sound, and for some reason there were a million people on the sidewalks of this suburban street, and they all just stared at me. Like I was the weird one! Like the fricking dog wasn't the weird one here! What kind of dog just runs into a car out of nowhere?! What was this dog, the fricking lead character from Marley and Me? Yeah, NO. I was not the guilty party. And the dog was alive. So why the judgment?! Why? So even the dog survived 2009 and I survived 2009, there was still this overbearing sense of doom and judgment from everyone around me. 2009! DUMB! So then I went to Target. YEAH I DID. I WENT to TARGET. Just like I drove into 2010, alive, with the dog, thirsty for MORE.
Here are my resolutions:
1. Not hit any more dogs, like I did on New Year's Eve at 1:30pm on my way to Target.
2. Develop a more grown up taste in food, as my appetite has been slowing sliding toward that of an infant. FOR EXAMPLE, I don't know how to use spices, and I usually like eating things like plain bread and raw vegetables and CHEESE. I have acquired an addiction to soy milk hot chocolate and I have been drinking it every day. To me, this is the equivalent of a baby being addicted to formula. I am a big baby.
3. Embrace the art of dance.
4. Speak Spanish.
5. Stay hip on music, like the cool kids.
6. Not get swine flu, like Brandy (sorry girl)
7. Invest in cowboy boots
8. Not tear any more of my pants dancing to the bridge of Bad Romance at
9. Be alive more
10. Make more music videos in the living room
11. Not destroy people's souls
12. Have long hair
13. Stop stealing things just for the thrill of it like Winona
14. Learn how to read again
15. Resolve for more resolutions because HA Genie you can't outsmart me
Resolutions of people I know:
1. "get insurance"
2. "buy a car"
3. "stop getting diseases"
4. "find a wood working studio that I can go to without the owner ringing our doorbell at all hours and verbally assaulting my protective roommates"
Good ideas all around! Happy New Year! This list may be annotated at any time in the next 11.9707598167 months
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