OK, so a few weeks ago, on a Sunday, I went and picked up a paper. I had to wait until after noon of course because Michigan still has their archaic Blue Laws that prohibit the sale of alcohol before that time, and I'm certainly not going to make 2 trips just to pick me up a new Black Box, when I am perfectly content to spend 4 hours laying around watching a marathon of 90210, waiting for the stroke of twelve. Alright, it was really more like 2 pm because there was that episode where Brandon gets caught sleeping naked with his ugly girlfriend, you know that smart one with the really bad hair and wart on her chin, at her parents' house when she had told them she was still a virgin, as if anyone would believe that you could actually date Brandon Walsh and not bone him repeatedly even though he's unfortunately short. Yes, I said bone. You can shake your head and read that again, but I said it. How many times must I tell you? I am a classy, classy chick with important things to say.
Anyway, that's not my point. So I was perusing the Free Press on that Sunday when I saw that they were having a contest for blog entries. It was being held by one of the staff bloggers, and the contest was called "Pimp my Blog" and if you won, you'd be one of 7 people to get your entry published on their website. And then the grand-prize-winner would get their entry published in the actual Sunday Free Press in the Editorial section. Awesome. I loved the name, I dig the chick who writes that blog/column, so I knew I had to enter.
So, being of sound mind and even sounder lazy-assitude, I submitted the Beaver piece that I wrote last winter. And yes, I did just insert a link to my own blog. Go ahead, sue me. It's still one of my favorites, and I think it gives a pretty good picture of my admittedly distorted, at times demented, point of view. So I emailed the chick and didn't think anything of it...And then she called me... And she emailed me back to tell me she'd called me...Because she liked the piece, but there was one problem... I had to submit something that had never been published before.
WTF??
Seriously? I mean, you know I love you to the ends of the earth my Lovelies, and I truly appreciate each and every one of my 8 loyal readers, but I never once considered that this was regarded as "publishing" even though I hit that "publish post" button each time I send you a new and compelling piece of prose. I know everyone in the world can read this blog, but they most certainly do not. And even though I now have an international audience thanks to my buddy the Commander being stationed over in Bahrain, I would still think there should be some minimum-readership rule in order for it to truly be considered "published." And I told her that. And she said too bad, stop being lazy (who me??) and gave me an extension. Til the next day.
And of course, I couldn't think of a single...solitary...thing to write. So I stumbled and fumbled and finally submitted something about the NJ political corruption scandal. And it was baaaaaaaaaaaad. No, really, it was awful. But I'm still gonna post it here in a few minutes because I may be vain, but I still gotta up my numbers. Besides, if I hit home-runs with my posts all the time, you'd be all freaked out about the literary wunderkind in your midst, and totally start stalking me because there is no one else on this earth as fundamentally hot and witty as I. Hey, it could happen.
So yeah, I did not win. I sooooo did not win. But in the end, as trite and suburban as it seems, I'm glad I tried. And deep down somewhere in the reaches of my dark and twisted soul, I know that the Free Press is probably not the best forum for my writing. I would be very glad for someone to point out what exactly that forum might be so that I can start making some much-needed extra coin here, but until then, I'm happy to write for you my Lovelies. I'm happy because I know you love my goofy stories about the Hobbit and the Banana and the Chicas and my Random Dudes. And some of you even love me, come on admit it, you do. It's OK, really, how could you not? So yes, we will continue our little cyber-love-fest here, and everyone else can suck it and suck it hard. And I can say that because I am a classy, classy chick...and a published author.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Previously Unpublished
OK, so I’m a Jersey Girl living here in the D, right? I’m an East Coast chick firmly ensconced in a suburban Midwest lifestyle, and I utterly dig it, save for the absence of proper diners and pizzerias here in the Motor City. I’ve got one foot in both camps, and I am at once thoroughly proud of, and therefore fiercely protective of both where I came from and where I currently live. It has been said, in fact, that I’m a bit of a Mama Bear, so that’s why the news of today made me wince and say “Oooh, that’s not gonna be good,” much like I did last week when I saw the tell-tale pink spray paint along that stretch of 696 through Oak Park. Queasy and bracing for the worst, I am, that’s how I roll.
For those of you living in a cave, or choosing to remain blissfully unaware of the world around you, the news of the day was the story of how 40-some people were arrested in New Jersey in a “widespread corruption ring.” After scanning the story on the Internet and determining, much to my chagrin, that none of the perp-walking parties were former boyfriends, I was able to get to the proverbial nuts and bolts of the story. Except it was kind of complicated. And I had to read it twice, which took away both my “lunchtime,” and my ensuing “stare into space-time,” which meant that I had to both read and look incredibly busy, which was so very exhausting. I really should get paid overtime.
Anyway, the gist of the story is that there are all of these people, and they all took money that they weren’t supposed to, for various reasons (seriously, Local 4 could use a chick like me to briefly summarize news events with compelling detail). Among those swept up in the dragnet were 3 mayors, 2 state legislator-dudes, some rabbis, and assorted regular-folk. They are accused of the aforementioned corruption, money laundering, and trafficking Israeli kidneys. (Don’t look at me like that, I couldn’t make this stuff up if I tried!) One of the ways they laundered said ducats was through the sale of fake Gucci and Prada bags. Now this little tidbit should stop the hearts of quite a few ladies I know who love nothing better than to shop for “replica” bags in dimly-lit suburban garages. Just think—the proceeds from that fabulous faux-Coach you purchased as an impulse buy after one too many Jello-shots could have been used to pay for ill-gotten-black-market-human-organs…hmmm…suddenly my “issue” with copyright infringement doesn’t seem so militant, does it??
Now here in the D, we are no strangers to the “Public Embarrassment by Public Officials” department, so we should be able to identify with the residents of New Jersey and share their dismay and frustration with once again being led astray by those chosen to lead. More likely, however, we are glad to have the spotlight taken off of our Kwame, and Mary/Sam, and Crazy Crazy Monica dramedies that have played out recently. So even though I bristle at what’s being said about my beloved Garden State, I understand that we really don’t need any more negative national coverage here in the Motor City. Nope, we need talk of wind turbines and rebuilding the Big Three, and ponies and balloons, and while we’re at it, fabulous money trees growing along Woodward. Of course we’d probably find out that they’d all been planted via inappropriately awarded landscaping contracts to longtime political cronies, but that would be months from now. By then, the wonks will have moved their scandal coverage to the next slow-moving-target, maybe this time in a pristine political city like Chicago. Yeah, they’re no better than us, but oh, man do they have good pizza.
For those of you living in a cave, or choosing to remain blissfully unaware of the world around you, the news of the day was the story of how 40-some people were arrested in New Jersey in a “widespread corruption ring.” After scanning the story on the Internet and determining, much to my chagrin, that none of the perp-walking parties were former boyfriends, I was able to get to the proverbial nuts and bolts of the story. Except it was kind of complicated. And I had to read it twice, which took away both my “lunchtime,” and my ensuing “stare into space-time,” which meant that I had to both read and look incredibly busy, which was so very exhausting. I really should get paid overtime.
Anyway, the gist of the story is that there are all of these people, and they all took money that they weren’t supposed to, for various reasons (seriously, Local 4 could use a chick like me to briefly summarize news events with compelling detail). Among those swept up in the dragnet were 3 mayors, 2 state legislator-dudes, some rabbis, and assorted regular-folk. They are accused of the aforementioned corruption, money laundering, and trafficking Israeli kidneys. (Don’t look at me like that, I couldn’t make this stuff up if I tried!) One of the ways they laundered said ducats was through the sale of fake Gucci and Prada bags. Now this little tidbit should stop the hearts of quite a few ladies I know who love nothing better than to shop for “replica” bags in dimly-lit suburban garages. Just think—the proceeds from that fabulous faux-Coach you purchased as an impulse buy after one too many Jello-shots could have been used to pay for ill-gotten-black-market-human-organs…hmmm…suddenly my “issue” with copyright infringement doesn’t seem so militant, does it??
Now here in the D, we are no strangers to the “Public Embarrassment by Public Officials” department, so we should be able to identify with the residents of New Jersey and share their dismay and frustration with once again being led astray by those chosen to lead. More likely, however, we are glad to have the spotlight taken off of our Kwame, and Mary/Sam, and Crazy Crazy Monica dramedies that have played out recently. So even though I bristle at what’s being said about my beloved Garden State, I understand that we really don’t need any more negative national coverage here in the Motor City. Nope, we need talk of wind turbines and rebuilding the Big Three, and ponies and balloons, and while we’re at it, fabulous money trees growing along Woodward. Of course we’d probably find out that they’d all been planted via inappropriately awarded landscaping contracts to longtime political cronies, but that would be months from now. By then, the wonks will have moved their scandal coverage to the next slow-moving-target, maybe this time in a pristine political city like Chicago. Yeah, they’re no better than us, but oh, man do they have good pizza.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
K-I-D in the D
OK, so a quiet Sunday morning has dawned here in the D, though Kelly-Girl did not personally witness said "dawn," but rather snored right through it on her way to a more humanly acceptable 9 am wake-up. I actually don't think I've seen the sun rise in...gee...ever. Oh, wait, there was that time...no...hmm. Well I can neither confirm nor deny that I did it, yet I do not think this sunrise-witnessing-crap is something that needs to be added to my bucket list. No way.
More importantly to you, my Lovelies, I'm ready to talk. Spill it, confess all, give you all the inside information. "Whatchu talkin' bout, Willis?" you ask with the giddy anticipation of a squealing throng of 15 year-olds at a Jonas Brothers meet and greet at a Metro Detroit IHOP because they don't have any diners in this godforsaken town and all I really want today is a proper pork-roll egg and cheese sandwich followed by a big fat nap and is that really too much to ask?? Whoa, sorry...got a little carried away there. Anyway, yes, I am finally ready to talk of the defining moment of my summer, nay, of my calendar-year thus far. Yes, your patience will finally be rewarded today as I tell you about...The Kid Rock Show.
Oh, yeah, Baby!
So, needless to say, I ultimately did not get my frequently-requested free ticketage or backstage passitude. But that is OK, because I know that the K-I-D is a busy, busy dude, and he can't always come to the door when I bang on it at 3 am, nor can he just give out tickets and passes to any hot single mom who asks for them. Well, there's really not that many of us, so technically he probably could do that and still turn a tidy profit, but really it's OK, I get it. And thanks to my brothers at StubHub, direct personal intervention from my Bobby was unnecessary. All I really cared about was going to the show, and oh, what a show it was.
Now I'm going to be brutally honest here, borderline blasphemous even. From a strictly musical standpoint, this particular K-I-D show was not the best one I've ever seen. I still think that his Pre-Super Bowl extravaganza at Joe Louis in 2006 was my all-time favorite. This show was really great, but the best? Sorry, no. Because they had the concert in a baseball stadium, during baseball season, it meant that they could not use a whole lotta real estate inside the park. The entire infield was all cordoned off as off-limits, and that meant that the stage was set up waaaaaay back in center field. So far in the outfield in fact, that I believe most of the amps were actually plugged into sockets located in Canada. Thank you, Windsor Power and Light! Here's what I could see...
More importantly to you, my Lovelies, I'm ready to talk. Spill it, confess all, give you all the inside information. "Whatchu talkin' bout, Willis?" you ask with the giddy anticipation of a squealing throng of 15 year-olds at a Jonas Brothers meet and greet at a Metro Detroit IHOP because they don't have any diners in this godforsaken town and all I really want today is a proper pork-roll egg and cheese sandwich followed by a big fat nap and is that really too much to ask?? Whoa, sorry...got a little carried away there. Anyway, yes, I am finally ready to talk of the defining moment of my summer, nay, of my calendar-year thus far. Yes, your patience will finally be rewarded today as I tell you about...The Kid Rock Show.
Oh, yeah, Baby!
So, needless to say, I ultimately did not get my frequently-requested free ticketage or backstage passitude. But that is OK, because I know that the K-I-D is a busy, busy dude, and he can't always come to the door when I bang on it at 3 am, nor can he just give out tickets and passes to any hot single mom who asks for them. Well, there's really not that many of us, so technically he probably could do that and still turn a tidy profit, but really it's OK, I get it. And thanks to my brothers at StubHub, direct personal intervention from my Bobby was unnecessary. All I really cared about was going to the show, and oh, what a show it was.
Now I'm going to be brutally honest here, borderline blasphemous even. From a strictly musical standpoint, this particular K-I-D show was not the best one I've ever seen. I still think that his Pre-Super Bowl extravaganza at Joe Louis in 2006 was my all-time favorite. This show was really great, but the best? Sorry, no. Because they had the concert in a baseball stadium, during baseball season, it meant that they could not use a whole lotta real estate inside the park. The entire infield was all cordoned off as off-limits, and that meant that the stage was set up waaaaaay back in center field. So far in the outfield in fact, that I believe most of the amps were actually plugged into sockets located in Canada. Thank you, Windsor Power and Light! Here's what I could see...
If you look veeeeerry carefully at the left-hand-side of the Rectangle of Light in the center, there is a tiiiiiny dude that I believe to be the K-I-D. Of course,it could also be a roadie or something, definitely not a stripper. But hey, that's what the Jumbo-tron is for, and I was able to take comfort in the fact that I really don't think anyone had good seats, thus I was not alone in having to watch the entire show on the big screen.
So he played all my favorite songs, and a couple I do not enjoy, but that's to be expected when "someone" refuses to review the set list with me beforehand. Whatever. But hands down, the best part of the entire K-I-D experience on July 18, 2009 was the people-watching. Bar none, the single greatest thing I've ever laid eyes on. My GF Mar and I arrived downtown at about 5:30 pm. But the Kid Rock All-Star Block Party started at 2 pm, and I would venture to guess that a vast number of the folks gathered in the streets around Comerica Park had been there way longer than that even. There were drunk people EVERYWHERE--and not the good, fun, rockin' out kind of drunk like I was. I mean blind stumbling, drooling, nearly comatose, yet somehow still walking around drunk. Oh, yeah. Seriously, it was so awesome.
Even better was the fashion. Now the K-I-D has a pretty wide fan base, and by wide, I mean young, old, rich, poor, city, trailery, but mostly, I really mean... fat. After what I witnessed on that night, there is no longer any doubt in my mind that the D is the fattest city in America. Yet bless their hearts, they jammed their ample selves into little tiny t-shirts and tank tops and short shorts and wow. Wowie wow wow. And you know, it's a concert, so they all mostly wore black, which I found so remarkable, because black is usually such a slimming color. Oh, and then there were some really perplexed and out-of-place-looking Euros who were dressed all in white linen. And loafers. Just begging to be barfed on by some Woo-Hoo-shouting drunk chick sporting a three-sizes-too-small halter top with an over-matched shelf-bra and 6, count them 6, Red Stag shot glass necklaces. Like I said, so very very awesome.
So yeah, I danced and sang and jumped around with my GF, and had a grand old time. I never once placed my sweet ass into the chair that cost me 75 of my own dollars. I also finally put to rest any notion of me touring with the K-I-D as one of his cage/pole dancers, because while I am still a physically remarkable specimen, I can no longer deny the fact that I am old. The next day my voice was hoarse, my knees ached and my feet hurt, and I felt all of my 29 years. Hey, it's my blog, I can lie if I want to. But really, it was a great night, a great show, and he is still on my short-list of favorite cats of all time. If you get the chance to see him live and in person yourself, go. Don't think about it, just do it. You will not be disappointed. Even if you do have to pay for your own tickets.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
This One's for the Ladies
OK, so after an admittedly poor posting-showing in the month of July, I'm back to hit August with a vengeance. I got me my list of ideas buried somewhere in the Black Hole of Calcutta, aka my handbag, so as soon as I get that out and peel off the gum and lip gloss, I'll be all set. I'm seeing a new dude, Mr. White (who is quite fab and wicked, wicked tall), the Chicas and I will soon be leaving on our East-Coast bump and run, and there's a whole lotta summer sun for the Banana to soak up, so the blogging possibilities are endless. But back to the business at hand. Now you all know that I'm not one to write about indelicate topics, for I am widely known as a paragon of style and good taste, but something happened this week that was at once so weird and personally humiliating, that I just had to stop and find some shred of hilarity in it. Luckily for you, my Lovelies, I did just that. And so today, I give to you, the story of my trip to....wait for it....the gynecologist.
Now, hold on a minute, come back here...trust me. See I had my annual exam a few weeks ago, and apparently I had an abnormal Pap, so I had to go back Wednesday for a colposcopy. More on that in a moment. My official diagnosis was ASCUS which stands for Atypical Squamous Cells of Undetermined Significance, which is an incredibly technical, highly scientifically accurate medical term for "We don't know what's wrong, so in order to cover our liability, come back in for another uncomfortable test." At the same time, no matter how many times I hear it (which is a lot, especially in my line of work) it always, always, reminds me of the ROUS in "The Princess Bride." That probably speaks more to my sophomoric sense of humor than anything else, but still, it does, and I can't help it. At least Dr. Benjamin's office is not in a Fire Swamp.
But I digress. So I get to the office, wait the obligatory 22 minutes in the waiting room proper, and then get led back to room #7. Now this is where things get a little freaky, so fellas, either jump off the ride right here, or keep your squeamish mouths shut. I don't want your whining to distract the others. So Assistant-Lady-Mary opens the door, and there in the room is the desk thing, the wheelie doctor-stool thing, and a really, really big chair. Now it took about 4 seconds for me to take in and process what area on my person needed to be examined, the route typically taken to access said area, and the notable absence of the usual gyno-table-stirrup-combo. I couldn't for the life of me figure out how this big eye-doctor-looking-chair thing factored into the equation, and I immediately wanted no part of this freak show. So naturally I turned and tried to bolt, only to be physically blocked at the exit by a suddenly and surprisingly strong Assistant-Lady-Mary who shoved a paper sheet at me and said the dreaded words, "Waist down."
And then she was gone, and I do not think I imagined hearing the lock click. Crap. Now, once you've given birth, you lose all that demure, cute little sense of embarrassment and self-consciousness at taking your clothes off in a doctor's office. No, I can state for a fact that the experience of childbirth completely strips you of any semblance of a sense of pride. The act of going to the doctor 486 times during the course of the pregnancy coupled with anyone and everyone looking and poking at your feminine business during the delivery itself shows you in no short order that nothing, and I do mean nothing, is sacred. And I did it 3 times. 4 if you count the miscarriage. Seriously, I'm lucky that the phrase "I just want to check your bottom" is not more commonly used in real-life, or there's a pretty good chance I'd drop trou right in the middle of Kroger.
But the chair threw me off completely. I was puzzled and befuddled, and so that's why when the door opened, Dr. Benjamin found me standing in the middle of the room, giant paper towel wrapped around my waist, just staring at it. And then he gestured for me to sit in it, and said, "Have you ever had one of these done before?" and I said, "No." And then he shook his head and said, "Yeah, they're not fun. Not at all. Nope." Really. I don't know if I was more struck by him admitting this was going to be "Not Fun" or by the fact that my doctor, my trusted medical professional said the word "Nope."
So then he pointed out the little stirrup thingies at the bottom of the chair, directed me to place my hoofs into them and said, "Hold on." Now, I'm sorry, but "Hold on" was not what I was expecting to hear while sitting in this chair wearing an industrial-sized Bounty, but then neither was what happened next. He pushed this button, and the chair started rising from the floor, and then I swear to God flipped me backwards and upside down. Oh, and then the seat dropped out. The blood immediately raced to my head, so the next ten minutes were a terrifying black-spotted dizzy fog of holding on for dear life with feet in air, a big ol' microscope thing, a horrific pair of wicked long scissors, a highly uncomfortable discussion of the current state of the Oldest Chica's reproductive health, and a "little pinch" on an area not at all used to being pinched. And then I was being righted and returned back to earth. It was over.
So yeah, with no dinner and a movie beforehand, no smack on the ass and "Gee that was great Baby" afterwards, I was left with an overwhelming feeling of What in the Freakin' Hell just Happened? It was completely and utterly bizarro and just goes to show that whenever I get cocky and think I got things all figured out, the Big Man Upstairs throws me a curve ball to get my attention and show me who's really boss. It's just that this time He chose to do it in the form of a minor health crisis and a kinko-chair. Dr. Benjamin assured me that the biopsy was most likely normal, or, as he so eloquently put it "probably totally nothing," and they'll call me with my results in a couple of weeks. But am I going to worry about it anyway? No way. Not me. Nope.
Now, hold on a minute, come back here...trust me. See I had my annual exam a few weeks ago, and apparently I had an abnormal Pap, so I had to go back Wednesday for a colposcopy. More on that in a moment. My official diagnosis was ASCUS which stands for Atypical Squamous Cells of Undetermined Significance, which is an incredibly technical, highly scientifically accurate medical term for "We don't know what's wrong, so in order to cover our liability, come back in for another uncomfortable test." At the same time, no matter how many times I hear it (which is a lot, especially in my line of work) it always, always, reminds me of the ROUS in "The Princess Bride." That probably speaks more to my sophomoric sense of humor than anything else, but still, it does, and I can't help it. At least Dr. Benjamin's office is not in a Fire Swamp.
But I digress. So I get to the office, wait the obligatory 22 minutes in the waiting room proper, and then get led back to room #7. Now this is where things get a little freaky, so fellas, either jump off the ride right here, or keep your squeamish mouths shut. I don't want your whining to distract the others. So Assistant-Lady-Mary opens the door, and there in the room is the desk thing, the wheelie doctor-stool thing, and a really, really big chair. Now it took about 4 seconds for me to take in and process what area on my person needed to be examined, the route typically taken to access said area, and the notable absence of the usual gyno-table-stirrup-combo. I couldn't for the life of me figure out how this big eye-doctor-looking-chair thing factored into the equation, and I immediately wanted no part of this freak show. So naturally I turned and tried to bolt, only to be physically blocked at the exit by a suddenly and surprisingly strong Assistant-Lady-Mary who shoved a paper sheet at me and said the dreaded words, "Waist down."
And then she was gone, and I do not think I imagined hearing the lock click. Crap. Now, once you've given birth, you lose all that demure, cute little sense of embarrassment and self-consciousness at taking your clothes off in a doctor's office. No, I can state for a fact that the experience of childbirth completely strips you of any semblance of a sense of pride. The act of going to the doctor 486 times during the course of the pregnancy coupled with anyone and everyone looking and poking at your feminine business during the delivery itself shows you in no short order that nothing, and I do mean nothing, is sacred. And I did it 3 times. 4 if you count the miscarriage. Seriously, I'm lucky that the phrase "I just want to check your bottom" is not more commonly used in real-life, or there's a pretty good chance I'd drop trou right in the middle of Kroger.
But the chair threw me off completely. I was puzzled and befuddled, and so that's why when the door opened, Dr. Benjamin found me standing in the middle of the room, giant paper towel wrapped around my waist, just staring at it. And then he gestured for me to sit in it, and said, "Have you ever had one of these done before?" and I said, "No." And then he shook his head and said, "Yeah, they're not fun. Not at all. Nope." Really. I don't know if I was more struck by him admitting this was going to be "Not Fun" or by the fact that my doctor, my trusted medical professional said the word "Nope."
So then he pointed out the little stirrup thingies at the bottom of the chair, directed me to place my hoofs into them and said, "Hold on." Now, I'm sorry, but "Hold on" was not what I was expecting to hear while sitting in this chair wearing an industrial-sized Bounty, but then neither was what happened next. He pushed this button, and the chair started rising from the floor, and then I swear to God flipped me backwards and upside down. Oh, and then the seat dropped out. The blood immediately raced to my head, so the next ten minutes were a terrifying black-spotted dizzy fog of holding on for dear life with feet in air, a big ol' microscope thing, a horrific pair of wicked long scissors, a highly uncomfortable discussion of the current state of the Oldest Chica's reproductive health, and a "little pinch" on an area not at all used to being pinched. And then I was being righted and returned back to earth. It was over.
So yeah, with no dinner and a movie beforehand, no smack on the ass and "Gee that was great Baby" afterwards, I was left with an overwhelming feeling of What in the Freakin' Hell just Happened? It was completely and utterly bizarro and just goes to show that whenever I get cocky and think I got things all figured out, the Big Man Upstairs throws me a curve ball to get my attention and show me who's really boss. It's just that this time He chose to do it in the form of a minor health crisis and a kinko-chair. Dr. Benjamin assured me that the biopsy was most likely normal, or, as he so eloquently put it "probably totally nothing," and they'll call me with my results in a couple of weeks. But am I going to worry about it anyway? No way. Not me. Nope.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Random Dude 3
OK, so I was at the mall the other day, which I usually do not do because as I have gotten older, I have grown to hate "The Mall." I do not enjoy the confluence of humanity in all of its sketchy, ill-dressed form, nor do I dig the inflated prices and surly teenager sales associates who couldn't act more offended when asked to do something crazy, like, I don't know...do their job. So yeah, I don't go there much.
So it was kind of ironic that I encountered the third winner of the Random Dude Award on a Saturday afternoon at the Westland Mall. I happened upon his vehicle, a very large, very white Ford F-250 as I trolled the aisles for a parking spot located an acceptable distance from the door--it's how I keep in shape, and as an added bonus, it allows me to continue to silently judge the old fat guys who drive up and down and around, all in the vain hopes of gaining the highly sought-after "right-next-to-the-handicap-spot" parking spot. That, plus I am convinced that the close-by spot has bad mojo. If I park in that close-by spot, I will not find what I am looking for, and be forced to visit the dreaded Mall once more.
But I digress. I saw the huge, yet not-jacked-up F-250, and was struck at once by it's behemoth size, pristine cleanliness, and of course, the obligatory two stickers in the back window that won him the coveted Random Dude Award. Now, shield your eyes, my Darlings, because these stickers were kinda bad. But on the other hand, I guess if you were a connoisseur of taste and refinement, you certainly would have stopped reading my blog months ago, so here goes, my little dirty little Lovelies.
OK, on the left-hand-side of the rear window was a sticker that proudly read "Ditch the Bitch--Let's Go Ridin'," and on the right-hand-side was a sticker of a hand gesture commonly referred to as "The Shocker." Seriously. Now, I am not going to get into the specifics of "The Shocker," you will need to check Wikipedia or your 17 year-old nephew for that definition, but suffice it to say that it is not classy. At all. And I think this is what surprised me, because the Westland Mall is widely-known as a pantheon of cosmopolitan culture and distinction, a veritable hotbed of distinguished charm and grace. And here was this travesty, sullying the place.
So I went against my innate, Jersey-perfected nature and did not ram his vehicle repeatedly, thus creating a tailor-made excuse for the insurance adjuster to cover up my still unrepaired bumper after the East Side Shopping Cart Incident. No, it would have felt really, really good, but I did not do it because I am growing emotionally, or so my therapist says. Instead, I pulled into the adjoining spot, and waited--hey, it was Saturday afternoon, I had nowhere to be, and I just had to see this colossal doofus with my own eyes. As I sat, I wondered what he looked like. Would he be a barely-twenty-something in one of those stupid white tank-top undershirts (I will not call them Wife-Beaters--if Child Molesters wore them, would that be a socially-accepted description of them?? I think not) with too much product in his hair, his pants slung low and belted well below his scrawny ass? Or would it be some scraggly 30 year old with a spotty goatee and a sideways-cocked Red Wings hat carrying a baby carseat? And then it dawned on me. What if, on one of this one occasion, the Random Dude with the Poorly-Thought-Out-Window-Stickers was actually a Random Chick? After all, I did see that really big lady with the poofy blonde hair and fluorescent pink acrylics tooling down Hall Road in a Jeep Liberty that said "Have a Nice Day Butthole." Hmm...nope...the presence of "The Shocker" sealed the proverbial deal. It had to be a dude--no self-respecting chick would be caught dead in a car with that sticker on it. Unless she borrowed it. The truck, not the sticker. Duh.
I waited, and waited, and after about 15 minutes, I saw the folly in my actions. I realized that it didn't matter what the Random Dude looked like, because he so had the Award in the bag no matter what. Actually, I began to fear that perhaps he was normal-looking, even worse, mildly attractive, because I may be a judgemental chick, but I'm still single and I gots dates to go on and a blog to write. I live in perpetual fear of meeting some nice guy, with a job and a house, and a well-adjusted sense of himself, and then going out to his car and seeing a PTOWS. Much like bad grammar or spelling errors, that's just a personality flaw I don't honestly know that I can overlook. In the end, I abandoned my quarry, and headed into The Mall with my head held high. I will never know what Random Dude 3 looks like, and I will have to be OK with it, because, even with good reason, stalking some poor stupid guy in a parking lot is not classy. And yeah, nothing says class like Kelly-Girl and the Westland Mall.
So it was kind of ironic that I encountered the third winner of the Random Dude Award on a Saturday afternoon at the Westland Mall. I happened upon his vehicle, a very large, very white Ford F-250 as I trolled the aisles for a parking spot located an acceptable distance from the door--it's how I keep in shape, and as an added bonus, it allows me to continue to silently judge the old fat guys who drive up and down and around, all in the vain hopes of gaining the highly sought-after "right-next-to-the-handicap-spot" parking spot. That, plus I am convinced that the close-by spot has bad mojo. If I park in that close-by spot, I will not find what I am looking for, and be forced to visit the dreaded Mall once more.
But I digress. I saw the huge, yet not-jacked-up F-250, and was struck at once by it's behemoth size, pristine cleanliness, and of course, the obligatory two stickers in the back window that won him the coveted Random Dude Award. Now, shield your eyes, my Darlings, because these stickers were kinda bad. But on the other hand, I guess if you were a connoisseur of taste and refinement, you certainly would have stopped reading my blog months ago, so here goes, my little dirty little Lovelies.
OK, on the left-hand-side of the rear window was a sticker that proudly read "Ditch the Bitch--Let's Go Ridin'," and on the right-hand-side was a sticker of a hand gesture commonly referred to as "The Shocker." Seriously. Now, I am not going to get into the specifics of "The Shocker," you will need to check Wikipedia or your 17 year-old nephew for that definition, but suffice it to say that it is not classy. At all. And I think this is what surprised me, because the Westland Mall is widely-known as a pantheon of cosmopolitan culture and distinction, a veritable hotbed of distinguished charm and grace. And here was this travesty, sullying the place.
So I went against my innate, Jersey-perfected nature and did not ram his vehicle repeatedly, thus creating a tailor-made excuse for the insurance adjuster to cover up my still unrepaired bumper after the East Side Shopping Cart Incident. No, it would have felt really, really good, but I did not do it because I am growing emotionally, or so my therapist says. Instead, I pulled into the adjoining spot, and waited--hey, it was Saturday afternoon, I had nowhere to be, and I just had to see this colossal doofus with my own eyes. As I sat, I wondered what he looked like. Would he be a barely-twenty-something in one of those stupid white tank-top undershirts (I will not call them Wife-Beaters--if Child Molesters wore them, would that be a socially-accepted description of them?? I think not) with too much product in his hair, his pants slung low and belted well below his scrawny ass? Or would it be some scraggly 30 year old with a spotty goatee and a sideways-cocked Red Wings hat carrying a baby carseat? And then it dawned on me. What if, on one of this one occasion, the Random Dude with the Poorly-Thought-Out-Window-Stickers was actually a Random Chick? After all, I did see that really big lady with the poofy blonde hair and fluorescent pink acrylics tooling down Hall Road in a Jeep Liberty that said "Have a Nice Day Butthole." Hmm...nope...the presence of "The Shocker" sealed the proverbial deal. It had to be a dude--no self-respecting chick would be caught dead in a car with that sticker on it. Unless she borrowed it. The truck, not the sticker. Duh.
I waited, and waited, and after about 15 minutes, I saw the folly in my actions. I realized that it didn't matter what the Random Dude looked like, because he so had the Award in the bag no matter what. Actually, I began to fear that perhaps he was normal-looking, even worse, mildly attractive, because I may be a judgemental chick, but I'm still single and I gots dates to go on and a blog to write. I live in perpetual fear of meeting some nice guy, with a job and a house, and a well-adjusted sense of himself, and then going out to his car and seeing a PTOWS. Much like bad grammar or spelling errors, that's just a personality flaw I don't honestly know that I can overlook. In the end, I abandoned my quarry, and headed into The Mall with my head held high. I will never know what Random Dude 3 looks like, and I will have to be OK with it, because, even with good reason, stalking some poor stupid guy in a parking lot is not classy. And yeah, nothing says class like Kelly-Girl and the Westland Mall.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
This Roar Ain't Dull
OK, so it's a relatively subdued morning here around Casa Chica, and I am thorougly digging the P & Q. The Hobbit is away at his summertime lair (a fact I know because I saw one of his underlings gain access to the Hut of Darkness, ostensibly to bring in the mail, but who are they kidding? It was to check on the collection of shrunken heads, poodle tails, and hearts of children whose parents have inexcusably parked directly in front of his home while visiting neighbors), the Banana has been oddly absent, and when he is around, even more oddly--completely clothed--so not sure what's up with him, and so here I sit in a clean, laundry-completed Casa, just waiting. The Chicas returned from Up North, and are still ensconced in their beds, sound asleep, or more-likely semi-comatose, based on their being gone in the sun and fun and fresh air for the past week. Yep, it's pretty freakin' quiet.
The phenomenon called "quiet" does not happen very often in this house with 3 little girls (yes, that's how many kids I have, and if you did not know that, you should be throat-punched, or at the very least directed to review previous posts--on your own time, for now you need to keep up with the rest of us). I gotta admit that I myself bought into those quaint pictorials featuring doe-eyed, freckle-faced girls skipping through the meadow in lavender plaid sundresses holding a bunch of dandelions, whose fuzzy white tops are delicately trailing behind them. Or the image of three sisters with neatly plaited hair, all cuddling together around a book, perhaps one of the Laura Ingalls series, the older ones taking turns to quietly read aloud to the younger one, introducing her to the joys of literature and the world of imagination. Yeah, all that is a bunch of crap. You want to know the real-life images associated with Casa Chica? Buckle up my Lovelies, here we go.
Casa Chica functions in a state of perpetual motion at a constant noise level of about 285 decibels. It could be the sheer number of children in my house, or the hardwood floors, or lack of dining room furniture, but I still contend it's because my kids are LOUD. Even when they whisper, they can be heard by the semi-deaf. And outside? Oh, My Ever-Living God, it makes your ears bleed. And as for gently guiding the youngest Chica? Yeah, not so much. Yesterday the oldest two shoved her in a bucket and hosed her down because they were playing "Filthy Dirty Baby Needs a Bath and the Bathtub is Broken." Granted it was a large bucket, and she seemed to enjoy it for 3 of the 18 minutes she was in said bucket, but still. Or there was this time...
The phenomenon called "quiet" does not happen very often in this house with 3 little girls (yes, that's how many kids I have, and if you did not know that, you should be throat-punched, or at the very least directed to review previous posts--on your own time, for now you need to keep up with the rest of us). I gotta admit that I myself bought into those quaint pictorials featuring doe-eyed, freckle-faced girls skipping through the meadow in lavender plaid sundresses holding a bunch of dandelions, whose fuzzy white tops are delicately trailing behind them. Or the image of three sisters with neatly plaited hair, all cuddling together around a book, perhaps one of the Laura Ingalls series, the older ones taking turns to quietly read aloud to the younger one, introducing her to the joys of literature and the world of imagination. Yeah, all that is a bunch of crap. You want to know the real-life images associated with Casa Chica? Buckle up my Lovelies, here we go.
Casa Chica functions in a state of perpetual motion at a constant noise level of about 285 decibels. It could be the sheer number of children in my house, or the hardwood floors, or lack of dining room furniture, but I still contend it's because my kids are LOUD. Even when they whisper, they can be heard by the semi-deaf. And outside? Oh, My Ever-Living God, it makes your ears bleed. And as for gently guiding the youngest Chica? Yeah, not so much. Yesterday the oldest two shoved her in a bucket and hosed her down because they were playing "Filthy Dirty Baby Needs a Bath and the Bathtub is Broken." Granted it was a large bucket, and she seemed to enjoy it for 3 of the 18 minutes she was in said bucket, but still. Or there was this time...
This photo was taken a couple of weeks ago at the Livonia Spree fireworks. All around us, families were quietly picknicking with their wholesome snacks of fruit and organic free-range soy crisps, eagerly awaiting the start of the early-summer spectacular of light and sound (ok, it is Livonia, so that might be a bit of a stretch). And what happened on our blanket? Yeah, I had three kids, all hopped up on faux-cheese Pringles, red-dye #12, and good old fashioned high fructose corn syrup pounding the life out of each other in a Tweeenage Version of Summertime Smackdown. They were a tangle of limbs, hair was flying everywhere, and at one point the Smallest Chica lost her pants. Oh, man, we were soooo the topic of many hushed ride-home discussions between horrified parents in their mini-vans emblazoned with stick figure kiddos and pets.
And you know what? I couldn't care less. I'm not saying that I don't make a good-faith effort to tame them when they start to act utterly feral, but really, at the end of the day, if they're not causing direct physical harm to either themselves or others, does it really matter? I know for a fact that I am referred to as "That Divorced Woman with Those Wild Girls" in certain circles around these parts, but I also know that my girls are good kids. They can be helpful, and kind, and quiet--just not around each other or me. And that's OK. They know how to behave well when it matters. I am purposefully making an effort to not sweat the small stuff, and in turn give them a place where it's OK to act up, yes, maybe even wild, and be as loud as they want because there's going to be an awful lot of people that want to paint them into a corner, plug them into a little box, and expect them to act and do things a certain way. But they sure as hell won't ever hear that from me.
So yeah, I'm embracing the calm before the storm on this lovely morning, and wondering what the day will bring. There was some talk of a lemonade stand after yesterdays "Buy a Bubble" stand was a bust (sorry, couldn't resist) and ended in a screaming match, or maybe they will once again tie Baby Girl and some teddy bears to the fence and invite their buddies over to see their petting zoo. The possibilities, along with the volume, are limitless. And I wouldn't have it any other way.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Up North
OK, so let's just overlook how much time has elapsed since my last post, shall we? The Chicas have been gone for the past 10 days, are home for 4, then leave again for another 10. It seems to me that the FM is playing a little fast and loose with the summer visitation rules, but the Chicas love being Up North, and it will only cost me a small fortune to deprogram them once they are safely back into my fold, so what do I know?
For those not in the know, "Up North" is a unilateral Michigander directional term much like "Down the Shore" is for us Jersey Natives. Except there's a whole lot more geography "Up North" than there is "Down the Shore," so Up North means pretty much any destination above M-59, including the UP. So that also means that in order to travel Up North, you can either be in the car for an hour, or for 8, and it still counts the same. It also encompasses virtually any type of property--whether it be a big-pimpin' house on a lake, a permanently-parked trailer in the woods, or a family farmhouse in BFE--doesn't matter and no one asks. As long as you have a place Up North, you are spoken about in hushed, envious terms by those of us trapped in the D on long-ass holiday weekends.
Not that my weekend was uneventful, my Lovelies. Nope I hung out with Monroe (the fella formerly known as "The Camping Guy," thusly nick-named for the town in which we met, purposefully overlooking the dodgy RV circumstances) and learned the painful lesson that I really cannot hang out with a dude for that long this early in the game. Not that it was completely my fault--there was literally nothing to do here in the D last weekend. The Tigers were away, there weren't any festivals or other people-watching opportunities, and absolutely everyone we knew was....say it with me...Up North. Yes, see you do pay attention after all! So there we were, two people still getting to know each other, trying to find something to do, and not having much luck. His neighbors had a lot of Blow-Your-Hand-Off Fireworks, but other than watching those over the fenceline, and waiting to see if EMS would need to be called, there wasn't nothin' goin' on.
And this week was no different. It was completely foreign to me for the Chicas to be gone and to not have to be anywhere or do anything. I guess I function in a constant, unconscious state of flurry, so the fact that I didn't have to race home to relieve the babysitter, or get anyone to practice or really do anything besides to go to work was kinda mind-blowing. So I did what any self-assured, independent single chick would do--I emotionally shut down for 72 hours, and then got off my ass and shook it off. I went for a 5 mile walk, went to dinner with a couple of girlfriends-past, and played an absolutely terrible round of golf on Thursday. But I got closest to the pin and some passably good pizza afterwards, so it all worked out well in the end.
So yeah, I did it. And now I'm going to enjoy my Chica-weekend and get my snuggles and kisses in before they head off again.We're going to have little friends visit to Slip-N-Slide, go to Art in the Park, and catch up on all their newly-forming vacation memories. I already have a game plan for this next break in the parenting action, and if Mr. Kid Rock comes through with my requested tickets (sorry to keep harping on this, but I really do not understand the delay) all will be entirely good in the 'hood once more. Oh, and just so you don't think I've gone completely Midwest, I'm also planning a kick-ass August Chica-vacation back East. Not that I'm deliberately trying to trump the FM and the mighty-mighty "Up North," but I'm pretty sure a visit to DC and Philly might come close. I might just throw in a side-trip Down the Shore for good measure.
For those not in the know, "Up North" is a unilateral Michigander directional term much like "Down the Shore" is for us Jersey Natives. Except there's a whole lot more geography "Up North" than there is "Down the Shore," so Up North means pretty much any destination above M-59, including the UP. So that also means that in order to travel Up North, you can either be in the car for an hour, or for 8, and it still counts the same. It also encompasses virtually any type of property--whether it be a big-pimpin' house on a lake, a permanently-parked trailer in the woods, or a family farmhouse in BFE--doesn't matter and no one asks. As long as you have a place Up North, you are spoken about in hushed, envious terms by those of us trapped in the D on long-ass holiday weekends.
Not that my weekend was uneventful, my Lovelies. Nope I hung out with Monroe (the fella formerly known as "The Camping Guy," thusly nick-named for the town in which we met, purposefully overlooking the dodgy RV circumstances) and learned the painful lesson that I really cannot hang out with a dude for that long this early in the game. Not that it was completely my fault--there was literally nothing to do here in the D last weekend. The Tigers were away, there weren't any festivals or other people-watching opportunities, and absolutely everyone we knew was....say it with me...Up North. Yes, see you do pay attention after all! So there we were, two people still getting to know each other, trying to find something to do, and not having much luck. His neighbors had a lot of Blow-Your-Hand-Off Fireworks, but other than watching those over the fenceline, and waiting to see if EMS would need to be called, there wasn't nothin' goin' on.
And this week was no different. It was completely foreign to me for the Chicas to be gone and to not have to be anywhere or do anything. I guess I function in a constant, unconscious state of flurry, so the fact that I didn't have to race home to relieve the babysitter, or get anyone to practice or really do anything besides to go to work was kinda mind-blowing. So I did what any self-assured, independent single chick would do--I emotionally shut down for 72 hours, and then got off my ass and shook it off. I went for a 5 mile walk, went to dinner with a couple of girlfriends-past, and played an absolutely terrible round of golf on Thursday. But I got closest to the pin and some passably good pizza afterwards, so it all worked out well in the end.
So yeah, I did it. And now I'm going to enjoy my Chica-weekend and get my snuggles and kisses in before they head off again.We're going to have little friends visit to Slip-N-Slide, go to Art in the Park, and catch up on all their newly-forming vacation memories. I already have a game plan for this next break in the parenting action, and if Mr. Kid Rock comes through with my requested tickets (sorry to keep harping on this, but I really do not understand the delay) all will be entirely good in the 'hood once more. Oh, and just so you don't think I've gone completely Midwest, I'm also planning a kick-ass August Chica-vacation back East. Not that I'm deliberately trying to trump the FM and the mighty-mighty "Up North," but I'm pretty sure a visit to DC and Philly might come close. I might just throw in a side-trip Down the Shore for good measure.
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