Kind of. Maybe.
Ok, it's kind of a stretch for a conclusion, but what do you expect from me? It's semi-viable.
Let me explain.
It's Christmas Day and I have set my alarm for 7:30 AM so that we can open presents as a family at 8:00 sharp and then head down to the homeless shelter to prepare food for those who can't afford a meal on Christmas.
I'm not joking.
My dad always cooks up these half-brained ideas and throws them together at the last minute. And, to please our ever-adoring and giving father, my brothers and I succumb to the prepositions and blindly follow along. This is what happened two days before Christmas. My parents called us all into the kitchen to make an announcement.
Father: "We are going to do something to benefit mankind on Christmas Day."
Me: "Are we going to plant a tree?"
Father: "No, better."
Hayden (13-yr-old): "Are we going to give away money?"
Father: "No, better."
Spencer (sophomore in college; king of the frat boys) says with a dry tone of voice and a look in his eyes that screams 'you've GOT to be kidding me' as he slumps down in his seat: "We're going to a homeless shelter."
Father, gleaming with pride: "THAT'S RIGHT! On Christmas morning, we are going to go work at a homeless shelter for a few hours."
Hayden, with a look of utter horror: "BUT WHAT ABOUT OPENING OUR PRESENTS?!?!?!?!?!?"
Father: "We can open them before or after we serve food for 4 hours."
**All children look at each other like WTF?**
Me, trying to encourage the idea onto my brothers: "OK, yeah this is a good idea guys. We can do it. It'll be....fun."
**Brothers look at me like "you better sleep with one eye open, Haley, because we'll never forgive you for this."**
So it's decided: we're going to the homeless shelter on Christmas morning to help prepare and deliver food.
So, that morning, we all get into the car and drive to downtown Kansas City. And when I say "downtown", I mean the 'hood. All of a sudden, my dad pulls onto 4th and Quindaro and says, "Now, kids, this is the most dangerous street in all of Kansas City."
"WHAAAAAAAAT!?!?!" Hayden yelps.
"Don't worry. It's 9AM. Every one's in bed. We're not in any real danger. At least I don't think so...." Father says.
I check to make sure my door is locked and I secretly pray that the windows are bulletproof, but I'm pretty sure they're not. We're in a Ford.
"Why are we in the 'hood, Dad?" Spencer asks.
"Because...this is where people need help the most."
"Ohhhh, oooooooook." We all look at each other, not knowing what to expect next.
We pull up to a Baptist Church and find the parking lot surrounded by a chain link fence and pad locks. Super. But I think, "It's Christmas. Surely we won't get murdered on Christmas for trying to help the needy." That's all I've got to stick to for the next few hours, so I'm hoping I'm right.
Mother: "Uhh...Marty, you're gonna go inside and talk to someone and make sure we're at the right place before we all get out of the car, right?"
Father: "Sure, no problem."
My mother looks at me like "what did we get ourselves into this time?" but I'm semi-confident that we'll be alright.
Everything checks out to be normal, so we go inside. I am immediately given the task of putting together and taping cardboard boxes for delivery. I'm not allowed near the food. After manning a taping gun for over an hour and producing many, many cardboard boxes, my mom says I should drop out of SMU and seriously consider applying for UPS. Thanks mom. I'll do that.
Our shift is about over when they ask my mom and I if we are going to deliver food to people's houses. We look at each other and don't know what to say. We're not sure if we signed up for that. "We can deliver food to a few families," my mother says. "Ok, great!" the woman says. "We have a few families on your way home."
We leave. I volunteer to get out at the first stop and take the food up to the door. I ring the doorbell. I wait a little while, then I ring again. Maybe it doesn’t work. So I knock. And then again. My dad rolls down the window and says, “He might be hard of hearing, so knock really loudly.” “I did the first couple of times, but I’ll try it again.” So this time, I turn my hand into a fist and begin banging on the door. Everyone and their mom should have been able to hear that. Still no answer.
Detective mode kicks in and I begin to take in my surroundings. The car is in the driveway, so he’s got to be home. He’s not on vacation because if he can’t afford food, then he can’t afford to go anywhere. There’s a bunch of stuff on the front porch and then I spot the mailbox. Full.
(Ok, I know this is kind of illegal to look through someone’s mail but I was kind of beginning to get worried that something was wrong. And the mailbox was open, so I didn’t open it myself. I just looked inside.)
And I saw mail post-marked for December 10th, 14th, and 16th. AND a Netflix that had been there for awhile. Ok, I don’t know about you, but people who order Netflix watch those puppies as soon as they arrive. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Netflix sit in a mailbox before. People have those coming and going as fast as possible so they maximize their monthly rate. Also, the mail hadn’t been picked up for two weeks? Ok, I understand not picking your mail up for a few days when your mailbox is a community mailbox down the street, but when your mailbox is literally at your front door that you walk in and out of multiple times a day? You would most certainly pick it up one of the times you walk through the door, right? This led me to believe that this man had not left his house for almost two weeks. Red flag.
I put the meal on a chair on the front porch and walk back to the car. “Dad, I don’t hear anything inside. Not a person, a T.V., radio, cat, dog, or anything. Should we call the police?” I ask.
“Yeah, I think we probably should. That really isn’t a good sign.”
So my dad calls the police, gives them all of the information I discovered and his own contact information. They say they’ll send someone over to check it out and they may need to contact us if the investigation needs to be furthered. “Ok, thanks,” my dad says as he hangs up.
We all look at each other. “I hope he isn’t dead!” my mother says. “Duh, mom,” says Spencer.
So then we go home, get ready to go over to our grandparents' house, and proceed with our normal Christmas activities.
I put on my new boots that I had been eyeing for months and am SO glad I got as a present. I'm such a lucky girl.
And, because of our trip to the ‘hood and almost finding a dead person inside of their house, I am very thankful that I have enough good fortune to receive presents and food for Christmas AND that I’m not dead.
Merry Christmas!!!!!!
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Friday, December 24, 2010
The Old Haunts
I am slowly but surely becoming my mother. Not only do I look like her, but now I seem to talk like her (using the same phrases and inflection in my voice), act like her and think like her.
Not that I'm complaining. If you've ever met my mother, you might say it's a blessing to turn out like her. She's nice and beautiful. I could only be so lucky to be like her.
Anyway, I went out with my friends last night. We met at a bar that I am more than familiar with. I've never been there to drink, but I've been going there since the age of 8 to eat dinner and hang out with the kids of the parents my mom and dad were meeting there. I hadn't been there for a few years, but as soon as I walked in, everything was so familiar.
My mom used to go there all the time for the past 30 years. I've heard a lot of funny stories (with many details left out, I'm sure) about happenings at that place. She used to go there with her friends.....and now I go there with my friends. Weird.
Last night walking in, I stupidly thought that I probably wouldn't know anyone there. MISTAKE. As soon as I sat down at my friends' table and looked to my left, I saw a boy I used to go to daycare, grade school and high school with. He was with his parents who are friends of my parents. They didn't recognize me (usually no one does at first these days) because I dyed my hair from blond to dark brown. I LOVE IT! Anyway, I went over to talk to them and got the usual questions, "How's school? Are you still rowing? Are you having a good break?" etc.
Then I went to the bathroom and was walking back to the bar when, all of a sudden, someone grabs my hand and goes, "Haley ******?" I turn to see the arm attached to a 50-year-old man. I have no idea who he is, but he must know my parents. "I'm *gives name*. I went to high school with your mom." Another man says something and I turn to face the husband of a woman who works with my mom and is the basketball coach at a local high school. I am kind of dying inside because I am a little tipsy and not fully prepared to carry on an intellectual conversation with these two men, but what do they expect? I'm 21 and on break. It's acceptable. Therefore, I politely sit down and allow them to ask me questions about, yes, rowing and college. After 10 minutes of trying to sound smart and completely sober, I thank them for saying hello and will pass their regards on to my mother. I walk back to the other room where my friends are and practically melt into a seat at the bar. I barely squeezed by that one.
I've GOT to stop going to my mother's old haunts. More events like this one are bound to happen. I should probably just prepare myself right now.
Not that I'm complaining. If you've ever met my mother, you might say it's a blessing to turn out like her. She's nice and beautiful. I could only be so lucky to be like her.
Anyway, I went out with my friends last night. We met at a bar that I am more than familiar with. I've never been there to drink, but I've been going there since the age of 8 to eat dinner and hang out with the kids of the parents my mom and dad were meeting there. I hadn't been there for a few years, but as soon as I walked in, everything was so familiar.
My mom used to go there all the time for the past 30 years. I've heard a lot of funny stories (with many details left out, I'm sure) about happenings at that place. She used to go there with her friends.....and now I go there with my friends. Weird.
Last night walking in, I stupidly thought that I probably wouldn't know anyone there. MISTAKE. As soon as I sat down at my friends' table and looked to my left, I saw a boy I used to go to daycare, grade school and high school with. He was with his parents who are friends of my parents. They didn't recognize me (usually no one does at first these days) because I dyed my hair from blond to dark brown. I LOVE IT! Anyway, I went over to talk to them and got the usual questions, "How's school? Are you still rowing? Are you having a good break?" etc.
Then I went to the bathroom and was walking back to the bar when, all of a sudden, someone grabs my hand and goes, "Haley ******?" I turn to see the arm attached to a 50-year-old man. I have no idea who he is, but he must know my parents. "I'm *gives name*. I went to high school with your mom." Another man says something and I turn to face the husband of a woman who works with my mom and is the basketball coach at a local high school. I am kind of dying inside because I am a little tipsy and not fully prepared to carry on an intellectual conversation with these two men, but what do they expect? I'm 21 and on break. It's acceptable. Therefore, I politely sit down and allow them to ask me questions about, yes, rowing and college. After 10 minutes of trying to sound smart and completely sober, I thank them for saying hello and will pass their regards on to my mother. I walk back to the other room where my friends are and practically melt into a seat at the bar. I barely squeezed by that one.
I've GOT to stop going to my mother's old haunts. More events like this one are bound to happen. I should probably just prepare myself right now.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Where are you going?
This is a throwback. An oldie. A classic.
"What do you want to be when you grow up?"
I was asked this question last night by an adult I've known for years....and I literally almost responded with, "an astronaut." (We'll discuss my tendencies for supplying sarcastic and unrealistic responses in order to disguise the unfortunate and boring reality that is my life later...)
Surprisingly, however, becoming an astronaut is just as likely as anything else right now. (Not really. I'm excessively exaggerating--I'm not in an engineering program, I have no plans of getting a PhD in space mechanics, and I have too sensitive of a stomach to pass one of those tests where they spin you around really quickly.) But still. I have no idea what I want to be when I grow up.
Am I in the business school? Yes. Is there an obvious career path for me when I graduate? Sort of.
I was contemplating going to Grad school or getting a job immediately after graduation (which is looming in my too-soon future.) All of this was complicated even more--and fast forwarded--when I met with my advisor the other day and he informed me that I'm so ahead of the game that I can save myself a lot of time and money and graduate next December. NEXT DECEMBER. AKA....a year from now! This suggestion went in one ear and out of the other. It's out of the question.
First of all, I'll only be 22 and I'll have plenty of time on my hands; I plan to live until I'm 80. Don't we all? Ahhh the young; we're so indestructible. I'll still be working out to the max and answering trivia questions like Wikipedia. (Trust me, I've already taken measures to extend my life. I've begun using repairing eye cream and I do sudoku and crossword puzzles to keep my brain sharp.) Anyway, secondly, SMU pays for my tuition and room and board (and then some) so I actually won't save any money. Third of all, do I want to quit rowing the middle of my senior year? Answer: yes, I'll probably be so exhausted by then that I'll want to, but I know I'll miss it so incredibly much and regret that decision for the rest of my life. I'm not a quitter. So that's also out of the question.
Regardless, this new opportunity put me on the fast track for some decision making--it made me realize how close the future actually is...damnit. Since I decided to stay at SMU for another semester without any required classes, I think I'm going to try and turn my English minor into an English major. I LOVE English. And I have extra time.
This resulted in MORE questions. My advisor said a lot of people who major in English go to Law School. Law School? I've entertained the idea before, but I hate the thought of taking out student loans. And what if I don't like it? What if I end up never using my degree? What a waste. I just don't know.... And IF Law School, then where? SMU Law? In my dreams. So expensive. Could I even get in? I've gotta stay in the south, so UT Austin? I'd love to. California? I may go to Law School just to move to Cali....joking....but not. When do I take the LSAT? Do I pay the $1,200 for the LSAT prep class just to try to cram it into my already overflowing schedule in the spring? Sweet Jesus, this blows.
Do I graduate and then go straight to work? If so, where? I plan on staying in Dallas (sorry, family) so I'll probably get a risk management job working 60-70 hours a week and go for runs with my Great Dane after an exhilarating (joke) day at work. (Yes, that is one thing I'm certain of: I want a massive dog for my running buddy.) Perhaps I could think about and study for Law School after I graduate and get a job....good gracious this is difficult.
And what about writing? Future job or just a hobby? I've always dreamed of writing for a magazine or becoming a book editor but....we'll see. And, after all of this, will I just end up being a stay-at-home mom with 4 (hopefully) kids running around with paint all over their hands and mud all over their feet? No....freaking....clue.
Well, whatever. I know that whatever decision I make is the right decision and will take me where I need to go. Do I want to go to Law School? Sure. I just bought a pair of fake glasses the other day that make me look really smart and I'd fit right in. Do I want to work? Of course. Making money sure beats the hell out of spending it. Do I want to go to Grad School? Yeah, I'd put off the real world for a few more years. Mommy? Of course I want kids. So it looks like all options are valid.
Now, I just need a decision. Eh, maybe I'll make one in a few months.....maybe.
And now, the throwback:
"What do you want to be when you grow up?"
I was asked this question last night by an adult I've known for years....and I literally almost responded with, "an astronaut." (We'll discuss my tendencies for supplying sarcastic and unrealistic responses in order to disguise the unfortunate and boring reality that is my life later...)
Surprisingly, however, becoming an astronaut is just as likely as anything else right now. (Not really. I'm excessively exaggerating--I'm not in an engineering program, I have no plans of getting a PhD in space mechanics, and I have too sensitive of a stomach to pass one of those tests where they spin you around really quickly.) But still. I have no idea what I want to be when I grow up.
Am I in the business school? Yes. Is there an obvious career path for me when I graduate? Sort of.
I was contemplating going to Grad school or getting a job immediately after graduation (which is looming in my too-soon future.) All of this was complicated even more--and fast forwarded--when I met with my advisor the other day and he informed me that I'm so ahead of the game that I can save myself a lot of time and money and graduate next December. NEXT DECEMBER. AKA....a year from now! This suggestion went in one ear and out of the other. It's out of the question.
First of all, I'll only be 22 and I'll have plenty of time on my hands; I plan to live until I'm 80. Don't we all? Ahhh the young; we're so indestructible. I'll still be working out to the max and answering trivia questions like Wikipedia. (Trust me, I've already taken measures to extend my life. I've begun using repairing eye cream and I do sudoku and crossword puzzles to keep my brain sharp.) Anyway, secondly, SMU pays for my tuition and room and board (and then some) so I actually won't save any money. Third of all, do I want to quit rowing the middle of my senior year? Answer: yes, I'll probably be so exhausted by then that I'll want to, but I know I'll miss it so incredibly much and regret that decision for the rest of my life. I'm not a quitter. So that's also out of the question.
Regardless, this new opportunity put me on the fast track for some decision making--it made me realize how close the future actually is...damnit. Since I decided to stay at SMU for another semester without any required classes, I think I'm going to try and turn my English minor into an English major. I LOVE English. And I have extra time.
This resulted in MORE questions. My advisor said a lot of people who major in English go to Law School. Law School? I've entertained the idea before, but I hate the thought of taking out student loans. And what if I don't like it? What if I end up never using my degree? What a waste. I just don't know.... And IF Law School, then where? SMU Law? In my dreams. So expensive. Could I even get in? I've gotta stay in the south, so UT Austin? I'd love to. California? I may go to Law School just to move to Cali....joking....but not. When do I take the LSAT? Do I pay the $1,200 for the LSAT prep class just to try to cram it into my already overflowing schedule in the spring? Sweet Jesus, this blows.
Do I graduate and then go straight to work? If so, where? I plan on staying in Dallas (sorry, family) so I'll probably get a risk management job working 60-70 hours a week and go for runs with my Great Dane after an exhilarating (joke) day at work. (Yes, that is one thing I'm certain of: I want a massive dog for my running buddy.) Perhaps I could think about and study for Law School after I graduate and get a job....good gracious this is difficult.
And what about writing? Future job or just a hobby? I've always dreamed of writing for a magazine or becoming a book editor but....we'll see. And, after all of this, will I just end up being a stay-at-home mom with 4 (hopefully) kids running around with paint all over their hands and mud all over their feet? No....freaking....clue.
Well, whatever. I know that whatever decision I make is the right decision and will take me where I need to go. Do I want to go to Law School? Sure. I just bought a pair of fake glasses the other day that make me look really smart and I'd fit right in. Do I want to work? Of course. Making money sure beats the hell out of spending it. Do I want to go to Grad School? Yeah, I'd put off the real world for a few more years. Mommy? Of course I want kids. So it looks like all options are valid.
Now, I just need a decision. Eh, maybe I'll make one in a few months.....maybe.
And now, the throwback:
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Oh, Leo!
The sun was shining through the windows as I slowly opened my eyes and stretched my arms. My sheets and blankets were crisp and clean after just being washed and it felt sooo goood to be snuggled in them. I awoke from a wonderful dream where I just met Leonardo DiCaprio in Central Park and he asked me out on a date. It was a beautiful day in Dallas and I thought, "Finals are over! What should I do on this wonderful day?".......
"Wait.......it's light outside.........wasn't I supposed to do something when it was dark outside.......? Yes, yes, I'm pretty sure I was supposed to wake up when it was dark out and do something relatively important....."
OH SHIT
I was supposed to FLY HOME!
I immediately grab my phone. Yep, my flight left an hour and a half ago. I have 15 missed alerts. The cab driver called me 8 times and left a few voicemail messages. My dad called twice. Immediately dialing my daddy to see if he can offer any condolences, he answers, "Good morning beautiful!" obviously not realizing I am supposed to be thousands of feet up in the air without phone service. "DAD! I SLEPT THROUGH MY FLIGHT!"
"Well what are you talking to me for?! Call Southwest immediately! And pull out the works. You've been sick with food poisoning; you just finished a stressful week of finals; you're just trying to get home to your family. Do whatever it takes." Thanks, dad.
I hang up and call Southwest. Already condemning myself to either having to chill in Dallas for a few more days or fork over 300 dollars for a flight home, as soon as someone picks up on the other end I begin pleading: "Please-please-please-I-missed-my-flight-and-I've-been-really-really-really-sick-with-food-poisoning-and-I'm-just-trying-to-get-home-for-the-Holidays-and-I'm-so-so-so-so-stressed-because-I-just-finished-finals-and-I-am----"
"Honey, relax. What's your name?"
*Gives full name*
"OK, let me pull up your confirmation."
After waiting on the phone for 20 minutes (where I am multi-tasking by brushing my teeth, getting dressed, and doing some last-minute packing) she says another flight is available at 9:15 AM---would I like that one? "YES OF COURSE!" At no charge, she puts me on that flight and says I should have no problems flying home.
*Fist pump into the air*
"Thank you so much! You have no idea what this means to me."
"You're welcome, sweetie. We know you have lots of options when you choose your airline, so we thank you for flying Southwest." (Yes, I have flown with them that many times so I have it memorized, thank you.)
Oh, wait, you thought the fun was over? Look who you're talking to! Guess again.
So I book a taxi online for 8:10 AM (yes, I naturally wake up at 7:30 AM with no alarm. That's sleeping in when you get up at 5 AM every morning for practice). I receive a confirmation e-mail saying my taxi will be there at 8:10. So I throw all my luggage down the stairs, pull it outside, and wait for my cab.
8:15. No cab.
So I call. "Yes, I booked a cab online for 8:10 and they aren't here yet and I'm kind of in a crunch." She responds, "Yes, is this *Says name* at *says address*?" "Yes, that's correct." "Ok, your cab is on it's way." "Great, thanks."
8:21. No cab.
So I call. "Hi, I called a little while ago and you said my cab was on its way, but it's still not here yet. I'm *gives name* at *gives address*" It's the same lady. "I'm sorry, we don't have a recorded reservation for you." WHAAAAT?! I just talked to you on the phone and you confirmed it! She tries to sort it all out but I just say, "Ok, it doesn't matter if you lost my reservation. Can you get a cab here soon, please?" "Yes ma'am. It'll be there in 5 minutes." "Super. Thanks."
8:29. No cab.
Another cab from another cab company drives by. I flag him down. After waiting on a cab that is 20 minutes late, I have 45 minutes to get to the airport, check my bags, get through security, find my gate, get my boarding pass, and get on the plane. It's gonna be close.
To avoid morning traffic, I ask him to go through the neighborhoods to cut down the time. Little did I know that going 20 MPH in a school zone meant 15 MPH for him. That was a MISTAKE.
I check my bags. One is over-weight and the baggage guy says they might not make the flight because I checked them 25 minutes before the plane takes off. I don't even care anymore--I just want to get on that plane! He says they'll do their best. I say, "I hope so," and give him a big tip. He smiles and says, "We'll make it work."
I run to the security line and take off my hat, scarf, gloves, coat, and shoes like I'm about to jump into a freezing-cold pond to save someone's life. I then take out my computer and get it all situated according to airport security's specifications in record time. All the jewelry comes off as if by magic. I practically run through the metal detector and just as quickly put everything back on, grab my stuff, and run to the gate.
When I arrive at 9:05 for my 9:15 flight, they're already boarding B class (out of A-C) and I still need to pick up my boarding pass from the desk. Waiting behind a few ladies with children (families on flights, arg!), I finally breathlessly say, "Boarding pass for Haley ********" She easily hands it to me. 9:09.
I run up to the guy who scans your ticket and onto the plane. It's packed. If I sit near the back, I'll vom. I shove my bag into an already stuffed overhead compartment and hope that no one had anything fragile up there. I then slump into a middle seat between two old guys.
And then I do a fist pump into the air. I DID IT!
To sum it all up, I was in Kansas City by 11:00 AM, my bags DID make my flight, and I blame beautiful Leonardo DiCaprio for all of this. Because if he wasn't so beautiful, then I would have left that dream a long time ago and probably would have made my first flight. But then, I wouldn't have this great story and my life would be that much more boring.
So I guess, Leo, you're welcome in my dreams anytime.
"Wait.......it's light outside.........wasn't I supposed to do something when it was dark outside.......? Yes, yes, I'm pretty sure I was supposed to wake up when it was dark out and do something relatively important....."
OH SHIT
I was supposed to FLY HOME!
I immediately grab my phone. Yep, my flight left an hour and a half ago. I have 15 missed alerts. The cab driver called me 8 times and left a few voicemail messages. My dad called twice. Immediately dialing my daddy to see if he can offer any condolences, he answers, "Good morning beautiful!" obviously not realizing I am supposed to be thousands of feet up in the air without phone service. "DAD! I SLEPT THROUGH MY FLIGHT!"
"Well what are you talking to me for?! Call Southwest immediately! And pull out the works. You've been sick with food poisoning; you just finished a stressful week of finals; you're just trying to get home to your family. Do whatever it takes." Thanks, dad.
I hang up and call Southwest. Already condemning myself to either having to chill in Dallas for a few more days or fork over 300 dollars for a flight home, as soon as someone picks up on the other end I begin pleading: "Please-please-please-I-missed-my-flight-and-I've-been-really-really-really-sick-with-food-poisoning-and-I'm-just-trying-to-get-home-for-the-Holidays-and-I'm-so-so-so-so-stressed-because-I-just-finished-finals-and-I-am----"
"Honey, relax. What's your name?"
*Gives full name*
"OK, let me pull up your confirmation."
After waiting on the phone for 20 minutes (where I am multi-tasking by brushing my teeth, getting dressed, and doing some last-minute packing) she says another flight is available at 9:15 AM---would I like that one? "YES OF COURSE!" At no charge, she puts me on that flight and says I should have no problems flying home.
*Fist pump into the air*
"Thank you so much! You have no idea what this means to me."
"You're welcome, sweetie. We know you have lots of options when you choose your airline, so we thank you for flying Southwest." (Yes, I have flown with them that many times so I have it memorized, thank you.)
Oh, wait, you thought the fun was over? Look who you're talking to! Guess again.
So I book a taxi online for 8:10 AM (yes, I naturally wake up at 7:30 AM with no alarm. That's sleeping in when you get up at 5 AM every morning for practice). I receive a confirmation e-mail saying my taxi will be there at 8:10. So I throw all my luggage down the stairs, pull it outside, and wait for my cab.
8:15. No cab.
So I call. "Yes, I booked a cab online for 8:10 and they aren't here yet and I'm kind of in a crunch." She responds, "Yes, is this *Says name* at *says address*?" "Yes, that's correct." "Ok, your cab is on it's way." "Great, thanks."
8:21. No cab.
So I call. "Hi, I called a little while ago and you said my cab was on its way, but it's still not here yet. I'm *gives name* at *gives address*" It's the same lady. "I'm sorry, we don't have a recorded reservation for you." WHAAAAT?! I just talked to you on the phone and you confirmed it! She tries to sort it all out but I just say, "Ok, it doesn't matter if you lost my reservation. Can you get a cab here soon, please?" "Yes ma'am. It'll be there in 5 minutes." "Super. Thanks."
8:29. No cab.
Another cab from another cab company drives by. I flag him down. After waiting on a cab that is 20 minutes late, I have 45 minutes to get to the airport, check my bags, get through security, find my gate, get my boarding pass, and get on the plane. It's gonna be close.
To avoid morning traffic, I ask him to go through the neighborhoods to cut down the time. Little did I know that going 20 MPH in a school zone meant 15 MPH for him. That was a MISTAKE.
I check my bags. One is over-weight and the baggage guy says they might not make the flight because I checked them 25 minutes before the plane takes off. I don't even care anymore--I just want to get on that plane! He says they'll do their best. I say, "I hope so," and give him a big tip. He smiles and says, "We'll make it work."
I run to the security line and take off my hat, scarf, gloves, coat, and shoes like I'm about to jump into a freezing-cold pond to save someone's life. I then take out my computer and get it all situated according to airport security's specifications in record time. All the jewelry comes off as if by magic. I practically run through the metal detector and just as quickly put everything back on, grab my stuff, and run to the gate.
When I arrive at 9:05 for my 9:15 flight, they're already boarding B class (out of A-C) and I still need to pick up my boarding pass from the desk. Waiting behind a few ladies with children (families on flights, arg!), I finally breathlessly say, "Boarding pass for Haley ********" She easily hands it to me. 9:09.
I run up to the guy who scans your ticket and onto the plane. It's packed. If I sit near the back, I'll vom. I shove my bag into an already stuffed overhead compartment and hope that no one had anything fragile up there. I then slump into a middle seat between two old guys.
And then I do a fist pump into the air. I DID IT!
To sum it all up, I was in Kansas City by 11:00 AM, my bags DID make my flight, and I blame beautiful Leonardo DiCaprio for all of this. Because if he wasn't so beautiful, then I would have left that dream a long time ago and probably would have made my first flight. But then, I wouldn't have this great story and my life would be that much more boring.
So I guess, Leo, you're welcome in my dreams anytime.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
What a Finale!!
And by "finale", I suppose I mean "finals". And by "finals", I suppose I mean the one I missed this morning.
Yep, you guessed it: didn't quite make it to my 8 AM Marketing Final. Not by choice, however. My body decided to have a complete and utter breakdown from 9:30 PM last night to 4:00 AM this morning on account of one tiny, itsy-bitsy, little, "harmless" slice of cheese pizza. This is the piece of pizza that I almost didn't eat after reading that one tiny, itsy-bitsy, little, "harmless" slice of cheese pizza costs you over 700 calories. But I was hungry, my salad wasn't satisfying my loudly growling stomach, and the 5 kids I was babysitting were helping me burn more than those 700 calories soooooooooo.....I ate it. MISTAKE.
Fast forward one hour later and I am glued to their couch. I feel really bad because I usually am a lot more fun when I babysit and I like to do stuff with the kids. But I couldn't...do...anything. I have a really sensitive stomach so I figure it's just my stomach being sensitive to the fact that I don't usually eat that many carbs or greasy cheese in one sitting. "It'll pass," I think. WRONG.
Then, one of the boys laying on the couch goes, "Are you guys sick?"
"yES!" I say in a crescendo like I have just made a huge discovery and found humanity's missing link. The other two boys go, "Yeah, I'm really sick too. I feel terrible." I ask, "Do you guys feel weak? Do you feel like you're going to throw up?" "Yes," they respond. "Did you eat the pizza?" "Yes," they respond. "Oh no. Oh no no no." I say as I shake my head. "What's wrong, Haley?" they ask. "I think we all have food poisoning". "WHAAAT?" They're concerned. I try to calm their fears but inside I am freaking out.
I have had food poisoning once before. It was the day after my 16th birthday and I was in Universal Studios in Florida with my family. The entire Hard Rock Cafe had just sang me "Happy Birthday" as I stood on a stage and then I had the most amazing milkshake ever. It was one of the best days of my life.
So we were walking around after that and I start feeling sick. So I get sick. EVERYWHERE. I pretty much covered Universal Studios with my milkshake and whatever else was in my tummy. I couldn't control myself...or find a trashcan anywhere---their fault, not mine. A policeman sees us and immediately gets me some water. But I can't keep it down. I start feeling so incredibly weak that I can't walk anymore. Therefore, I sit down and lean against a huge concrete pillar barely able to keep my eyes open with a red SOLO cup of water in my hand while my family tries to find help. Yes, I look like I'm WASTED. People were walking by me, pointing and mumbling, "It looks like someone's had too much to drink..." I wanted to yell, "I'M SIXTEEN! I DON'T DRINK!" but I didn't have enough energy.
My dad comes back with a wheelchair. I look at him like, "Don't you think this is a bit excessive?" but inside I am jumping for joy. What a genius. I am so thankful.
I spend the rest of the evening in our hotel bathroom trying trying trying to feel better for our 6 AM flight home the next day. I'm not.
So my family gets up the next day and is trying to help me get ready to leave. I can't do anything. Then my brother who is 18 months younger than me starts getting sick. My parents look at each other like, "WHY US?!" and try to help their sick 16 and 14 year old get ready for a 3 hour flight. They also have an 8 year old they have to deal with who doesn't really know what's going on.
We're late to turn our rental car in. I throw up in the parking garage. Then Spencer (my brother) does too.
We're late to the security line. Of course it's excessively long. All of a sudden out of nowhere and without any warning, Spencer leans over and throws up ALL OVER my brand new hot pink suitcase. Not having time to be even a little mad, I see the throw-up and start feeling sick. I run across the airport to the closest trashcan and barely make it. My parents are dumbfounded. People in line are pissed at us. Hayden (my other brother) is about to cry.
We're late to the gate. There aren't any seats together so we all have to split up. My dad politely tells the airline stewardess that his son is very sick and needs to sit with one of his parents. I'm feeling better and can manage to sit by myself, but Spencer is getting sick every 20 minutes. She is very rude and says, "You were late; there's nothing I can do. He'll have to manage." My dad looks very solemn and in his head is thinking, "Ok, but don't say I didn't warn you."
We're all situated and about to take off when the stranger sitting next to Spencer starts freaking out because, yep, he's getting sick. The airline stewardess runs to my dad and says, "Would you mind switching seats with this gentleman? I think your son needs you." He looks up at her and thinks, "REALLY?!" haha ohh goodness.
A middle-aged lady is sitting between Hayden and I. I get a little sick during the flight and Hayden is plastered against the window. He's freaking out. He doesn't know this lady, his big sister is really sick, and he doesn't know where his family is. Poor guy.
My mom is stuck in the back of the plane for 3 hours worried sick about her children who she can't take care of next to another lady who is talking about her cats and her knitting hobby.
I laugh every time I tell that story to someone. A lot happened and it's crazy that we even made our flight and stayed alive. Last night was different. All I have to show is 5 grocery bags outside my front door that I'm sure my neighbors are pissed about and a lack of sleep. Ohh, and I look like poo, my room is an utter and complete mess, and I have to take an Incomplete in one of my business school classes until I can sort it out in the spring.
AND I have a 6 AM flight tomorrow. I feel like this is a pattern. I hope I don't get sick.
Yep, you guessed it: didn't quite make it to my 8 AM Marketing Final. Not by choice, however. My body decided to have a complete and utter breakdown from 9:30 PM last night to 4:00 AM this morning on account of one tiny, itsy-bitsy, little, "harmless" slice of cheese pizza. This is the piece of pizza that I almost didn't eat after reading that one tiny, itsy-bitsy, little, "harmless" slice of cheese pizza costs you over 700 calories. But I was hungry, my salad wasn't satisfying my loudly growling stomach, and the 5 kids I was babysitting were helping me burn more than those 700 calories soooooooooo.....I ate it. MISTAKE.
Fast forward one hour later and I am glued to their couch. I feel really bad because I usually am a lot more fun when I babysit and I like to do stuff with the kids. But I couldn't...do...anything. I have a really sensitive stomach so I figure it's just my stomach being sensitive to the fact that I don't usually eat that many carbs or greasy cheese in one sitting. "It'll pass," I think. WRONG.
Then, one of the boys laying on the couch goes, "Are you guys sick?"
"yES!" I say in a crescendo like I have just made a huge discovery and found humanity's missing link. The other two boys go, "Yeah, I'm really sick too. I feel terrible." I ask, "Do you guys feel weak? Do you feel like you're going to throw up?" "Yes," they respond. "Did you eat the pizza?" "Yes," they respond. "Oh no. Oh no no no." I say as I shake my head. "What's wrong, Haley?" they ask. "I think we all have food poisoning". "WHAAAT?" They're concerned. I try to calm their fears but inside I am freaking out.
I have had food poisoning once before. It was the day after my 16th birthday and I was in Universal Studios in Florida with my family. The entire Hard Rock Cafe had just sang me "Happy Birthday" as I stood on a stage and then I had the most amazing milkshake ever. It was one of the best days of my life.
So we were walking around after that and I start feeling sick. So I get sick. EVERYWHERE. I pretty much covered Universal Studios with my milkshake and whatever else was in my tummy. I couldn't control myself...or find a trashcan anywhere---their fault, not mine. A policeman sees us and immediately gets me some water. But I can't keep it down. I start feeling so incredibly weak that I can't walk anymore. Therefore, I sit down and lean against a huge concrete pillar barely able to keep my eyes open with a red SOLO cup of water in my hand while my family tries to find help. Yes, I look like I'm WASTED. People were walking by me, pointing and mumbling, "It looks like someone's had too much to drink..." I wanted to yell, "I'M SIXTEEN! I DON'T DRINK!" but I didn't have enough energy.
My dad comes back with a wheelchair. I look at him like, "Don't you think this is a bit excessive?" but inside I am jumping for joy. What a genius. I am so thankful.
I spend the rest of the evening in our hotel bathroom trying trying trying to feel better for our 6 AM flight home the next day. I'm not.
So my family gets up the next day and is trying to help me get ready to leave. I can't do anything. Then my brother who is 18 months younger than me starts getting sick. My parents look at each other like, "WHY US?!" and try to help their sick 16 and 14 year old get ready for a 3 hour flight. They also have an 8 year old they have to deal with who doesn't really know what's going on.
We're late to turn our rental car in. I throw up in the parking garage. Then Spencer (my brother) does too.
We're late to the security line. Of course it's excessively long. All of a sudden out of nowhere and without any warning, Spencer leans over and throws up ALL OVER my brand new hot pink suitcase. Not having time to be even a little mad, I see the throw-up and start feeling sick. I run across the airport to the closest trashcan and barely make it. My parents are dumbfounded. People in line are pissed at us. Hayden (my other brother) is about to cry.
We're late to the gate. There aren't any seats together so we all have to split up. My dad politely tells the airline stewardess that his son is very sick and needs to sit with one of his parents. I'm feeling better and can manage to sit by myself, but Spencer is getting sick every 20 minutes. She is very rude and says, "You were late; there's nothing I can do. He'll have to manage." My dad looks very solemn and in his head is thinking, "Ok, but don't say I didn't warn you."
We're all situated and about to take off when the stranger sitting next to Spencer starts freaking out because, yep, he's getting sick. The airline stewardess runs to my dad and says, "Would you mind switching seats with this gentleman? I think your son needs you." He looks up at her and thinks, "REALLY?!" haha ohh goodness.
A middle-aged lady is sitting between Hayden and I. I get a little sick during the flight and Hayden is plastered against the window. He's freaking out. He doesn't know this lady, his big sister is really sick, and he doesn't know where his family is. Poor guy.
My mom is stuck in the back of the plane for 3 hours worried sick about her children who she can't take care of next to another lady who is talking about her cats and her knitting hobby.
I laugh every time I tell that story to someone. A lot happened and it's crazy that we even made our flight and stayed alive. Last night was different. All I have to show is 5 grocery bags outside my front door that I'm sure my neighbors are pissed about and a lack of sleep. Ohh, and I look like poo, my room is an utter and complete mess, and I have to take an Incomplete in one of my business school classes until I can sort it out in the spring.
AND I have a 6 AM flight tomorrow. I feel like this is a pattern. I hope I don't get sick.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Interpret What You Will
It's a gift, really. Bullshitting, that is. That's my gift.
Well, I suppose not so much "bullshitting," but more so "making shit up off the top of your head that makes absolutely no sense at all....and yet, people still buy it." You see, I am actually really terrible at lying. Basically ask me a question and you will get the answer. Truth: this was not so helpful in high school when my mom would ask me about certain things....
I had two options: lie to her face and have her know that I was lying OR tell her the truth. So I always had to tell her the truth.
ANYWAY, back to tonight.
I don't know what came over me. I really can't tell you. When the guy at the bar asked what I did, I really really was about to say, "Well, I'm a student at SMU," but somehow it came out as, "I'm an interpretive dancer."
HE: "Really! You're an interpretive dancer?! I've never met one of those before!"
I: "Yeah yeah, we're not that common, really. It's a rare profession I must say."
HE: "Interesting! So like, what do you do?"
I: "Well....we dance....interpretively."
HE: "Yeah, I think I get that. But what do you mean? Like, how?"
I: "Well, we just listen to the music and try to understand what it's saying and then we move our bodies to try to describe how we are feeling in relation to what the music is saying."
HE: "Wow. That's deep."
I: "Yeah. It really is something."
HE: "So what kind of music do you dance to?"
I: "Anything, really. We try to listen to a lot of different kinds of music to try to expand our dancing abilities."
HE: "So you can dance to alternative-rock?"
I: "Sure, why not?"
HE: "Well I'm in this band that performs and we're trying to get a larger fan base than we have right now. We're looking for something that would make us stand out."
(((OH shit.)))
HE: "Do you think you and your friends would be interested in performing during one of our concerts?"
I: "Sure! Why not? We'd need some practice and exposure to the material beforehand but I think it could work out."
HE: "Cool cool. So, do you need like a certain beat to be able to perform? Do you have requirements for that sort of thing?"
I: "Not really. I mean, it is interpretive so all we really need is music and then we just go with it. It can be fast or slow; we dance to what is going on around us."
HE: "Great! So are you with a particular company?"
I: "Oh...actually, it's kind of a touchy subject. We were with the company here in Dallas but they started working for the money and all of this corporate crap and they weren't doing it for the feeling anymore. We didn't like that and we were getting into all of these arguments so we broke off from them. Yeah, it sucks sometimes not getting paid, but at least I know I'm not a sellout."
HE: "Wow, yeah that's gotta be rough."
I: "Yeah, the exposure in that company was great, but it just didn't feel right, you know? It should always be about the music, not the money right?"
HE: "You're totally right. That makes perfect sense. Good for you."
Then we talked for a little while longer about dancing and blah blah blah until my friends got sick of his friends and dragged me away. As we were walking away, I realized just exactly what I had been talking about for the last 20 minutes and about started peeing my pants.
"Haley!" they yelled, "WHAT is so FUNNY?!"
"I just told that guy about my profession as an interpretive dancer," I managed to say between grasping for air during my hysterical laughter.
They immediately stop walking, look at each other, and say, "I swear....the stuff you come up with. How do you think of this crap? And why do these people believe it?"
"I have no idea. I wish I could tell you."
To be honest, I have no intention of stopping this nonsense. It's too much fun.
Well, I suppose not so much "bullshitting," but more so "making shit up off the top of your head that makes absolutely no sense at all....and yet, people still buy it." You see, I am actually really terrible at lying. Basically ask me a question and you will get the answer. Truth: this was not so helpful in high school when my mom would ask me about certain things....
I had two options: lie to her face and have her know that I was lying OR tell her the truth. So I always had to tell her the truth.
ANYWAY, back to tonight.
I don't know what came over me. I really can't tell you. When the guy at the bar asked what I did, I really really was about to say, "Well, I'm a student at SMU," but somehow it came out as, "I'm an interpretive dancer."
HE: "Really! You're an interpretive dancer?! I've never met one of those before!"
I: "Yeah yeah, we're not that common, really. It's a rare profession I must say."
HE: "Interesting! So like, what do you do?"
I: "Well....we dance....interpretively."
HE: "Yeah, I think I get that. But what do you mean? Like, how?"
I: "Well, we just listen to the music and try to understand what it's saying and then we move our bodies to try to describe how we are feeling in relation to what the music is saying."
HE: "Wow. That's deep."
I: "Yeah. It really is something."
HE: "So what kind of music do you dance to?"
I: "Anything, really. We try to listen to a lot of different kinds of music to try to expand our dancing abilities."
HE: "So you can dance to alternative-rock?"
I: "Sure, why not?"
HE: "Well I'm in this band that performs and we're trying to get a larger fan base than we have right now. We're looking for something that would make us stand out."
(((OH shit.)))
HE: "Do you think you and your friends would be interested in performing during one of our concerts?"
I: "Sure! Why not? We'd need some practice and exposure to the material beforehand but I think it could work out."
HE: "Cool cool. So, do you need like a certain beat to be able to perform? Do you have requirements for that sort of thing?"
I: "Not really. I mean, it is interpretive so all we really need is music and then we just go with it. It can be fast or slow; we dance to what is going on around us."
HE: "Great! So are you with a particular company?"
I: "Oh...actually, it's kind of a touchy subject. We were with the company here in Dallas but they started working for the money and all of this corporate crap and they weren't doing it for the feeling anymore. We didn't like that and we were getting into all of these arguments so we broke off from them. Yeah, it sucks sometimes not getting paid, but at least I know I'm not a sellout."
HE: "Wow, yeah that's gotta be rough."
I: "Yeah, the exposure in that company was great, but it just didn't feel right, you know? It should always be about the music, not the money right?"
HE: "You're totally right. That makes perfect sense. Good for you."
Then we talked for a little while longer about dancing and blah blah blah until my friends got sick of his friends and dragged me away. As we were walking away, I realized just exactly what I had been talking about for the last 20 minutes and about started peeing my pants.
"Haley!" they yelled, "WHAT is so FUNNY?!"
"I just told that guy about my profession as an interpretive dancer," I managed to say between grasping for air during my hysterical laughter.
They immediately stop walking, look at each other, and say, "I swear....the stuff you come up with. How do you think of this crap? And why do these people believe it?"
"I have no idea. I wish I could tell you."
To be honest, I have no intention of stopping this nonsense. It's too much fun.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
I'm Sneaky
1) Soooooooooo I think my neighbor is very attractive.
2) We have three lights in our kitchen. A few days ago, only one worked. It was impossible to see in the kitchen. We were living like this for a few weeks, barely able to see what we were making to eat or what was on the floor.
3) The other day, my roommate sent me a facebook message saying that she had knocked over my wine glass and there was glass all over the floor. She tried to get most of it up but wasn't sure if she got it all because it was hard to see. I immediately thought, "Time to get those lights fixed. I DO NOT want glass in my foot."
I replaced one of them but the other was too high to reach from the ground and it looked really heavy. It was a dome light and I had no idea how to take it apart and fix it. And I knew, I knew that if I tried to fix it, I would certainly break it into a tiny million little pieces. You know me by now; that's how my life goes.
Therefore, I decided to text my landlord to have his handyman come over and fix it for us. It wouldn't be that big of a deal, it would take him like 5 seconds, and he wouldn't break it. Piece of cake.
I had the text message all ready to send when, all of a sudden, a light bulb goes off in my head. "Hey!" I start thinking, "Neighbor Boy is tall and he's a guy so he should be handy and since he lives next door he probably has the same lights and knows how to fix them. I'll run over and ask him instead. It will give us an excuse to talk!"
I start getting really nervous and run into my roommate's room to ask her if the idea is dumb and if I'll look like an idiot. She says no; it's perfectly rational. So I check myself in the mirror and realize that I'm still in the clothes I went running in 20 minutes ago: tennis shoes, spandex, pony tail and all. "Meh," I think. "I have a natural flush to my face, I'm in workout clothes so it looks like I'm in shape, and it won't look like I'm trying too hard as opposed to going over there all dolled up." Convinced my plan is fool-proof, I march outside and down to his door.
Almost shitting my pants as I ring the doorbell, Surfer Dude (a very, very attractive modelesque friend of Neighbor Boy) answers...but he's on the phone. He says hi and is polite, but he's still on the phone. Neighbor Boy comes around the corner of a room and he's on the phone too! Oh crap. This is awkward. "Oh...uhhh...I...ahhh...uhhh...I just had a...um...a question but...uh...it's no big deal soooo....ok bye." I turn to leave when he goes, "No wait! Just let me finish this call and then I'll come to your apartment. It'll be like 5 minutes." Ok, so I'm not a loser. Good.
I start cleaning up the kitchen in preparation for their arrival when he knocks a few minutes later. I show him the light, ask him if he knows how to fix it and if he could help me.
Ok, then I really started feeling like an idiot because as soon as he looked at it, it was clear that all you had to do was unscrew this really, really obvious part and it came apart easily. And it wasn't heavy at all. Making small talk and laughing at things, it takes him only a few minutes to change the light bulbs. Damn. Not much face time. But we're still talking.
Then Surfer Dude comes in.....and we all hang out and talk in my kitchen for the next 45 minutes. They're so nice! I mention I have to go get ready for dinner plans when Surfer asks what I'm doing tomorrow night. "Umm...I have no plans for Wednesday night yet, what about you?" "I don't have anything planned either. We should grab drinks in the evening if you want to." My tummy does a flip and my heart about jumps out of my chest. (YES YES YES!!) "Yeah, ok, I guess that sounds cool. I have something I have to do until 7, but I can go anytime after that," I say. "Ok cool," Neighbor boy says. "We'll stop by around 7 and then we can all go somewhere."
Perfect.
They leave, I do a fist pump in the air, and I jump in the shower and get ready for my dinner plans.
Did my plan work? Yes: it's outcome was above and beyond what I even expected.
Did they know I did that on purpose? Most likely.
Does it matter? Naaaaaaah.
2) We have three lights in our kitchen. A few days ago, only one worked. It was impossible to see in the kitchen. We were living like this for a few weeks, barely able to see what we were making to eat or what was on the floor.
3) The other day, my roommate sent me a facebook message saying that she had knocked over my wine glass and there was glass all over the floor. She tried to get most of it up but wasn't sure if she got it all because it was hard to see. I immediately thought, "Time to get those lights fixed. I DO NOT want glass in my foot."
I replaced one of them but the other was too high to reach from the ground and it looked really heavy. It was a dome light and I had no idea how to take it apart and fix it. And I knew, I knew that if I tried to fix it, I would certainly break it into a tiny million little pieces. You know me by now; that's how my life goes.
Therefore, I decided to text my landlord to have his handyman come over and fix it for us. It wouldn't be that big of a deal, it would take him like 5 seconds, and he wouldn't break it. Piece of cake.
I had the text message all ready to send when, all of a sudden, a light bulb goes off in my head. "Hey!" I start thinking, "Neighbor Boy is tall and he's a guy so he should be handy and since he lives next door he probably has the same lights and knows how to fix them. I'll run over and ask him instead. It will give us an excuse to talk!"
I start getting really nervous and run into my roommate's room to ask her if the idea is dumb and if I'll look like an idiot. She says no; it's perfectly rational. So I check myself in the mirror and realize that I'm still in the clothes I went running in 20 minutes ago: tennis shoes, spandex, pony tail and all. "Meh," I think. "I have a natural flush to my face, I'm in workout clothes so it looks like I'm in shape, and it won't look like I'm trying too hard as opposed to going over there all dolled up." Convinced my plan is fool-proof, I march outside and down to his door.
Almost shitting my pants as I ring the doorbell, Surfer Dude (a very, very attractive modelesque friend of Neighbor Boy) answers...but he's on the phone. He says hi and is polite, but he's still on the phone. Neighbor Boy comes around the corner of a room and he's on the phone too! Oh crap. This is awkward. "Oh...uhhh...I...ahhh...uhhh...I just had a...um...a question but...uh...it's no big deal soooo....ok bye." I turn to leave when he goes, "No wait! Just let me finish this call and then I'll come to your apartment. It'll be like 5 minutes." Ok, so I'm not a loser. Good.
I start cleaning up the kitchen in preparation for their arrival when he knocks a few minutes later. I show him the light, ask him if he knows how to fix it and if he could help me.
Ok, then I really started feeling like an idiot because as soon as he looked at it, it was clear that all you had to do was unscrew this really, really obvious part and it came apart easily. And it wasn't heavy at all. Making small talk and laughing at things, it takes him only a few minutes to change the light bulbs. Damn. Not much face time. But we're still talking.
Then Surfer Dude comes in.....and we all hang out and talk in my kitchen for the next 45 minutes. They're so nice! I mention I have to go get ready for dinner plans when Surfer asks what I'm doing tomorrow night. "Umm...I have no plans for Wednesday night yet, what about you?" "I don't have anything planned either. We should grab drinks in the evening if you want to." My tummy does a flip and my heart about jumps out of my chest. (YES YES YES!!) "Yeah, ok, I guess that sounds cool. I have something I have to do until 7, but I can go anytime after that," I say. "Ok cool," Neighbor boy says. "We'll stop by around 7 and then we can all go somewhere."
Perfect.
They leave, I do a fist pump in the air, and I jump in the shower and get ready for my dinner plans.
Did my plan work? Yes: it's outcome was above and beyond what I even expected.
Did they know I did that on purpose? Most likely.
Does it matter? Naaaaaaah.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Four guys walk into a bar....
Ok, this isn't a silly joke but it's still pretty damn funny.
This story involves me, 3 of my best friends, and the bars in Dallas. It goes to show that even though the population of the Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex is over 6 million people (with Dallas alone having 1.3 million), it is a very very small world out there.
We arrive at one of my favorite bars around 11:00 and I spot a prime table. We sit down, order a few drinks, and immediately begin laughing. Gosh, I love them.
I have the best seat in the house: my back is to the wall and not only am I facing my friends, but I can see everyone in the entire bar...including a table of guys who keep nonchalantly looking up at us. (We're sitting in a tall table and they're in a lower one). Kind of smiling to myself at how hard they're trying to not be obvious but inevitably are, I start laughing inside when I see them nod to each other, stand up, and approach. My friends are deep in conversation. 'This is gonna be good.'
"Hey," they say as the smile and lean into the table. "We were wondering if you girls would switch us tables?" My friend Ashley immediately says, "Sure!" and jumps down off of her seat. "Ashley!" I say in a urgent but hushed tone, "They don't want to switch us tables--they're hitting on us." And anyway, I'm not giving up this table to anyone. She's a little embarrassed, but it's really not that big of a deal. She'll learn that when guys don't have any good pick-up lines, they'll eventually come up with some lame comment or question that at least does the job of starting the conversation. Needless to say, their approach worked.
After talking to a surfer from Hawaii for 30 minutes, my roommate yells across the table, "HALEY! This guy lives in our condo complex!" Ok, our condo complex is not big at all. This was shocking. After a few minutes, we come to find out that he is our next door neighbor. My roommate shares a bedroom wall with him and we can hear him in his kitchen when he makes breakfast in the morning...weird. I was floored.
It got even weirder when we discovered that we had actually talked to each other before. Around this time last year my other roommate and I were throwing a big party. Both being under the legal drinking age, we were semi-worried about someone calling the police if it got too loud. Therefore, I went over to our neighbor's house and rang the doorbell. Surprised to see a strange girl at his doorstep, he asked, "Can I help you?" I replied, "Yes. First of all, we're having a party Saturday night and you are welcome to come if you want. Second of all, if it gets too loud, we'd appreciate it if you came over and told us to be quieter instead of calling the cops. Thanks!" He looked at me like I was a little crazy (which I am) and said, "Uhhh....thanks, but I'll be out of town anyway." I also talked to his roommate on the stairs one time when I was leaving for practice.
And yet, we never recognized each other until we began talking about our living quarters.
We talked to them for the next 3 hours until the lights came on and the bar closed. We were shocked that time flew by that quickly. They were good guys. I'm glad to have them as neighbors.
This morning I took out the trash after my run and ran into them as they were coming home. Carrying trash that smelled like rotten eggs and spinach while sweating in spandex with no makeup (looking COMPLETELY different and totally unattractive compared the night before), I was embarrased when they still recognized me and yelled "HI NEIGHBOR!" I tried to hide under my baseball cap and I think it maybe worked.
Gosh, it's so nice to finally get to know your neighbors. Especially when they're hott. Looks like I'll always have to be on top of my game when it comes to taking care of myself now just incase we run into each other coming and going from our apartments...I'm not sure if this is a good or bad thing yet. I'll keep you posted.
This story involves me, 3 of my best friends, and the bars in Dallas. It goes to show that even though the population of the Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex is over 6 million people (with Dallas alone having 1.3 million), it is a very very small world out there.
We arrive at one of my favorite bars around 11:00 and I spot a prime table. We sit down, order a few drinks, and immediately begin laughing. Gosh, I love them.
I have the best seat in the house: my back is to the wall and not only am I facing my friends, but I can see everyone in the entire bar...including a table of guys who keep nonchalantly looking up at us. (We're sitting in a tall table and they're in a lower one). Kind of smiling to myself at how hard they're trying to not be obvious but inevitably are, I start laughing inside when I see them nod to each other, stand up, and approach. My friends are deep in conversation. 'This is gonna be good.'
"Hey," they say as the smile and lean into the table. "We were wondering if you girls would switch us tables?" My friend Ashley immediately says, "Sure!" and jumps down off of her seat. "Ashley!" I say in a urgent but hushed tone, "They don't want to switch us tables--they're hitting on us." And anyway, I'm not giving up this table to anyone. She's a little embarrassed, but it's really not that big of a deal. She'll learn that when guys don't have any good pick-up lines, they'll eventually come up with some lame comment or question that at least does the job of starting the conversation. Needless to say, their approach worked.
After talking to a surfer from Hawaii for 30 minutes, my roommate yells across the table, "HALEY! This guy lives in our condo complex!" Ok, our condo complex is not big at all. This was shocking. After a few minutes, we come to find out that he is our next door neighbor. My roommate shares a bedroom wall with him and we can hear him in his kitchen when he makes breakfast in the morning...weird. I was floored.
It got even weirder when we discovered that we had actually talked to each other before. Around this time last year my other roommate and I were throwing a big party. Both being under the legal drinking age, we were semi-worried about someone calling the police if it got too loud. Therefore, I went over to our neighbor's house and rang the doorbell. Surprised to see a strange girl at his doorstep, he asked, "Can I help you?" I replied, "Yes. First of all, we're having a party Saturday night and you are welcome to come if you want. Second of all, if it gets too loud, we'd appreciate it if you came over and told us to be quieter instead of calling the cops. Thanks!" He looked at me like I was a little crazy (which I am) and said, "Uhhh....thanks, but I'll be out of town anyway." I also talked to his roommate on the stairs one time when I was leaving for practice.
And yet, we never recognized each other until we began talking about our living quarters.
We talked to them for the next 3 hours until the lights came on and the bar closed. We were shocked that time flew by that quickly. They were good guys. I'm glad to have them as neighbors.
This morning I took out the trash after my run and ran into them as they were coming home. Carrying trash that smelled like rotten eggs and spinach while sweating in spandex with no makeup (looking COMPLETELY different and totally unattractive compared the night before), I was embarrased when they still recognized me and yelled "HI NEIGHBOR!" I tried to hide under my baseball cap and I think it maybe worked.
Gosh, it's so nice to finally get to know your neighbors. Especially when they're hott. Looks like I'll always have to be on top of my game when it comes to taking care of myself now just incase we run into each other coming and going from our apartments...I'm not sure if this is a good or bad thing yet. I'll keep you posted.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
My Bathroom Loathes Me
This is not a real blog post. It's just a short little story showing that my bathroom will never, ever be ok...even if it is "fixed".
I was showering the other day in my bathroom that (after 4 months) finally has a ceiling. All of a sudden, I hear something scraping the (also newly fixed) tile and then BAM the shower curtain and rod basically attack me while I'm trying to wash my hair. I let out a loud scream as I fumble with soapy hands to grab ahold of the askew shower curtain while conditioner runs from my silky locks into my eyes and mouth. Blind and trying not to die via soap poisoning, I manage to tame the crazy curtain, but only after it's managed to knock everything off of the counter, arrange itself in such a way as to channel the water from the shower right onto the floor, and knock me straight in the head.
Seriously, has my bathroom taken on a mind of its own? First it tries to electrocute me with the wires in the ceiling. Then, it invades my privacy by refusing to let the door shut any time I try to go to the bathroom. And now it tries to knock me unconscious while I'm trying to take a shower. Really! What has a girl got to do to groom herself?!
I was showering the other day in my bathroom that (after 4 months) finally has a ceiling. All of a sudden, I hear something scraping the (also newly fixed) tile and then BAM the shower curtain and rod basically attack me while I'm trying to wash my hair. I let out a loud scream as I fumble with soapy hands to grab ahold of the askew shower curtain while conditioner runs from my silky locks into my eyes and mouth. Blind and trying not to die via soap poisoning, I manage to tame the crazy curtain, but only after it's managed to knock everything off of the counter, arrange itself in such a way as to channel the water from the shower right onto the floor, and knock me straight in the head.
Seriously, has my bathroom taken on a mind of its own? First it tries to electrocute me with the wires in the ceiling. Then, it invades my privacy by refusing to let the door shut any time I try to go to the bathroom. And now it tries to knock me unconscious while I'm trying to take a shower. Really! What has a girl got to do to groom herself?!
Monday, November 29, 2010
My professor
thinks I'm a crazy, drunken skank.
But I'm not. I actually don't drink that much....probably about twice a month. My usual means of entertainment entails going out with my friends, remaining completely sober, and watching the night unfold into chaos. Sobriety is underrated. For all of you who think "there's no way I can step into a bar sober because I can't stand drunk people"....well, think again. I'm sure you can. And I'm sure you'd be pleasantly surprised.
Those stories are for another time and place. This one actually IS about my professor.
It's about this morning. The wonderful Monday mornings of college where you reluctantly drag yourself to class if only to swap Friday/Saturday night stories about your crew with one of your "class friends." (We all have them----the people you don't hang out with on the weekend but are basically BFFs with in class so you each only have to do half of the review.....yep.) Well this is exactly what I was doing with one of my "class friends" before my 11 AM Accounting class. We were muttering under our breath, giggling (with a few bursts of laughter), and having a hard time telling the stories all together because they were just that good. I have this huge sneaky grin on my face when all of a sudden my friend goes, "Oh my GOD. Don't look now, but our professor was just watching us." Ok, so when someone goes, "Don't look now," of course you look! So yeah, I looked and he was definitely watching us being all silly in the back row.
As soon as we make eye contact, he starts laughing and turns to the board to start class. I nervously laugh and turn bright red. There's no way he heard, right?! I mean, we are in the back of the class. And he's down in the front....Oh good LORD, I hope he doesn't think I was talking about myself. I comfort myself by thinking, 'Oh, he's been a professor here for many years--I'm sure he's heard worse.' Then I resolve to forget about it and try to understand accounting.
We're doing a problem in class when he tells us to finish it on our own and then discuss our answer with our neighbor. Well of course my friend and I aren't going to discuss anything related to accounting (DUH)--she has a story to finish! So we get all quiet again and pretend that we're talking about amortization until big smiles appear and giggling starts coming out of our mouths. I don't know if you've ever been in an accounting class, but there is absolutely nothing in that class that would make you smile OR laugh....unless you're laughing because the subject is so ridiculous and you can't understand a thing (because I laugh a lot when it comes to that).
It's almost time for us to be finished "discussing" when I look up to the front of class and see my professor watching us...again. The big goofy smile turns to a look of horror because I know he knows what we're talking about. I'm mortified. He begins laughing again--loudly--and catches the attention of the entire front row. "What's so funny, professor?" a few of them ask. "Oh, nothing," he says as he tries to compose himself. My friend can barely contain herself when she starts laughing again and lets out a loud, obnoxious shriek. The entire class turns to look at us, then back to our professor, then back to us. My friend's head is buried in her arms on her desk as she tries to get a hold of herself while I'm a frozen deer in headlights as I meet all the wondering eyes of my classmates. Then they look at each other with intrigue, shrug their shoulders, and turn back to the front of class.
And then I slumped down in my seat and pretended to disappear into the floor. Laughing, my friend mutters, "I guess I'll finish the story after class."
"I think you better."
But I'm not. I actually don't drink that much....probably about twice a month. My usual means of entertainment entails going out with my friends, remaining completely sober, and watching the night unfold into chaos. Sobriety is underrated. For all of you who think "there's no way I can step into a bar sober because I can't stand drunk people"....well, think again. I'm sure you can. And I'm sure you'd be pleasantly surprised.
Those stories are for another time and place. This one actually IS about my professor.
It's about this morning. The wonderful Monday mornings of college where you reluctantly drag yourself to class if only to swap Friday/Saturday night stories about your crew with one of your "class friends." (We all have them----the people you don't hang out with on the weekend but are basically BFFs with in class so you each only have to do half of the review.....yep.) Well this is exactly what I was doing with one of my "class friends" before my 11 AM Accounting class. We were muttering under our breath, giggling (with a few bursts of laughter), and having a hard time telling the stories all together because they were just that good. I have this huge sneaky grin on my face when all of a sudden my friend goes, "Oh my GOD. Don't look now, but our professor was just watching us." Ok, so when someone goes, "Don't look now," of course you look! So yeah, I looked and he was definitely watching us being all silly in the back row.
As soon as we make eye contact, he starts laughing and turns to the board to start class. I nervously laugh and turn bright red. There's no way he heard, right?! I mean, we are in the back of the class. And he's down in the front....Oh good LORD, I hope he doesn't think I was talking about myself. I comfort myself by thinking, 'Oh, he's been a professor here for many years--I'm sure he's heard worse.' Then I resolve to forget about it and try to understand accounting.
We're doing a problem in class when he tells us to finish it on our own and then discuss our answer with our neighbor. Well of course my friend and I aren't going to discuss anything related to accounting (DUH)--she has a story to finish! So we get all quiet again and pretend that we're talking about amortization until big smiles appear and giggling starts coming out of our mouths. I don't know if you've ever been in an accounting class, but there is absolutely nothing in that class that would make you smile OR laugh....unless you're laughing because the subject is so ridiculous and you can't understand a thing (because I laugh a lot when it comes to that).
It's almost time for us to be finished "discussing" when I look up to the front of class and see my professor watching us...again. The big goofy smile turns to a look of horror because I know he knows what we're talking about. I'm mortified. He begins laughing again--loudly--and catches the attention of the entire front row. "What's so funny, professor?" a few of them ask. "Oh, nothing," he says as he tries to compose himself. My friend can barely contain herself when she starts laughing again and lets out a loud, obnoxious shriek. The entire class turns to look at us, then back to our professor, then back to us. My friend's head is buried in her arms on her desk as she tries to get a hold of herself while I'm a frozen deer in headlights as I meet all the wondering eyes of my classmates. Then they look at each other with intrigue, shrug their shoulders, and turn back to the front of class.
And then I slumped down in my seat and pretended to disappear into the floor. Laughing, my friend mutters, "I guess I'll finish the story after class."
"I think you better."
Friday, November 26, 2010
Give Thanks for Family
Her name is trouble. My name is trouble. Her sister's name is trouble.
I'm talking about my two cousins I went out with on Thanksgiving night. And myself.
We're trouble. At least that's what the bartender told us at the beginning of the night. If he could go back and put money on that, he'd be a millionaire this morning.
I haven't drank in a looooooong time. Well, a "long time" for a college student anyway. This created chaos.
This post would be waaaaaaaaay too long if I told you everything that happened last night. Also, I don't think it would be wise to tell you everything three blond 20-somethings did in downtown Kansas City on Thanksgiving night. You could hold it against us.
Don't get me wrong: we didn't do anything illegal or too scandalous.
Therefore, the point of this post is to remind you of a crazy night you once had with your family.
But I can tell you:
*I met an O.J. Simpson look alike. Except he was 5'10" and white. So, the only resemblance was that he was wearing black gloves to "cover his tracks". We were confused but entertained.
*I became bffs with "Big Daddy", the 60-year-old black grandpa at the bar. He bought us a round of shots. We adopted him into our family.
*I mistakenly wore 4 inch platform heels. This was not a good idea and proved true multiple times throughout the night.
*Our entire tab got covered by Jeffrey, the bartender. We made friends with him and his brother. We gave them free range when it came to mixing our drinks and they got creative behind the bar.
*My cousin just showed me the pictures we took. I think you know that those won't be posted on here.
*Around 2AM, we decided we needed food so we hit up an IHOP from the 1970s. Everyone and their mom was there and a 12-year-old boy hit on me when I was walking to the bathroom.
*A fight broke out over pancakes and the waitress had to kick the guys out. I think a gun was pulled out because the hash browns also weren't cooked right. Tha Popo showed up and started questioning people. I took it upon myself to tell them that they already fled the scene. My cousin told me to immediately fill my mouth with my funny face pancake.
*I ended up sleeping on my basement floor in my going-out attire without a pillow or proper blanket.
*I'm still inebriated right now.
I'm talking about my two cousins I went out with on Thanksgiving night. And myself.
We're trouble. At least that's what the bartender told us at the beginning of the night. If he could go back and put money on that, he'd be a millionaire this morning.
I haven't drank in a looooooong time. Well, a "long time" for a college student anyway. This created chaos.
This post would be waaaaaaaaay too long if I told you everything that happened last night. Also, I don't think it would be wise to tell you everything three blond 20-somethings did in downtown Kansas City on Thanksgiving night. You could hold it against us.
Don't get me wrong: we didn't do anything illegal or too scandalous.
Therefore, the point of this post is to remind you of a crazy night you once had with your family.
But I can tell you:
*I met an O.J. Simpson look alike. Except he was 5'10" and white. So, the only resemblance was that he was wearing black gloves to "cover his tracks". We were confused but entertained.
*I became bffs with "Big Daddy", the 60-year-old black grandpa at the bar. He bought us a round of shots. We adopted him into our family.
*I mistakenly wore 4 inch platform heels. This was not a good idea and proved true multiple times throughout the night.
*Our entire tab got covered by Jeffrey, the bartender. We made friends with him and his brother. We gave them free range when it came to mixing our drinks and they got creative behind the bar.
*My cousin just showed me the pictures we took. I think you know that those won't be posted on here.
*Around 2AM, we decided we needed food so we hit up an IHOP from the 1970s. Everyone and their mom was there and a 12-year-old boy hit on me when I was walking to the bathroom.
*A fight broke out over pancakes and the waitress had to kick the guys out. I think a gun was pulled out because the hash browns also weren't cooked right. Tha Popo showed up and started questioning people. I took it upon myself to tell them that they already fled the scene. My cousin told me to immediately fill my mouth with my funny face pancake.
*I ended up sleeping on my basement floor in my going-out attire without a pillow or proper blanket.
*I'm still inebriated right now.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Stuff Like This Never Happens to Me.
I'm boy crazy. I'm sure you've figured that out by now. I just find the opposite sex so intriguing.
Which brings me to my flight yesterday from Dallas to Kansas City: the best flight of my life. I'm still semi-asleep as I walk up to the gate and am literally looking into a sea of beautiful 20-something males. "WHAT is going on here?!" I wonder. "This is just...fantastic. Now, I must choose my seat wisely. So. Many. Options."
I love flying alone. I usually do because I fly to-and-from school and to-and-from wherever else I feel like going (Europe. Yes, I flew alone and loved it). This has led to many talks with strangers during my flights. I also love strangers--they're interesting as well. And I think it's exciting that you will never again see the person you just spent hours talking to during your flight.
After I go through security and am about to walk up to my gate, I always always think, "Oh man, I sure hope there is a cute boy on my flight and by some miracle from God we get to sit next to each other, fall in love, get married, and have lots of babies. I would be sooooo grateful." And every time I walk up to my gate, I am greeted by disgruntled families, businessmen, and old people. My smile fades as my hopes of meeting my future husband are shattered into a tiny million pieces.
Not this time.
Which brings me to my flight yesterday from Dallas to Kansas City: the best flight of my life. I'm still semi-asleep as I walk up to the gate and am literally looking into a sea of beautiful 20-something males. "WHAT is going on here?!" I wonder. "This is just...fantastic. Now, I must choose my seat wisely. So. Many. Options."
I sit down and listen to my iPod as I wait to board the flight. To an outsider, I look like I'm minding my own business and playing a game on my phone. Wrong. I am scoping out the guys for my future boyfriend. This ensues until it's finally time to board the plane. I'm walking down the aisle when I see two cute ones in the middle and window seats. "Perfect. I'll just plop down in the aisle seat and that will be that. A two-for." Wrong. Just as I have done an imaginary fist pump in the air, a lady with a baby about 7 people in front of me takes the spot. "WHAAAAAAT?! Seriously, lady? You've already got one of those! Don't be selfish." Ugh, whatever.
So I sit across the aisle with a seat open next to me. I'll get sick if I go too far back and I'm not willing to risk looking green while I'm talking to Mr. Right. I'm texting my friend Mary-Kate (one of my twins) about how the lady should switch me seats if she knows what's good for her kid when I'm smiling to myself, look up from my phone, and make eye contact with a blond-haired, blue-eyed babe. Immediately, "Is this seat taken?" Shocked, I reply, "Oh, no it's not. You can sit here." Giggling inside, I let him by and text Mary-Kate, "Gotta go. Destiny awaits."
He graduated from the Air Force Academy, is a pilot, and lives in Texas. He let me try on his ring. He's from Kansas City and played football against my high school a few years back. We had a lot in common.
We talked during the entire hour-and-a-half flight. It was fun. It was magical.
He asked for my number.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Edit
You may have noticed that I edited my personal information to the left.
You may not have noticed because you honestly couldn't care less.**
Luckily for you, I don't care whether you noticed or not; I'm going to tell you why I changed it anyway.
I wish I could take the credit for the idea of changing my profile information, but I can't. A family friend messaged me pointing out some obvious contradictions between the info on the left and some of my blog entries. To be honest, I was a little embarrassed. How could it be so blatantly obvious that I wasn't correctly portraying myself in the box to the left as compared with how honest I was being in my posts? (Again, who really cares anyway? But just stick with me here.)
It got me thinking.
Am I being honest at all? Am I trying to portray myself in contradicting fashions to different audiences? Am I living by the well-known mantra "Do as I say, not as I do"? Unfortunately, I felt the answers were yes.
It got me acting.
I've decided to try this thing called "not-judging-people." I know, pretty novel idea right? Lately, I've been feeling like there's so much drama surrounding me that I shouldn't even be involved in at all. I hate drama. I don't cause drama. I refuse to partake in it. Yet, it still seems to slowly creep in and consume my thoughts and cause immense amounts of anxiety. Therefore, I've made a decision to stop worrying about what everyone else is doing and to ignore them when they come to me with new gossip and scandal. I need to quit critiquing others' decisions because, guess what, it's their decision. And (this is quite shocking as well) they live with those decisions, not me. I'm going to focus on myself and only the positivity in my life. I'm not going to judge others because (this is kind of selfish) I don't want them to judge me or my decisions. We need to highlight people's positive attributes, not dig for their dastardly imperfections and mistakes.
I'm editing myself.
Similarly, I'm going to try to be honest. No, I'm not going to empty my life story onto some complete stranger like the bank teller did to me the other day. I am, however, going to think, act, and speak as me. Not someone I want to be. Not someone I used to be. Not someone I'm going to be. But I need to focus more on being me.
Figuring out just exactly who is "me" is confusing and exhausting enough....so how can I possibly have the time, energy, and imagination to be someone I'm not?
**NOTE: the above entry is a bunch of random thoughts that have been floating around my head as a result of recent events that occurred this past weekend. It's a jumbled mess and I feel really weird that it's out there for everyone and their mom to read, but I suppose this is my first step in being open. I'm admitting my life isn't perfect, even though I always appear to be (HA). I apologize for the deep thoughts as of recent. More embarrassing stories will resurface soon.
You may not have noticed because you honestly couldn't care less.**
Luckily for you, I don't care whether you noticed or not; I'm going to tell you why I changed it anyway.
I wish I could take the credit for the idea of changing my profile information, but I can't. A family friend messaged me pointing out some obvious contradictions between the info on the left and some of my blog entries. To be honest, I was a little embarrassed. How could it be so blatantly obvious that I wasn't correctly portraying myself in the box to the left as compared with how honest I was being in my posts? (Again, who really cares anyway? But just stick with me here.)
It got me thinking.
Am I being honest at all? Am I trying to portray myself in contradicting fashions to different audiences? Am I living by the well-known mantra "Do as I say, not as I do"? Unfortunately, I felt the answers were yes.
It got me acting.
I've decided to try this thing called "not-judging-people." I know, pretty novel idea right? Lately, I've been feeling like there's so much drama surrounding me that I shouldn't even be involved in at all. I hate drama. I don't cause drama. I refuse to partake in it. Yet, it still seems to slowly creep in and consume my thoughts and cause immense amounts of anxiety. Therefore, I've made a decision to stop worrying about what everyone else is doing and to ignore them when they come to me with new gossip and scandal. I need to quit critiquing others' decisions because, guess what, it's their decision. And (this is quite shocking as well) they live with those decisions, not me. I'm going to focus on myself and only the positivity in my life. I'm not going to judge others because (this is kind of selfish) I don't want them to judge me or my decisions. We need to highlight people's positive attributes, not dig for their dastardly imperfections and mistakes.
I'm editing myself.
Similarly, I'm going to try to be honest. No, I'm not going to empty my life story onto some complete stranger like the bank teller did to me the other day. I am, however, going to think, act, and speak as me. Not someone I want to be. Not someone I used to be. Not someone I'm going to be. But I need to focus more on being me.
Figuring out just exactly who is "me" is confusing and exhausting enough....so how can I possibly have the time, energy, and imagination to be someone I'm not?
**NOTE: the above entry is a bunch of random thoughts that have been floating around my head as a result of recent events that occurred this past weekend. It's a jumbled mess and I feel really weird that it's out there for everyone and their mom to read, but I suppose this is my first step in being open. I'm admitting my life isn't perfect, even though I always appear to be (HA). I apologize for the deep thoughts as of recent. More embarrassing stories will resurface soon.
Friday, November 19, 2010
Step One:
Admit you have a problem.
I have a problem.
Well.....it's not so much a problem for me as it is for my bank account. You see, it's actually not causing one bit of chaos in my closet, but it's doing massive damage to my monetary funds and strict budget. It always happens around this time of year. This is the time of year that I become a very special person to myself. (I know that sounds very conceited and selfish, but if you know me well enough, I'm not either of those two things. At least, I hope not.) Either way, the problem begins around the 2nd of November and ends around December 26th.
The gifts just keep coming.
And coming and coming and coming. And coming.
From myself to myself.
My birthday is November 3rd and (obviously) Christmas is December 25th. Therefore, I end up using these two very important holidays as perfect excuses to buy myself presents. I am celebrating mine and Jesus' births, after all. And I'm a pretty good person, so we'll just throw that in there as well.
It all begins (well, I'll be honest) as soon as fall starts. So I guess we're actually talking late September. Whatever. I use the change in season (and change in wardrobe) to buy myself something special. After all, I have absolutely nothing appropriate for fall in my closet. What have I been wearing for the last 20 years?! Therefore, a trip to the mall is absolutely necessary. Later, as I look around my favorite store Nordstrom's, I think, "Well, my birthday IS coming up (still over a month away, mind you) and this IS kind of a big birthday so this will be my birthday present to myself. Alright, that sounds good enough."
I've been using this "big birthday" thing for the past 4 years. And it will probably work for the next few years as well:
18: I'm finally legal to.....not really do anything important besides vote. Oh well, I'm graduating in May so..... yeah, it's still September but this is an early graduation present to myself as well.
19: Last year of being a teenager!!! Let's hold fast to this last year and celebrate at the mall.
20: Finally hit my 20s and no longer a teenager (thank GOD). Let's go buy myself something cute to wear out tonight.
21: Now I can drink and be an adult! Let's go buy something for me to wear to celebrate drinking my first alcoholic beverage!
22: Aaaaaaand now I'm OLD. Let's go buy myself something to cheer myself up.
23: Now I'm just really old and no one cares about my birthday anymore. Let's do some retail therapy. And I can buy myself two things this time: one for each year over the age of 21...sigh...
This could easily continue in a plausible fashion, but you get the picture.
I'm not quite sure when the presents stop being birthday presents and start being Christmas presents, but I'm sure it's sometime after Thanksgiving. Actually, it's probably the weekend after because that's when a lot of sales are going on. So, I kill two birds with one stone and take advantage of all the sales while celebrating the beginning of the Christmas season. "This will look GREAT at the next holiday party. Now I just need shoes, jewelry, and a top to match." Merry Christmas to me.
After Christmas, well actually New Years I suppose, ("I need something black and sparkly to celebrate the New Year in!!") I get my credit card statement and immediately go into cardiac arrest. "I spent HOW MUCH on clothing and shopping for the past two months?! There's no way. There must be some mistake....Oh wait, yeah I remember that one....Ok, yeah, that was a birthday present.....Oh, I wasn't feeling well that day.....Well, those shoes were on sale and they were the last pair so I had to get them....The skirt went with the shoes.....That necklace went with the skirt......Those other shoes went with the necklace.....I could get the shirt for free if I only spent a little bit more....It was the beginning of the Christmas season.....I had a gift card that covered 1/4 of the cost so it was basically 25% off...." and so on.
I then resolve to not buy anything else unless it's absolutely necessary. (NOTE: I subconsciously leave the definition of "necessary" pretty vague to give myself some sort of cop-out). I then work my tail off babysitting everyone and their dog to save up for summer. And by "summer", I suppose I actually mean spring because, let's be honest, I have absolutely nothing appropriate to wear for spring. What have I been wearing for the past 20 years?!
I have a problem.
Well.....it's not so much a problem for me as it is for my bank account. You see, it's actually not causing one bit of chaos in my closet, but it's doing massive damage to my monetary funds and strict budget. It always happens around this time of year. This is the time of year that I become a very special person to myself. (I know that sounds very conceited and selfish, but if you know me well enough, I'm not either of those two things. At least, I hope not.) Either way, the problem begins around the 2nd of November and ends around December 26th.
The gifts just keep coming.
And coming and coming and coming. And coming.
From myself to myself.
My birthday is November 3rd and (obviously) Christmas is December 25th. Therefore, I end up using these two very important holidays as perfect excuses to buy myself presents. I am celebrating mine and Jesus' births, after all. And I'm a pretty good person, so we'll just throw that in there as well.
It all begins (well, I'll be honest) as soon as fall starts. So I guess we're actually talking late September. Whatever. I use the change in season (and change in wardrobe) to buy myself something special. After all, I have absolutely nothing appropriate for fall in my closet. What have I been wearing for the last 20 years?! Therefore, a trip to the mall is absolutely necessary. Later, as I look around my favorite store Nordstrom's, I think, "Well, my birthday IS coming up (still over a month away, mind you) and this IS kind of a big birthday so this will be my birthday present to myself. Alright, that sounds good enough."
I've been using this "big birthday" thing for the past 4 years. And it will probably work for the next few years as well:
18: I'm finally legal to.....not really do anything important besides vote. Oh well, I'm graduating in May so..... yeah, it's still September but this is an early graduation present to myself as well.
19: Last year of being a teenager!!! Let's hold fast to this last year and celebrate at the mall.
20: Finally hit my 20s and no longer a teenager (thank GOD). Let's go buy myself something cute to wear out tonight.
21: Now I can drink and be an adult! Let's go buy something for me to wear to celebrate drinking my first alcoholic beverage!
22: Aaaaaaand now I'm OLD. Let's go buy myself something to cheer myself up.
23: Now I'm just really old and no one cares about my birthday anymore. Let's do some retail therapy. And I can buy myself two things this time: one for each year over the age of 21...sigh...
This could easily continue in a plausible fashion, but you get the picture.
I'm not quite sure when the presents stop being birthday presents and start being Christmas presents, but I'm sure it's sometime after Thanksgiving. Actually, it's probably the weekend after because that's when a lot of sales are going on. So, I kill two birds with one stone and take advantage of all the sales while celebrating the beginning of the Christmas season. "This will look GREAT at the next holiday party. Now I just need shoes, jewelry, and a top to match." Merry Christmas to me.
After Christmas, well actually New Years I suppose, ("I need something black and sparkly to celebrate the New Year in!!") I get my credit card statement and immediately go into cardiac arrest. "I spent HOW MUCH on clothing and shopping for the past two months?! There's no way. There must be some mistake....Oh wait, yeah I remember that one....Ok, yeah, that was a birthday present.....Oh, I wasn't feeling well that day.....Well, those shoes were on sale and they were the last pair so I had to get them....The skirt went with the shoes.....That necklace went with the skirt......Those other shoes went with the necklace.....I could get the shirt for free if I only spent a little bit more....It was the beginning of the Christmas season.....I had a gift card that covered 1/4 of the cost so it was basically 25% off...." and so on.
I then resolve to not buy anything else unless it's absolutely necessary. (NOTE: I subconsciously leave the definition of "necessary" pretty vague to give myself some sort of cop-out). I then work my tail off babysitting everyone and their dog to save up for summer. And by "summer", I suppose I actually mean spring because, let's be honest, I have absolutely nothing appropriate to wear for spring. What have I been wearing for the past 20 years?!
Monday, November 15, 2010
I Died.
Kind of. Almost. Basically.
As much as I joke, this was actually really scary.
It was last Friday. We had a 6,000 meter ergometer test. This is one of the most difficult things I do in my life. This is a test where you push your body to its ultimate limit of exhaustion.....and then beyond that. Literally. You'll see. An ergometer is a rowing machine. I'm sure you've seen it in the gym. Maybe you've even hopped on it and pulled on the handle for a few minutes. But there is no possible way that you have EVER experienced the pain of an erg test. We do these multiple times a year. Stressful and painful, I always feel completely shitty and totally awesome at the same time whenever I finish. I think it has something to do with how crazy I am and the fact that I love pain in my muscles and body. Huh.
Anyway, I prepared myself all week by eating extremely healthy and getting a lot of sleep. I drank tons of water and even counted my fat, protein, and carbohydrate gram intake for a few days. (Crazy, yes.) I made sure I ate enough. But nothing could prepare me for what was going to happen during this erg test.
I started off strong. I was pounding out each stroke. I was so fit. I was flying. I was doing better than I had anticipated. Around the 3,000 meter mark, I started feeling sick to my stomach. Only half-way through and I felt like I was going to vom. It wasn't nausea caused by food; rather, it was the lactic acid that had built up in my legs and had finally made its way to my stomach. This is where you hit your anarobic threshold and your body needs to stop doing what it's doing. "Great," I thought. "Only half-way done and my body is already telling me that it has had enough and I need to stop immediately." But I couldn't stop. I was in the middle of a test. And there was no way I was quitting, even if my body was telling me that it was getting sick.
I'm coming up to the last 500 meters when all of a sudden I get tunnel vision. I can barely see anything in front of me. Yet, somehow, I still keep going as fast as I possibly can. "I'm almost finished with this MOFO test and there is NO WAY that I'm quitting. Even if I can't see." A few of my teammates are cheering behind me to sprint as fast as I can in order to get the best possible time. I'm doing everything in my power to stay conscious and finish the test.
I don't remember the last 200 meters (roughly one minute). I don't remember finishing. I know I didn't pass out, but I don't remember if I fell to the ground, stood up, or what. One of my teammates was there and helped me get off the erg (I only remember this because she was still with me about 20 minutes later and told me). I was so hot. I couldn't stand to be inside, but I couldn't walk either. She helped me walk outside where I immediately began vomiting and fell to the ground. I lost control of my entire body and couldn't talk, couldn't see, and (this is kind of embarrassing) began going to the bathroom. I completely lost control of my entire body as a result of this test. They had to pour water all over me to try to get my body temperature to decrease. But I was still so hot. And couldn't move.
And my heart rate was still at 190. This is 190 beats per minute. AKA, this is your heart rate when you are running/erging/whatever at your absolute hardest. But I had stopped doing any cardio 10 minutes ago. My heart rate should have slowed back to normal within 2 minutes of stopping. Something was very wrong.
I was still vomiting. I was still on the ground. Two of my teammates were looking at me like they had seen a ghost. They had. "Haley, you're so pale. You're as white as a sheet! You need some help. We need to go to the training room immediately." But I still couldn't walk. I could barely keep my eyes open. My teammate had to walk me to the training room, taking 10 minutes for a 2 minute walk.
We are about 100 meters away from the door when my entire arm begins to go numb. I had remained calm and didn't really feel like anything was wrong (weird, I know) until I couldn't feel a part of my body. I immediately begin freaking out. My teammate gets even more concerned. She runs to open the door and I slowly saunter through. We make it down the stairs and I'm on the verge of tears. I don't know what's going on. But I feel so sick. And I'm so hot that I can barely stand it. We finally make it downstairs and I lay down on the ground. I don't have enough energy to remain standing. I was so hot, but I wasn't sweating. My body was on fire. My teammate runs to get more water and begins pouring water all over me in the hallway. My trainer finally comes out to see what's going on and coaxes me into the training room and gets me to lay down and drink some water and Gatorade. I immediately begin throwing it up. My body can't handle anything at this point. She talks to me and helps me relax and gives me some medicine and electrolytes to rehydrate my body and get my blood sugar back to normal. I can finally down some Gatorade.
"Did you eat enough today? Did you sleep enough last night? What have you been doing all week? Did you do anything different before this erg test than other previous ones?"
I did everything normally, if not better than before other erg tests. I don't know why this happened.
The only thing I can think of is that I pushed my body completely and utterly outside of its comfort zone. And past its acceptable point of exhaustion.
Finally, (this is so weird and shows just how crazy I am) but as soon as I was feeling better and was leaving the training room (like an hour after the test), I thought, "Wow, I kind of want to do that again." Not the whole vomiting and "can't-remember-what-happened-to-me" thing, but the whole "pushing-myself-harder-than-I-ever-have-before" thing. You see, my dream is to be a marathon runner. So now, knowing that I ultimately crave this kind of pain and fatigue in my muscles and body, I know that I can and will achieve this dream.
Everything I went through this afternoon was worth it. Not only did I get my season personal record, but I got my all-time personal record!!! I'm so happy!! So welcome. Welcome to the world of college athletics where you put your body through hell just to achieve a certain number. And you do it willingly and happily. Over and over again.
A few weeks ago when I was talking to our assistant coach about running, she said, "Pain: you either hate it and learn push through it or you learn to love it."
And I think I've learned to love it.
As much as I joke, this was actually really scary.
It was last Friday. We had a 6,000 meter ergometer test. This is one of the most difficult things I do in my life. This is a test where you push your body to its ultimate limit of exhaustion.....and then beyond that. Literally. You'll see. An ergometer is a rowing machine. I'm sure you've seen it in the gym. Maybe you've even hopped on it and pulled on the handle for a few minutes. But there is no possible way that you have EVER experienced the pain of an erg test. We do these multiple times a year. Stressful and painful, I always feel completely shitty and totally awesome at the same time whenever I finish. I think it has something to do with how crazy I am and the fact that I love pain in my muscles and body. Huh.
Anyway, I prepared myself all week by eating extremely healthy and getting a lot of sleep. I drank tons of water and even counted my fat, protein, and carbohydrate gram intake for a few days. (Crazy, yes.) I made sure I ate enough. But nothing could prepare me for what was going to happen during this erg test.
I started off strong. I was pounding out each stroke. I was so fit. I was flying. I was doing better than I had anticipated. Around the 3,000 meter mark, I started feeling sick to my stomach. Only half-way through and I felt like I was going to vom. It wasn't nausea caused by food; rather, it was the lactic acid that had built up in my legs and had finally made its way to my stomach. This is where you hit your anarobic threshold and your body needs to stop doing what it's doing. "Great," I thought. "Only half-way done and my body is already telling me that it has had enough and I need to stop immediately." But I couldn't stop. I was in the middle of a test. And there was no way I was quitting, even if my body was telling me that it was getting sick.
I'm coming up to the last 500 meters when all of a sudden I get tunnel vision. I can barely see anything in front of me. Yet, somehow, I still keep going as fast as I possibly can. "I'm almost finished with this MOFO test and there is NO WAY that I'm quitting. Even if I can't see." A few of my teammates are cheering behind me to sprint as fast as I can in order to get the best possible time. I'm doing everything in my power to stay conscious and finish the test.
I don't remember the last 200 meters (roughly one minute). I don't remember finishing. I know I didn't pass out, but I don't remember if I fell to the ground, stood up, or what. One of my teammates was there and helped me get off the erg (I only remember this because she was still with me about 20 minutes later and told me). I was so hot. I couldn't stand to be inside, but I couldn't walk either. She helped me walk outside where I immediately began vomiting and fell to the ground. I lost control of my entire body and couldn't talk, couldn't see, and (this is kind of embarrassing) began going to the bathroom. I completely lost control of my entire body as a result of this test. They had to pour water all over me to try to get my body temperature to decrease. But I was still so hot. And couldn't move.
And my heart rate was still at 190. This is 190 beats per minute. AKA, this is your heart rate when you are running/erging/whatever at your absolute hardest. But I had stopped doing any cardio 10 minutes ago. My heart rate should have slowed back to normal within 2 minutes of stopping. Something was very wrong.
I was still vomiting. I was still on the ground. Two of my teammates were looking at me like they had seen a ghost. They had. "Haley, you're so pale. You're as white as a sheet! You need some help. We need to go to the training room immediately." But I still couldn't walk. I could barely keep my eyes open. My teammate had to walk me to the training room, taking 10 minutes for a 2 minute walk.
We are about 100 meters away from the door when my entire arm begins to go numb. I had remained calm and didn't really feel like anything was wrong (weird, I know) until I couldn't feel a part of my body. I immediately begin freaking out. My teammate gets even more concerned. She runs to open the door and I slowly saunter through. We make it down the stairs and I'm on the verge of tears. I don't know what's going on. But I feel so sick. And I'm so hot that I can barely stand it. We finally make it downstairs and I lay down on the ground. I don't have enough energy to remain standing. I was so hot, but I wasn't sweating. My body was on fire. My teammate runs to get more water and begins pouring water all over me in the hallway. My trainer finally comes out to see what's going on and coaxes me into the training room and gets me to lay down and drink some water and Gatorade. I immediately begin throwing it up. My body can't handle anything at this point. She talks to me and helps me relax and gives me some medicine and electrolytes to rehydrate my body and get my blood sugar back to normal. I can finally down some Gatorade.
"Did you eat enough today? Did you sleep enough last night? What have you been doing all week? Did you do anything different before this erg test than other previous ones?"
I did everything normally, if not better than before other erg tests. I don't know why this happened.
The only thing I can think of is that I pushed my body completely and utterly outside of its comfort zone. And past its acceptable point of exhaustion.
Finally, (this is so weird and shows just how crazy I am) but as soon as I was feeling better and was leaving the training room (like an hour after the test), I thought, "Wow, I kind of want to do that again." Not the whole vomiting and "can't-remember-what-happened-to-me" thing, but the whole "pushing-myself-harder-than-I-ever-have-before" thing. You see, my dream is to be a marathon runner. So now, knowing that I ultimately crave this kind of pain and fatigue in my muscles and body, I know that I can and will achieve this dream.
Everything I went through this afternoon was worth it. Not only did I get my season personal record, but I got my all-time personal record!!! I'm so happy!! So welcome. Welcome to the world of college athletics where you put your body through hell just to achieve a certain number. And you do it willingly and happily. Over and over again.
A few weeks ago when I was talking to our assistant coach about running, she said, "Pain: you either hate it and learn push through it or you learn to love it."
And I think I've learned to love it.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Peace.
My goal for the rest of this semester is to be more peaceful.
And so far, it's working.
I'm happier, calmer, and generally more at peace with how things are going. Nothing in my life has changed, but my outlook on it has. And it's making all the difference.
I had a realization last Saturday. I was sitting at my desk writing about things when I realized that I was doing the equivalent of hitting my head against a wall. Over and over again. And it really hurt. Yet, I couldn't stop doing it. I was convinced that maybe the wall would give in to the force of my head. Surprise, surprise: it didn't. And it never will.
I'm all about control. I need to have control over every little thing in my life. Did you know that it's impossible to control everything that happens to you?! I know--crazy! Who knew?
I used to be so obsessed with school. If I didn't get an A, my life was over. OVER. I had failed. Disappointed myself and everyone I knew. (((See how ridiculous I was?))) After earning my first C on a midterm (followed immediately by my second C), I realized that sometimes you just don't always get what you strive for. Does that mean you're a bad person? No. Does that mean you didn't try your hardest? No. It just means you weren't as prepared as you thought you were. It means that you had other things to do that week that were higher on your priority list. And rightfully so.
School is important, yes, but so is your happiness. And enjoying life. If you spend your entire college career with your head stuck in a book trying to get a 4.0, then you aren't taking advantage of college. It's a time for growing. Changing. Loving yourself and experiencing life. Grades are important, yes, but your future employer also wants a wholesome, confident, and happy person working for them.
Therefore, when I saw my two C's this week, I sat back and accepted them fully into my life. Imperfection. Perfectly natural. (I haven't completely gone granola-girl on you---I immediately took inventory of my other grades to see that my GPA wouldn't suffer too bad.) And it won't. Yes, it's going to take a little hit this semester, but that's the price I'm going to pay for this amount of growth and understanding. And acceptance.
So I've removed my hands from the wall, pulled my head away, and taken a step back. What do you know? The wall is still there. I hadn't made a dent. All I had accomplished was a raging headache and disappointment. So I'm going a different route. I'm walking down the hall and going through that open door. Because, sometimes, you just can't force things. You can't always blaze your own path. Sometimes you have to take the options given to you and make the best decision you can. Does that mean you're being apathetic and letting life lead you? No. It means that you need to relax. Calm down. And accept what life has to offer. Because most of the time (if not all the time) its offer is even better than what you could have planned for yourself.
And now, one of my favorite artists. I am lucky enough to get to see him perform tonight.
Joshua Radin--Streetlight. Official website: http://us.joshuaradin.com/
And so far, it's working.
I'm happier, calmer, and generally more at peace with how things are going. Nothing in my life has changed, but my outlook on it has. And it's making all the difference.
I had a realization last Saturday. I was sitting at my desk writing about things when I realized that I was doing the equivalent of hitting my head against a wall. Over and over again. And it really hurt. Yet, I couldn't stop doing it. I was convinced that maybe the wall would give in to the force of my head. Surprise, surprise: it didn't. And it never will.
I'm all about control. I need to have control over every little thing in my life. Did you know that it's impossible to control everything that happens to you?! I know--crazy! Who knew?
I used to be so obsessed with school. If I didn't get an A, my life was over. OVER. I had failed. Disappointed myself and everyone I knew. (((See how ridiculous I was?))) After earning my first C on a midterm (followed immediately by my second C), I realized that sometimes you just don't always get what you strive for. Does that mean you're a bad person? No. Does that mean you didn't try your hardest? No. It just means you weren't as prepared as you thought you were. It means that you had other things to do that week that were higher on your priority list. And rightfully so.
School is important, yes, but so is your happiness. And enjoying life. If you spend your entire college career with your head stuck in a book trying to get a 4.0, then you aren't taking advantage of college. It's a time for growing. Changing. Loving yourself and experiencing life. Grades are important, yes, but your future employer also wants a wholesome, confident, and happy person working for them.
Therefore, when I saw my two C's this week, I sat back and accepted them fully into my life. Imperfection. Perfectly natural. (I haven't completely gone granola-girl on you---I immediately took inventory of my other grades to see that my GPA wouldn't suffer too bad.) And it won't. Yes, it's going to take a little hit this semester, but that's the price I'm going to pay for this amount of growth and understanding. And acceptance.
So I've removed my hands from the wall, pulled my head away, and taken a step back. What do you know? The wall is still there. I hadn't made a dent. All I had accomplished was a raging headache and disappointment. So I'm going a different route. I'm walking down the hall and going through that open door. Because, sometimes, you just can't force things. You can't always blaze your own path. Sometimes you have to take the options given to you and make the best decision you can. Does that mean you're being apathetic and letting life lead you? No. It means that you need to relax. Calm down. And accept what life has to offer. Because most of the time (if not all the time) its offer is even better than what you could have planned for yourself.
And now, one of my favorite artists. I am lucky enough to get to see him perform tonight.
Joshua Radin--Streetlight. Official website: http://us.joshuaradin.com/
Sunday, November 7, 2010
I'll probably find it AFTER I buy a replacement
This is a silly little story, but I'm going to share it anyway.
I have been looking for my eyebrow tweezers for over two weeks. TWO WEEKS. For two weeks, I have searched through my make-up bags, my desk, dresser, all the drawers in my bathroom, my closet, everywhere. Why, you ask, did I spend so much time looking for something that can easily be replaced for two dollars from your local Wal-mart? Well, it's two dollars, DUH! I'm not about to waste that cash.
Anyway, just as my forehead was beginning to resemble that of the caveman from the Geico car commercials, I decided that purchasing a replacement was necessary. I complained to my roommate, "You just watch; as soon as I buy those freaking tweezers, I'm going to find my old pair. I know it." So I decided having two pairs of tweezers was better than none at all and that I should buy a new pair so I could find my old one.
So I went to the grocery store today, scrutinized a few models of tweezers while comparing prices and structure (haha), and I finally bought a new set. Tweezing your eyebrows in the daylight is the best because it's natural light. Therefore, I got in my car and pulled over into the back corner of the Tom Thumb parking lot so no one could see me. It's kind of awkward when you make eye contact with someone watching you tweeze your eyebrows in your car. (Trust me, I know.)
I finish a some-what professional job and begin to think about where I am going to keep these tweezers so I don't lose them again. "I know! I'll put them in the center console so they'll always be in my car since I always tweeze my eyebrows in here anyway. Easy acce----shit."
I think I know where my tweezers are.
Sure enough, I open up my center console and there are my tweezers! I found them right after I bought a new pair just like I knew I would. A mere FIVE MINUTES after.
So where did I put my new tweezers? Well right next to my old ones, duh. That way I can tweeze my eyebrows in the car in broad daylight. And also so I can buy another pair of tweezers in a few weeks.
I have been looking for my eyebrow tweezers for over two weeks. TWO WEEKS. For two weeks, I have searched through my make-up bags, my desk, dresser, all the drawers in my bathroom, my closet, everywhere. Why, you ask, did I spend so much time looking for something that can easily be replaced for two dollars from your local Wal-mart? Well, it's two dollars, DUH! I'm not about to waste that cash.
Anyway, just as my forehead was beginning to resemble that of the caveman from the Geico car commercials, I decided that purchasing a replacement was necessary. I complained to my roommate, "You just watch; as soon as I buy those freaking tweezers, I'm going to find my old pair. I know it." So I decided having two pairs of tweezers was better than none at all and that I should buy a new pair so I could find my old one.
So I went to the grocery store today, scrutinized a few models of tweezers while comparing prices and structure (haha), and I finally bought a new set. Tweezing your eyebrows in the daylight is the best because it's natural light. Therefore, I got in my car and pulled over into the back corner of the Tom Thumb parking lot so no one could see me. It's kind of awkward when you make eye contact with someone watching you tweeze your eyebrows in your car. (Trust me, I know.)
I finish a some-what professional job and begin to think about where I am going to keep these tweezers so I don't lose them again. "I know! I'll put them in the center console so they'll always be in my car since I always tweeze my eyebrows in here anyway. Easy acce----shit."
I think I know where my tweezers are.
Sure enough, I open up my center console and there are my tweezers! I found them right after I bought a new pair just like I knew I would. A mere FIVE MINUTES after.
So where did I put my new tweezers? Well right next to my old ones, duh. That way I can tweeze my eyebrows in the car in broad daylight. And also so I can buy another pair of tweezers in a few weeks.
Friday, November 5, 2010
I am 20 plus 1 divided by 2
That's right. I am actually 10.5 years old.
Chronologically, I turned 21 the other day. Mentally, I turned 11. Physically, I turned 35.
You see, in order to be 21, you have to be an adult. And you kinda, sorta have to know what you want to do with your life. At least a little.
Me? No. I don't know where the next year is going. I don't know where the past 10 years went. Or the last 6 months (2 of which were in Europe so I know why those months are missing....) But, still. A junior in college. And I'm officially freaking out.
T minus 1 and 1/2 years until I'm unwillingly pushed across a stage at graduation and handed a piece of paper saying, "Here's what you paid for, you're welcome, now kindly see yourself out." I suppose it's not as harsh as I'm making it out to be, but it's still really scary. I can see myself now: I accept the boot in the booty as I walk down the stairs and join the rest of humanity in the corporate world only to see about 100 paths in front of me and not know which one to choose. I run back up the stairs, give my piece of paper back to the Dean, and jump back down the other side.
"I'm not supposed to be a college grad. I'm not supposed to be a high school grad. When did I graduate grade school? Wasn't that like, yesterday?! I'm pretty sure it was. I can remember everything about that day, so it had to be yesterday. How can it possible be so far away?" I was so excited to go to high school and move on and up in the world. Experience new things. Be a cool college student. Become who I wanted to be. I figured I'd have that all figured out by my 20's. Because that's when you become a young, hot, 20-something sipping a cosmo at a cool bar and you're just in love with yourself.
But I'm a year past that deadline and I still don't know that girl. Where is she? Is she coming soon? Will she ever come?
Part of me thinks I need to just chill out for a sec, sit back, and accept things as they come. Part of me thinks I need to get everything figured out right now. Part of me thinks I'll never have it all figured out. Part of me is ok with that. Part of me is incredibly freaked out that that could even be possible.
I'm sure you're wondering where the 35-year-old comes in. (I don't think I'll ever mentally reach that age.....) As a college athlete, your body is torn down, and down, and down. I went to a concert the other night and just from standing for an hour or so, my back felt like it was about to break in half. It would be another story if I went crowd surfing (not a rookie), but this was from performing a necessary and everyday activity: standing up straight. Convinced that if a doctor took a look at my insides, he'd see some major issues. Which kind of scares me for when I turn 40----body of a 65-year-old? I HOPE NOT!
Anyway, this is really freaky. I'm 21. I'm 21. I'm 21. But how can I be? It literally seems impossible. I'm too young to be 21.
Chronologically, I turned 21 the other day. Mentally, I turned 11. Physically, I turned 35.
You see, in order to be 21, you have to be an adult. And you kinda, sorta have to know what you want to do with your life. At least a little.
Me? No. I don't know where the next year is going. I don't know where the past 10 years went. Or the last 6 months (2 of which were in Europe so I know why those months are missing....) But, still. A junior in college. And I'm officially freaking out.
T minus 1 and 1/2 years until I'm unwillingly pushed across a stage at graduation and handed a piece of paper saying, "Here's what you paid for, you're welcome, now kindly see yourself out." I suppose it's not as harsh as I'm making it out to be, but it's still really scary. I can see myself now: I accept the boot in the booty as I walk down the stairs and join the rest of humanity in the corporate world only to see about 100 paths in front of me and not know which one to choose. I run back up the stairs, give my piece of paper back to the Dean, and jump back down the other side.
"I'm not supposed to be a college grad. I'm not supposed to be a high school grad. When did I graduate grade school? Wasn't that like, yesterday?! I'm pretty sure it was. I can remember everything about that day, so it had to be yesterday. How can it possible be so far away?" I was so excited to go to high school and move on and up in the world. Experience new things. Be a cool college student. Become who I wanted to be. I figured I'd have that all figured out by my 20's. Because that's when you become a young, hot, 20-something sipping a cosmo at a cool bar and you're just in love with yourself.
But I'm a year past that deadline and I still don't know that girl. Where is she? Is she coming soon? Will she ever come?
Part of me thinks I need to just chill out for a sec, sit back, and accept things as they come. Part of me thinks I need to get everything figured out right now. Part of me thinks I'll never have it all figured out. Part of me is ok with that. Part of me is incredibly freaked out that that could even be possible.
I'm sure you're wondering where the 35-year-old comes in. (I don't think I'll ever mentally reach that age.....) As a college athlete, your body is torn down, and down, and down. I went to a concert the other night and just from standing for an hour or so, my back felt like it was about to break in half. It would be another story if I went crowd surfing (not a rookie), but this was from performing a necessary and everyday activity: standing up straight. Convinced that if a doctor took a look at my insides, he'd see some major issues. Which kind of scares me for when I turn 40----body of a 65-year-old? I HOPE NOT!
Anyway, this is really freaky. I'm 21. I'm 21. I'm 21. But how can I be? It literally seems impossible. I'm too young to be 21.
Monday, October 25, 2010
99 Starbucks to Go
After spending nearly the entire day in class in the Business School (11:00 AM to 5:30 PM) with a few hours of studying still ahead of me, I decided I needed to get out of the beige basement of death and off of SMU's campus entirely in order to maintain some level of sanity. Therefore, I figured this was the perfect opportunity to test out another Starbucks and continue with my experiment.
I promptly pulled out my Blackberry device (that is slowly dying, mind you) and searched for some Starbucks in the area. It returned with over 10 Starbucks within 1 mile of where I was. So many options. I chose the one off of Hillcrest over by Snider Plaza (for those of you familiar with the area) and set out to find my next Starboy.
I arrived around 6:00 PM as people were getting off work and treating themselves to something warm after a long, hard day at work. And when I say "people," I mean "women." Yes, this Starbucks must have attracted almost every woman in the University Park/SMU area. No men.
'What the hell is going on?' I thought as I sat down to do my homework. 'I just wasted a buck-fifty on this coffee to sit at this coffeehouse full of WOMEN!' Just as I was grumbling to myself about the lack of testosterone and the overwhelming aroma of too many perfumes, I caught a glimpse of khaki cargo pants and a short haircut. Just as I was expecting to see a gorgeous man walk in and immediately come over and introduce himself to me (of course), I finally got a good look and.....
It was a 13-year-old boy. With his geometry tutor. While she was talking about how she was perpendicular to the floor and the table-top was parallel, the boy ignored her and ordered a skinny mocha latte with no whip and a pink straw. Great. Not only is he 13, but he's gay. Don't get me wrong; I don't have anything against people who are gay at all. I have a few friends who are gay and I respect their way of life and decisions. We all are entitled to a happy and fulfilling life and I support that. Therefore, that is not my point. Rather, it was as if this Starbucks had a huge sign out front that said, "If you don't shave the hair off of your body or get mani/pedis on a regular basis, don't bother coming in." (Yes, the boy looked like he did both.)
I stayed there for 2 and 1/2 hours doing homework and seeing if my initial impression of the Starbucks on Hillcrest was correct. Unfortunately, it was.
The only people who got coffee or hung out and talked were either SMU girls, moms picking up their daughters from the dance studio down the street or individual 20-something female joggers getting a little pick-me-up on their way back from their workout.
Correction: ONE male stepped into the Starbucks today. He scanned the room with a confused look on his face and asked everyone if this was the Starbucks on Hillcrest. A few girls replied "Yes," with eager looks on their faces. He looked a little scared and mumbled, "Ohh, uhh, I'm supposed to be meeting someone in this Starbucks I think...maybe not..." as he ducked out the door and began making a phone call.
My theory: the phone call was a pretend phone call. He was intimidated/shocked by the overwhelming ratio of women to men and couldn't defend himself should all the women present decide to band together and throw him out of Starbucks for intruding on our les-fest.
Therefore, I have successfully crossed one Starbucks off my list. I won't return to the Starbucks on Hillcrest because I don't have an unlimited supply of money to be spending at a Starbucks that won't secure me a date for Saturday night.
99 more Starbucks to visit until I find my Starboy.
I promptly pulled out my Blackberry device (that is slowly dying, mind you) and searched for some Starbucks in the area. It returned with over 10 Starbucks within 1 mile of where I was. So many options. I chose the one off of Hillcrest over by Snider Plaza (for those of you familiar with the area) and set out to find my next Starboy.
I arrived around 6:00 PM as people were getting off work and treating themselves to something warm after a long, hard day at work. And when I say "people," I mean "women." Yes, this Starbucks must have attracted almost every woman in the University Park/SMU area. No men.
'What the hell is going on?' I thought as I sat down to do my homework. 'I just wasted a buck-fifty on this coffee to sit at this coffeehouse full of WOMEN!' Just as I was grumbling to myself about the lack of testosterone and the overwhelming aroma of too many perfumes, I caught a glimpse of khaki cargo pants and a short haircut. Just as I was expecting to see a gorgeous man walk in and immediately come over and introduce himself to me (of course), I finally got a good look and.....
It was a 13-year-old boy. With his geometry tutor. While she was talking about how she was perpendicular to the floor and the table-top was parallel, the boy ignored her and ordered a skinny mocha latte with no whip and a pink straw. Great. Not only is he 13, but he's gay. Don't get me wrong; I don't have anything against people who are gay at all. I have a few friends who are gay and I respect their way of life and decisions. We all are entitled to a happy and fulfilling life and I support that. Therefore, that is not my point. Rather, it was as if this Starbucks had a huge sign out front that said, "If you don't shave the hair off of your body or get mani/pedis on a regular basis, don't bother coming in." (Yes, the boy looked like he did both.)
I stayed there for 2 and 1/2 hours doing homework and seeing if my initial impression of the Starbucks on Hillcrest was correct. Unfortunately, it was.
The only people who got coffee or hung out and talked were either SMU girls, moms picking up their daughters from the dance studio down the street or individual 20-something female joggers getting a little pick-me-up on their way back from their workout.
Correction: ONE male stepped into the Starbucks today. He scanned the room with a confused look on his face and asked everyone if this was the Starbucks on Hillcrest. A few girls replied "Yes," with eager looks on their faces. He looked a little scared and mumbled, "Ohh, uhh, I'm supposed to be meeting someone in this Starbucks I think...maybe not..." as he ducked out the door and began making a phone call.
My theory: the phone call was a pretend phone call. He was intimidated/shocked by the overwhelming ratio of women to men and couldn't defend himself should all the women present decide to band together and throw him out of Starbucks for intruding on our les-fest.
Therefore, I have successfully crossed one Starbucks off my list. I won't return to the Starbucks on Hillcrest because I don't have an unlimited supply of money to be spending at a Starbucks that won't secure me a date for Saturday night.
99 more Starbucks to visit until I find my Starboy.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Operation Starboy
I knew I hadn't posted in awhile, but I didn't realize that it's nearly been a month!
(AKA, time to do my roots again.)
Anyway, I've been gone because my computer decided to have a complete meltdown on me. Literally. My hard drive went kaput, leaving me without a computer for about a week and a half. What happened to the other 2 and a 1/2 weeks whilst I was gone? Ohh a mere popped tire on the way to failing a midterm, babysitting consumed my life (I. Need. Money.) and the fact that I pretty much became a baby Chihuahua trying to doggie paddle to keep its head above water when it came to schoolwork and passing my midterms. This past month has been----there are no words.
So I'm in need of some lovin'. Haha, just kidding....well sort of. I'm not that tacky, but you may change your mind once you hear the new experiment I've cooked up. My friend Mary Kate (from my twins Mary Kate and Ashley-not their real names) dubbed it "Operation Starboy." And it is a completely covert operation. For now.
It entails this: visit every Starbucks in the Dallas/University Park area (100+) to find your soul mate. It's gonna work, I swear.
My friend and I decided to embark on this operation after not one, but TWO of my good friends found their boyfriends at Starbucks. The first time it happened I was in Europe and she met him while visiting a friend in California. She lives in Colorado while he's in California and they're doing the whole long-distance thing after they met at Starbucks. When she told me about it, I thought, "Wow, that's crazy. That's like in a movie; too bad that doesn't happen that often." Or does it?
A few weeks ago, another friend was sitting at Starbucks when she met a guy. They talked for a few hours and he asked her out. I was like, "Are you serious? This is not real life." They met a week later--for coffee--and departed on good terms. She went on with her day until she needed another caffeine hit and went back to the same Starbucks, met another guy, talked to him for awhile, and then was asked out by HIM!!! WTF IS GOING ON AT STARBUCKS?!
Therefore, my friend and I decided that we were going to give this whole "look approachable at Starbucks" thing a try. We came down here yesterday afternoon and sat outside trying to look attractive as the 4:00 PM Texas sun brought the temperature up to a warm 83 degrees. I was in black pants and a sweater. Sweating profusely and trying to juggle my coffee, laptop, and book, I was a mess. Not approachable.
On the way home, we decided to turn this into an experiment. And maybe we shouldn't go together every time because two girls are less approachable than one. We decided that we are going to visit different Starbucks in the area and then record the interactions that happen between us and different Starbuckians. Maybe it can become a book or something. Like a coffee table book. You know, the ones that people buy but never actually read? Except hopefully people would read this one. Wouldn't that be funny if it ended up on the coffee table at Starbucks? Hahaha I'm so funny.
Anyway, since my trip here yesterday was a failure (including the part where a guy standing across the outdoor patio from me wearing headphones and NOT drinking coffee or doing anything stared at me for about 20 minutes and failed to look away or move--weird) I decided to come back in the morning by myself, sit inside, and look attractive and not too busy to interrupt. And all I've got so far is some small talk in line with a late-20-something and the inevitable sharing of a couch. Except I'm squished as far as possible to the left side because I'm scared shitless to talk or even move an inch closer to the cutie sitting on my right.
I think I need some pointers from my friends. Or maybe I just need to try another Starbucks.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
The reason you think I'm a Strawberry Blond....
...is because I accidentally keep dying my hair strawberry blond. And by "strawberry blond", I mean orange.
As a poor college student, I refuse to fork over 150+ dollars it takes to maintain my golden locks. So I settle for the 7 dollar box of hair dye at my local Target.
For some reason--be it my cheap hair dye or lack of beautician skills--it never comes out right. EVER.
My first experience was with one of my best friends Angie. I had never dyed my hair before and I always thought people who did it looked soooo coooool. And looking back on it, they were cool because they actually dyed their hair the right color.
Anyway, on my hair's maiden voyage of being killed and bleached by terrible chemicals, my mom was like, "Tell me again why you're dying your hair? If you want highlights, I'll buy them for you. You don't have to do this." She pleaded in a drastic way like I was cutting off my arm or something. I was 19 at the time--and oh-so-wise in the ways of the world--and responded with: "Mom, please. Angie and I have to do it. This is like a right of passage. Everyone dyes their own hair at this age," in a semi-sassy tone that sounded like she should have known better. Duh, mom.
Anyway, I let Angie have free range over my hair. I sat down like a good little guinea pig that I was and let her squirt God-knows-what over my perfectly healthy hair. We were moving a little slow (since it was our first time) and by the time we got to the back of my head, the hair dye had been sitting on my roots for about 15 minutes. The box said, "When you've covered the entire head, wait 20 minutes and then rinse." So we waited another 20 minutes, thus leaving the hair dye on my roots for a grand total of 35 minutes. MISTAKE.
After I rinsed, I was so excited to see the new blond me! I got out of the shower with pure excitement....leaped over to the mirror....and looked at my reflection with horror. My roots were now a beautiful shade of copper. SHIT.
Well, maybe it'll get better once I dry it. So I blew my hair dry, straightened it, and then it was kind-of ok. At least that's what my mom and Angie said. But they were probably trying to make me feel better.
The next day, I walked into the house of the kids I babysit for. They see me and immediately say, "Your hair is orange." They obviously have not matured enough to know that sometimes you need to look people in the eye and lie through your teeth. I laughed, shrugged it off, and said, "Well, that's what you get for dying your hair for 7 dollars."
For the next two weeks, every time we went to the pool, I brought Sun-In hair highlighter and doused my hair with lemon juice hoping that the sun would bleach out my hair to the beautiful blond I wanted to be.
It kind of worked.
So anyway, I dyed my hair again the other night (this is like the 3rd or 4th time by now). And I accidentally left it on the roots for too long again. And it semi-resembles the shade of copper.
So I made my roommate promise that she will never let me dye my own hair again. I have matured (a little) and need to fork over and pay the high price that is Dallas haircare.
So please don't call me a "strawberry blond". Because it's actually copper.
As a poor college student, I refuse to fork over 150+ dollars it takes to maintain my golden locks. So I settle for the 7 dollar box of hair dye at my local Target.
For some reason--be it my cheap hair dye or lack of beautician skills--it never comes out right. EVER.
My first experience was with one of my best friends Angie. I had never dyed my hair before and I always thought people who did it looked soooo coooool. And looking back on it, they were cool because they actually dyed their hair the right color.
Anyway, on my hair's maiden voyage of being killed and bleached by terrible chemicals, my mom was like, "Tell me again why you're dying your hair? If you want highlights, I'll buy them for you. You don't have to do this." She pleaded in a drastic way like I was cutting off my arm or something. I was 19 at the time--and oh-so-wise in the ways of the world--and responded with: "Mom, please. Angie and I have to do it. This is like a right of passage. Everyone dyes their own hair at this age," in a semi-sassy tone that sounded like she should have known better. Duh, mom.
Anyway, I let Angie have free range over my hair. I sat down like a good little guinea pig that I was and let her squirt God-knows-what over my perfectly healthy hair. We were moving a little slow (since it was our first time) and by the time we got to the back of my head, the hair dye had been sitting on my roots for about 15 minutes. The box said, "When you've covered the entire head, wait 20 minutes and then rinse." So we waited another 20 minutes, thus leaving the hair dye on my roots for a grand total of 35 minutes. MISTAKE.
After I rinsed, I was so excited to see the new blond me! I got out of the shower with pure excitement....leaped over to the mirror....and looked at my reflection with horror. My roots were now a beautiful shade of copper. SHIT.
Well, maybe it'll get better once I dry it. So I blew my hair dry, straightened it, and then it was kind-of ok. At least that's what my mom and Angie said. But they were probably trying to make me feel better.
The next day, I walked into the house of the kids I babysit for. They see me and immediately say, "Your hair is orange." They obviously have not matured enough to know that sometimes you need to look people in the eye and lie through your teeth. I laughed, shrugged it off, and said, "Well, that's what you get for dying your hair for 7 dollars."
For the next two weeks, every time we went to the pool, I brought Sun-In hair highlighter and doused my hair with lemon juice hoping that the sun would bleach out my hair to the beautiful blond I wanted to be.
It kind of worked.
So anyway, I dyed my hair again the other night (this is like the 3rd or 4th time by now). And I accidentally left it on the roots for too long again. And it semi-resembles the shade of copper.
So I made my roommate promise that she will never let me dye my own hair again. I have matured (a little) and need to fork over and pay the high price that is Dallas haircare.
So please don't call me a "strawberry blond". Because it's actually copper.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Volcano
I can't believe this happened to me.
Ok, who am I kidding? Of course I can believe it happened to me.
I literally have THE WORST luck ever. I told this to one of my roommates the other day and she said, "I don't believe in bad luck. I think things just happen. And mostly people deserve what happens to them."
"WHAAAAAAAT?" I yelp. "You honestly think I deserve everything that happens to me?" She looks at me sideways, reconsiders, and goes, "Well...you are kind of unfortunate." Thanks. That's more like it?
I try so extremely hard (ask everyone I know) to avoid the puddles on rainy days, but somehow I manage to dive right into them.
I won't even begin to tell you about the first part of my evening. Instead, I'll give you a little taste of what it was like by telling you how it ended.
It was approximately 2:30 AM when we arrived home. I was wide awake (and extremely hungry) when one of my friends texted me saying that she was wide awake (and extremely hungry.) She was wondering what I was up to. "Nothing. Just watching some lame-ass movie from 1991 where Julia Roberts hasn't realized her full potential and is thus playing the character of Tinker Bell. You?"
"I. Want. Food. Pick you up in 5."
So I go outside, get in the car, and we drive to Cafe Brazil. It is now almost 3 AM and I am expecting the place to be empty. WRONG.
It is SO PACKED. We had to wait for a table. At 3 am. We look at each other like, "WTF is going on?" but then realize everyone is doing the exact same thing we are doing. They're wide awake (and extremely hungry) so they're hitting up the best breakfast place in Dallas.
We order and wait awhile for our food. It finally comes and looks delicious! The only thing is that they didn't give us any silverware. They're running pretty slow service-wise and I'm really, really hungry (forgot to eat dinner) and I see a huge pickle on my plate. I LOVE PICKLES. I get so excited because this is finger food and I don't have to wait until I get silverware! I can dig right in and enjoy my pickle while it takes 399430429 years for the waiter to get our forks.
So I take a massive bite.
But it's not a pickle.
It's a jalapeno. A big one. It's hot. My mouth is on fire. We have no water, no milk, no freaking napkins to put out the fire on my tongue. I look at my plate to see if anything will help the massive volcano erupting in my mouth but all I've got are some onion and mushroom quesadillas (with cilantro) and seasoned potatoes. I look at my friend's plate and she offers me some of her pancakes to help ease the burning sensation that has all but destroyed my tongue and taste buds. Having no silverware (remember) I rip the pancake apart like the hulk to his super-tight T-shirt and stuff part of the thing in my mouth. Then I drink a huge glass of water and hope that it feels better.
It doesn't. For the entire rest of the meal.
The rest of the evening, my friend can't stop snorting water through her nose as she says, "I can't believe you ATE A JALAPENO!!!!"
And to be honest, I can't believe I did either. We talk until about 4:16 AM when we finally decide to call it a night. I'm still feeling my tongue to see if it's still there while she continually cackles about me biting into a jalapeno. "I've got to give you some credit, however," she says. "Most girls would have gotten all pissy and upset. But you acted like nothing happened, really."
I respond: "It's almost like I expect these kinds of things to happen. I used to get so upset and worried about these little things all the time, but I have come to accept the fact that I will always, always have problems like this and always, always do stupid stuff like this. If I get mad, that doesn't help anyone. But if I laugh, then other people get to laugh too."
And I like that.
Ok, who am I kidding? Of course I can believe it happened to me.
I literally have THE WORST luck ever. I told this to one of my roommates the other day and she said, "I don't believe in bad luck. I think things just happen. And mostly people deserve what happens to them."
"WHAAAAAAAT?" I yelp. "You honestly think I deserve everything that happens to me?" She looks at me sideways, reconsiders, and goes, "Well...you are kind of unfortunate." Thanks. That's more like it?
I try so extremely hard (ask everyone I know) to avoid the puddles on rainy days, but somehow I manage to dive right into them.
I won't even begin to tell you about the first part of my evening. Instead, I'll give you a little taste of what it was like by telling you how it ended.
It was approximately 2:30 AM when we arrived home. I was wide awake (and extremely hungry) when one of my friends texted me saying that she was wide awake (and extremely hungry.) She was wondering what I was up to. "Nothing. Just watching some lame-ass movie from 1991 where Julia Roberts hasn't realized her full potential and is thus playing the character of Tinker Bell. You?"
"I. Want. Food. Pick you up in 5."
So I go outside, get in the car, and we drive to Cafe Brazil. It is now almost 3 AM and I am expecting the place to be empty. WRONG.
It is SO PACKED. We had to wait for a table. At 3 am. We look at each other like, "WTF is going on?" but then realize everyone is doing the exact same thing we are doing. They're wide awake (and extremely hungry) so they're hitting up the best breakfast place in Dallas.
We order and wait awhile for our food. It finally comes and looks delicious! The only thing is that they didn't give us any silverware. They're running pretty slow service-wise and I'm really, really hungry (forgot to eat dinner) and I see a huge pickle on my plate. I LOVE PICKLES. I get so excited because this is finger food and I don't have to wait until I get silverware! I can dig right in and enjoy my pickle while it takes 399430429 years for the waiter to get our forks.
So I take a massive bite.
But it's not a pickle.
It's a jalapeno. A big one. It's hot. My mouth is on fire. We have no water, no milk, no freaking napkins to put out the fire on my tongue. I look at my plate to see if anything will help the massive volcano erupting in my mouth but all I've got are some onion and mushroom quesadillas (with cilantro) and seasoned potatoes. I look at my friend's plate and she offers me some of her pancakes to help ease the burning sensation that has all but destroyed my tongue and taste buds. Having no silverware (remember) I rip the pancake apart like the hulk to his super-tight T-shirt and stuff part of the thing in my mouth. Then I drink a huge glass of water and hope that it feels better.
It doesn't. For the entire rest of the meal.
The rest of the evening, my friend can't stop snorting water through her nose as she says, "I can't believe you ATE A JALAPENO!!!!"
And to be honest, I can't believe I did either. We talk until about 4:16 AM when we finally decide to call it a night. I'm still feeling my tongue to see if it's still there while she continually cackles about me biting into a jalapeno. "I've got to give you some credit, however," she says. "Most girls would have gotten all pissy and upset. But you acted like nothing happened, really."
I respond: "It's almost like I expect these kinds of things to happen. I used to get so upset and worried about these little things all the time, but I have come to accept the fact that I will always, always have problems like this and always, always do stupid stuff like this. If I get mad, that doesn't help anyone. But if I laugh, then other people get to laugh too."
And I like that.
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