Tuesday, July 27, 2010

Birthday Fail

I know you’re going to find this hard to believe, but once in a while I make a critical error in judgment. The error I’m about to describe in painful detail surrounds the birthday of one Daron Barnes, and will go down in history as “The Great Birthday Incident of 2010.”

So yeah, birthdays. Daron and I both have a birthday and our wedding anniversary in a 30 day period. Because of this, we typically don’t make a big deal about it. For me, birthdays usually are a time to negotiate a purchase that I’ve been scheming and planning in my head for months. Birthdays sometimes provide that little bump of leverage I’ve been seeking- the bump that can push a “want” firmly and safely into the “purchase” category. Beyond that, a birthday has outlived its usefulness. It’s quite possible that Daron cares even less than I do, but even so, I wanted to at least acknowledge the fact that he’d made it another year. Problem is, I don’t have the Ken Carlile creative party gene, and I’m painfully inadequate when it comes to gift ideas, etc. Then it occurs to me: How about a massage? A surprise massage! He’s never had one, and I bet he would think it was heavenly. Simple equation: Elisa loves massage, therefore Daron must love massage. Easy Cheesy.

We pulled up the massage joint, and what happened next can only be described as unfortunate. You know the look on kids faces when you take them to get shots? It was that look. I wish I could say that bringing him was the only critical error. My second, and ultimately fatal error was trying to explain to him in the few hushed minutes we had in the waiting room, that most people will undress completely, but he didn’t have to do that etc., and I had something for him to wear in my bag. “You have my WHAT IN YOUR BAG?!!” At this point, any and all composure on his part deteriorated, and I think that may have been when I started to sniffle and dig around in my purse for a tissue. “I never should have brought you!” may have escaped my normally well-controlled tongue (stop laughing). It was then that my masseuse showed up, so I did the only thing I could do: I huffed out, and left him there to figure it out on his own.

The aftermath: I was secretly hoping that he would enjoy it so much, that he would beg my forgiveness for not trusting me, and so on and so on. When we were finally in the car leaving, I asked him how it was. “OK.” That was all I got. He then told me if he could have paid someone to scratch his back for an hour, then it might have been worth it.

Lesson to be learned here: Don’t EVER take a country boy for a massage. They don’t understand it, and they can’t relax enough to enjoy it. And for the love of everything good and holy, DON’T try to make it surprise. Daron is a good sport about a lot of things. If he couldn't recover from the shock in time to embrace something new, then your country boy won't stand a chance.

Live and learn!

Thursday, July 22, 2010

5 Things....

Today's post is titled, "Five Things You'll Never Catch Me Doing.."

Scuba Dive. Breathtaking expanses of coral and other sea life. What’s not to love? How about crushing expanses of water, weighing down on top of you. Sort of like when Timmy McClanahan trapped me inside a refrigerator box when I was 6. Except with drowning. I wasn’t a fan of claustrophobia back then, and I sure as heck am not going to pay for the experience as an adult. But it is soooo relaxing!! No, not for people that have a healthy and natural fear of watery graves. I’ve seen ‘The Abyss.’ I don’t have any of that magical liquid that Ed Harris’s character breathes like amniotic fluid. MY BODY WILL NOT REMEMBER. (Extra credit for you if you get the obscure Abyss reference…)
• Get a Tattoo. Contrary to popular belief (Hi Dad), I do not have, nor will I ever get a tattoo. True, I enjoy watching some of the tattoo shows on TV, but purely from an artistic point of view. There are some really beautiful tattoos out there. Approximately 3% of them. The other 97% were done by a guy named Spider, who learned how to tattoo while serving time. Let’s face it, there’s a certain cross section of society that turns to tattooing as a profession, and I’m telling you, there are no budding Caravaggio’s or Rembrandt's there. I have zero interest in being someone’s practice canvas. Besides, I’m the girl that has to wear completely different jewelry EVERY day because I get bored. How could I commit to one image, poorly done, in the same spot, for all eternity? Me personally, I can’t wrap my brain around the thought of being 86 and in the nursing home, with my rock and roll themed tramp-stamp being exposed every time they change my Depends. Have you ever seen a grandma with full tattoo sleeves? Me neither. But if I did, I would find it hilarious. And sad. And then hilarious again. So please, parents of mine, can this finally settle the does-she-or-doesn’t-she question regarding any alleged tattoo? Gracias.
• Be a Journalist/Reporter. There’s no part of me that could write/report about anything that I remotely had an opinion on. You’d see me on the news, the words coming out of my mouth, but listen closely- that’s a faint snicker you hear. Oh yeah, and maybe a well timed eye-roll. Could I seriously report on Lindsay Lohan’s first day of jail today without hinting to you that that’s exactly where the child needs to be? While we’re at it, give the two adjoining cells next to hers to her parents. But I digress. Some of you were born with good looks, smarts, ability to resolve conflict, etc. I was blessed with opinions. Lots of them. Many props to all of you who suffer through hearing them day in and day out.
• Teach High School. I love kids, I really do. I love them when they are small and charming. Appreciative, even. High Schoolers are big, and smug, and hopped up on hormones and Red Bull. Want to know what I remember from High School? That AquaNet achieved the greatest bang height, and that boys made better friends than girls. And that S***** Barnes (name bleeped to protect the not-so-innocent) was a beast. Yes, so I now share a same last name as my nemesis, and that’s what you call IRONY, people. Anyway, think of the blood sweat and tears that go into teaching. Low pay, high drama, and parents constantly calling your methods into question. I have two teachers that stand out as somewhat influential (English and History), the others I can’t even tell you their names. Is that the legacy you want to leave as a teacher? That the only thing I learned in a year of Chemistry class is that sulfuric acid will burn the crap out of your hand? (True story). Also true story: I ran into that same chemistry teacher at the grocery store a year or two after I graduated. He proceeded to ask me out for dinner, which completely weirded me out. Although, it did clear up a lot of the mystery of receiving good solid B’s in a class where I couldn’t even spell stoichiometry. It was one of those lightbulb moments.
• Sing Karaoke. Of some things, you can count on. The rising of the sun. The tides of the ocean. The very assuredness that you will NEVER have to endure my singing in a Karaoke environment. No illicit drug or substance would be enough to convince me of any sort of singing aptitude on my part. Will. Not. Happen. …Ever.

Leave me a comment and tell me something YOU will never do....


Friday, July 16, 2010

Young Blood

Yesterday’s post was about how “old” I am. True, I no longer have that roaring metabolism, or ability to stay awake for three days existing on Mountain Dew and Cheetos. What I have retained are some youthful habits and pursuits; some helpful, some ridiculous. Mostly embarrassing. Buuuuutttt, since my readership demands humorous and self-deprecating posts, I’ll compile a real-life, completely true list of some of the things that keep me young. (read: immature)

* I eat all the marshmallows first out of my bowl of Lucky Charms. Only then do I reluctantly eat the little sawdust puffs that remain.
* I drive as fast as I did at 15, when my parents so wisely bought me a ’76 Camaro for a “first” car. Coincidentally, that’s also when I learned you could cry to get out of a ticket.
* I still rate my Saturdays as “good,” “better,” “best,” depending on whether I got to sleep in or not. And how long.
* I sneak contraband into the movies. Once in High School I managed a whole Jack in the Box combo meal, but my personal adult best is a 44oz soda, and king size box of Mike and Ikes. And not in a big purse, but a small purse with a hoodie draped jauntily over my arm. A bold move, if I do say so.
* We tape and watch ‘Penguins of Madagascar ‘ religiously.
* Two words: HELLO KITTY (The husband, who clearly does not understand the obsession has veto’ed the Hello Kitty themed bathroom. So rude.)
* Am currently working my way through LEGO: Harry Potter for XBOX360. Also own Lego Batman, Lego Star Wars, and Lego Indiana Jones.
* Will hop on a plane in a heartbeat to go meet my friends at a concert. The desire has always been there, but having an adult income has afforded me the means to do so. Not to mention, no parentals to tell me how frivolous and excessive this hobby of mine has become. (Has anyone seen the show ‘Intervention?’ Watch for me next season..) This all started with a Rush concert when I was 18, and 13 of us pooled enough money to get ONE room at a Motel 6 in Albuquerque. Where did we all sleep? There was no sleep. (See comment above re: Mountain Dew and Cheetos). Just a warning from the manager that we were no longer welcome at the SIX’er on Montgomery Blvd.
****SIDEBAR: Have seen RUSH in concert 21 times. Next month in Las Vegas will make 22.
* The word “moist” still makes me snicker. Keep in mind, I hear this word at LEAST once a day in my current profession.
* Last family gathering taught my sister’s little boys, 4 and 6, how to make the West Side gang signs. “West Saaayyeeed!” (Bloods was too hard- their little fingers aren’t that nimble. Don’t worry, copious amounts of XBOX will fix that.)
* Stayed up waaaaaay too late last night playing Texas Hold ‘Em on Facebook. On a schoolnight. Rationalized it by telling myself I'd make up the sleep on Saturday.
* Will sometimes open the bag of powdered donuts in the store, because I can’t wait until checkout.
* I laugh uncontrollably when I’m scared. I went through a “haunted woods” last year for Halloween, and I think they thought I was special.
* I have at one time, craved Krispy Kreme at 1am. My female roommates being more cautious (read: smarter) than I was, made me call a male friend to bodyguard us downtown. That bodyguard is now my husband, who these days will not take me out of the house at 1am for ANYTHING. Not even if the house was on fire, and there were $100 bills blowing down the street.

This post could go on ad-nauseum, and I’m losing self respect the longer I go on. In closing, I’ll give you one more reason that I couldn’t possibly be considered a real adult: At 7am this morning, I ate a piece of Kim Carlile’s birthday cake for breakfast. A generous piece. And when I say piece, I should clarify that I didn’t cut myself a piece. I ate it right out of the container like a Neanderthal. I learned that bachelor “why-dirty-a-plate?” trick from Daron. The upside to sugar at 7am, is that it has the same effect that it did when I was 6. The down side is that it had the same effect that it did when I was 6: I had oodles of energy until about 9:30, and have been dragging hiney ever since.

Naptime yet? Have a good weekend everyone….


Thursday, July 15, 2010

Old School

Yeah, so I haven’t posted in a while. You figured that out, right? I guess the whole adoption fiasco, and subsequent adoption scam of earlier this summer rendered me somewhat humorless. I hope to get back to semi-regular postings. Because if there’s anything your life is lacking, it’s random musings from me. You’re welcome.

Post of the day: I’m old. I just figured this out over the weekend. It came as a huge shock to me, so I’ll try to explain how this horrible realization finally dawned.

One word: Chaperone. The fact that anyone would trust me with their precious offspring just astonishes me, but as I go thru my “old” list, it’s beginning to occur to me that I’m not as young and impulsively fun as brain tells me I am. For example, the hubby and I spent 3 days at Youth Conference this past weekend, and came home much older, much wearier, and possibly dumber than when we left. (Top five vocab words of 2010: “Uhhh,” “Totally,” “Like,” “Duh,” and “Sick.”)

*Sidebar: The top five vocab words of 1989: "Uhhh," "Totally," "Like," "Duh," and "Gnarly."

When I say Youth Conference, think 830 kids, 3 dorm buildings, 2 dances, and lethal amounts of Axe Body Spray. Hubs and I did NOT get to room together, and in fact, were not even housed in the same building. Ask him sometime about his adventures with his roommate “Rudy.”

I have discovered that even though I don’t have kids, I weirdly enough have no issue with bossing other people’s kids around. Want to try to sneak into the boys dorm? Yeah, no way. (Old). Sticking angry head outside of door to yell at random girl running down halls at 3:30am? (Old). Not to mention, sans contacts and blind as a mouse? (Blind AND Old). Keep in mind, these kids were born in the mid 90’s. I’ve got shoes older than that. CUTE SHOES. Or are they cute? I’m having shoe-doubt now, which has never happened before. Who am I trying to kid? Maybe I should just start shopping for orthopedic shoes at the Naturalizer...

Remember the old days when a song would come on, fast or slow, and you would stand awkwardly around waiting to be asked, pretending you were super engrossed in convo with your friends, and then thank your lucky wall-flower stars when you finally DID get asked? Yeah, they don’t do that anymore. The slow songs, maybe. And there's no hard and fast rule anymore about who does the asking- Fast songs are danced in a big glob out in the middle of the dance floor, and there are no dance moves. Just jumping up and down to the beat. Seriously. (Old).

And finally, the worst realization concerning my “oldness.” I’ve coasted gently into the years of having to consider “age appropriateness” when purchasing clothing. I’ve seen some adorable outfits that would just get me talked about by other harpies my age. Take for instance those cute cutoff leggings that the girls wear under skirts. It’s with a twinge of sadness that I admit I shouldn’t even attempt that look.

So there you have it, my essay on oldness. I’ve only scratched the surface, but I don’t have the heart to go on. (may need a nap now..) Sure, it’s mostly a state of mind. That’s why next time I’ll post all the things that still make me young and immature.