Did you smell that? That's the pungent smell of desperation as guys of all ages try to create an evening of sweet and thoughtful gestures for their "Pooky Bear."
Love it or hate it, it's almost Valentine's Day. I tend to feel pretty indifferent about it. Unless I get some chocolate, then my vote starts swinging towards loving it.
Valentine’s Day is one of the worst (/best) days out of the year for things to go terribly wrong. And, let’s be honest, they usually do. I have to admit, there's something funny about hearing others’ uncomfortable and failed romantic dates (I know it's wrong. Stop judging me).
In my experience most guys aren’t romantic, unless you’re dating a Harlequin Romance writer (In which case an awkward Valentine’s Day isn’t your biggest problem.)
I find this incredibly romantic
FAILED ROMANCE: An old acquaintance once told me about his gift to his then-girlfriend. It was the typical Valentine’s Day. He saved for weeks to buy her flowers, candy and a pricey bracelet. Sounds great, but it was more like the conditions for a perfect storm. She wasn't on the same page, unfortunately, and gave him one of those cookie cakes from the mall.
Happy Tenth Birthday!
The girl had asked the cookie stand to put, in french of course, “I love you” with frosting. When he opened it his disappointed expression lead to a very dramatic fight. To make matters worse she also bought him a pair of silk boxers with hearts on them.
We’ve all heard these stories. There’s so many ways for it to go wrong: miscommunication, hurt feelings, dramatic fights and maybe best of all, the exchange of really terrible gifts.
“Do you even know me?” should probably never be uttered on Valentine’s Day. So I did a little research and came up with a list of things to avoid giving your "Cuddle Cakes" on the fourteenth.
I guess it's become a Christmas tradition for my dad to drive 16 hours a few days before Christmas to drive me from Wisconsin to Missouri. Some people have tree trimming and Christmas carols, we have sleep deprivation and 450 miles in a Prius.
Why don't I just drive myself? Because I drive this:
This year's road trip was a little different than last year's. I had just finished a month of Holiday retail madness at work and my dad was wasting his only day off to work Driving Miss Daisy style to my pampered self. This year was less awkward conversation and more:
Just like last year we did pass the roadside Christmas light display. Somehow I managed to convince my dad that it was must of this road trip. He paid the eight dollars at the front gate and the lady handed us a handful of candy canes.
Sam: (talking around a candy cane) This is going to be great!
Dad: (Dryly) The candy canes alone were worth it.
We crept along the road lit up in Christmas light splendor. Within the first couple of seconds I was surprised to feel disappointment. My dad, not surprised. Making the best out of an embarrassing choice, we both got out our phones and starting filming the whole pathetic ride.
Sam: This is embarrassing. Why did I think this was a good idea?!
Dad: (Gleefully, dripping with sarcasm)Your Mother's not going to want to miss this.
My mother did miss it. We both forgot to hit record on our phones.
While driving out of the Christmas light display:
Sam: I can't believe we just wasted eight dollars on that.
Dad: We could have seen a better light display in any trailer park in Mid Missouri.
Nothing really interesting happened on this road trip. Not surprising since we were driving through Iowa. But I did learn a very valuable lesson on this trip. Don’t do your Christmas shopping early. Next year I’m just going to use this trip home as the time to find that perfect gift for everyone on my list. Just look at these little gems I found in a gas station:
Precious
By the way this was the new horrible ornament I bought this year. It's about 8 inches long and looked great on the front of my parent's tree.
Thanksgiving has come and passed, and the horrid memory of Black Friday is becoming less vivid, officially marking the Christmas Season. I've got the puny tinsel tree out of the closet, Christmas music blaring from the radio, cards and gift buying on my to do list, and a long list of holiday recipes ready to fill my tiny apartment with Christmas joy. It truly is the best time of the year.
But every year there's one thing that tries it's hardest to dampen my Christmas spirit. My car. It's the Scrooge to my Tiny Tim.
The Christmas season is it's favorite time of year to break down. And right on cue, it broke down last week.
For about a week it took it's pretty little time starting up. It would groan and shake for about five minutes but finally start so I could drive to work. On a Friday, it decided 20 degrees was just too cold, sputtered then died, refusing to restart. Leaving me with public transit to get to work.
It's been awhile since I've rode the bus and I'd forgotten all the characters you meet. As I waited at the bus stop, I remembered an episode of the Late Show in which David Letterman was giving relationship advice. To paraphrase, he said if you can't find a date you should just ride the bus around and you're bound to find someone.
After paying the fare, I made my way to the middle of the bus. After deciding not to sit by the twitching guy, I found a seat by young man. He was drooling. Letterman has clearly never ridden the bus.
Don't follow relationship advice from this man {via}
After a weekend of public transit, I took my car to the repair man on Monday morning. He has long hair pulled back into a ponytail, listens to screaming 80s heavy metal, and doesn't have all of his teeth. There's an assortment of half naked girls on the walls and a pirate flag hanging from the ceiling of his shop.
Here are 10 reasons why (or Reasons I'm not aging gracefully):
1. After four hours of sleep I no longer have the stamina to jump out of bed, pound a couple espressos and then run around like I'm hyped up on meth. Instead, I do a very good impression of a zombie.
2. Instead of dreaming about Ryan Gosling, I now dream about a dish washer.
3. Common Saturday night at 21: Going out. Common Saturday night at 25: Sitting in a chair, feet in a lavender foot soak, falling asleep at 7:30.
4. Credit cards no longer seem like a magical, wish granting, VIP card.
5. At 21 I wanted a boyfriend. At 25 I would be just as happy with a masseur, a personal grocery shopper, and a chef (I got 99 problems but a ...).
6. I no longer get food poisoning from my own cooking (on average). Expiration dates, unlike speed limits, are not suggestions.
7. Eating three pieces of cheesecake from the Cheesecake Factory (Year 2007) is no longer an epic account of youthful metabolism, but a cautionary tale of "Minute on the lips, forever on the hips."
8. Some shoes have such a thing as arch support. I now know about it.
9. The allure of apartment living loses it's luster when you can hear bathroom sounds from the upstairs neighbors. Ew.
10. I used to wear one carefully planned outfit all day. Now when I get home it's elastic waist sweats. Next step: Uggs. Aging truly is scary.
Remember in Scream when Drew Barrymore is blond and she's on the phone with Ghostface and he asks, "Do you like scary movies?" And then there's the crazy chase scene through the house, fire, blood and finally ending with (spoiler alert!) a hanging?!
I don't watch scary movies because I can't handle them. And by scary, I am including movies shown on the Lifetime channel and anything with Christopher Walken (he creeps me out). But once a year, I make an exception. In the weeks leading up to Halloween I really get into the spirit. Not in a gothy, hang out in morgues, seance kind of way but in a much more normal way like decorating your house and watching people do weird things, like this:
I admit, I haven't watched any scary movies lately (besides Muriel's Wedding which was scary in a very different way) but I have been appreciating all the spooky and bizarre decorations popping up around town. It seems decorations can go two ways: scary or disappointing. One example: a couple streets from my parent's home there is a family that puts out a cemetery every year. I know what you're thinking. Cemetery? That sounds creepy. But no, this fake cemetery is not creepy. Why? It's tiny. Not Steven King Pet Sematary...
From what I learned last year, Madison loves it's Halloween. They really do it up right. I've tried to take some pictures of some good ones.
Time to share: (this could be as bad as any slide show vacation pictures...)
Stage Left... Packers?
Stage Right
Scary
The last one is my favorite because it reminds me of a scene from my favorite movie growing up, The Last Unicorn. Yeah, it's got unicorns, wizards, Mia Farrow. If you've never seen it, drop what you're doing right now, call your parents and demand to know why they ruined your childhood. Then watch this:
Hope everyone is enjoying their fall. I have to include one more picture. This one isn't a Halloween decoration it's just a painting I found in an antique mall. I think that makes it scarier.
It's almost October and while Halloween is over a month away, creepy things are happening in Madison.
Heard singing outside my window on a Tuesday night.
Troubling: I thought I was having an "In your eyes" Lloyd/Diane moment.
Troubling#2: Feeling crestfallen when I realized it was just my drunken neighbors having a karaoke patio party.
Still being completely grossed out by Silence of the Lambs.
Troubling: Finding this in an antique mall.
Midnight on a Friday. New neighbors are having a party. It's loud.
Rant: New freshman class of UW, if you're going to listen to 70s rock, know it don't blow it. AND it's not cute to loudly group sing Bad Romance, that retched Barbie song or anything by ABBA. And please. If you're going to keep me up when I work at 7am, I prefer if you didn't act like you were an extra on a Disney sitcom. I want to hear name calling, trashy fights, a colorful array of bad choices and the next morning, I want to see someone passed out near my car. I was not only tired the next day, but disappointed.
Having a bad day.
Troubling: That frown is turned upside down just by hearing Hall and Oates on the radio.
Now that's good stuff.
While jogging at night, realizing a lot of people leave their blinds open and you can see straight into their house.
Troubling: Making eye contact with someone realizing they should start closing their blinds.
Having a day job.
Troubling: Becoming one of those crotchety old people that grumble about rowdy parties and the future of America's youth.
Ever get the feeling you're at the wrong place at the wrong time? I do, every time I drive into the Wal-mart parking lot (just look at Peopleofwalmart.com).
But seriously, I have been in the wrong place at the wrong time many, many times. Like the time I was robbed of a foot modeling career. Robbed, you say? Yes, my friends, pull up a chair and brace yourself for a tragic story of broken dreams, damaged limbs and the most horrifying of all, cheap pumps.
It was early summer, before the mosquitoes arrived in swarms and the humidity thankfully hadn't had it's protein shake. The college student career had sputtered to a humdrum end and a very similar career had seeped in, unemployment.
The next weeks were filled with hand cramps from filling out job applications and tired, blood shot eyes from scouring career websites. That is until one day a craigslist ad jumps out of the computer screen and with it fancy daydreams of grocery shopping and change for laundry.
Female Foot model wanted.
Pay is cash, same day. Mail me for more info or to apply.
Compensation: $5000
Now I wouldn't say I have attractive feet but they're not disgusting either. I have ten toes, none of which are pointing in weird directions. But more importantly, how hard could it be to be a foot model? I 've considered a lot worst jobs. Like the lengthy time I considered being part of a three night clinical trial for untested medical supplements or the much shorter time I spent considering being an egg donor. So I don't have to swallow unpatented drugs with the possibility of lifelong side effects or have to worry about an "Are you my mommy?" moment? Sign me up.
That night I put aside my unemployment woes and went out with some friends. As I step through the doors and onto the dance floor of a local club, fate snatched the dream of summer leisure right out of my grasp.
It's dark. There are strobe lights. Grinding, gyrating and pose striking are happening. Madonna, Lady Gaga and Ke$ha are crooning. Welcome to Plan B. After getting a drink, the group makes our way to the dance floor. Within minutes a drunk slip of a girl lashes out. As she stumbles around to whatever her drunken mind is hearing, she stomps, in a pair of cheap, patent leather (plastic), platform stilettos onto my right foot. Cheap Heels never realized that her 115 lbs had safely snuffed out my modeling career. Wrong place: Me on a dance floor. Wrong time: Any time after Cheap Heels consumed her second, third or fourth drink.
The next morning I awoke with a swollen green, blue and grayish limb that was once a well proportioned foot.
It swelled up to resemble something Detective Briscoe and hunky Chris Noth would have found in the Hudson River.
Did I go to the doctor? No, because hospitals smell, I don't like needles, and relaying this stupid story seemed embarrassing and kind of pathetic (Obviously I've lowered my standards since then).
That's right, I could be lounging on a beach, slipping a classy cocktail (like a sidecar) and avoiding the calls of Gisele and Heidi because let's face it, my career has a much stronger life line. My manservant would inject the money makers with botox, followed by a rejuvenating honey and crush pearl rub down (clearly I have no idea how models spend their time... but I can't be that far off...). But no. I don't have a manservant and not even the models in a Sears catalog would be jealous of my life.
Instead I'm working at one of the stores in the mall. I guess I should be thankful, usually models end up with some horrible cocaine addiction or married to Charlie Sheen. And being a foot model? That's like being the Assistant to the Manager instead of being the Assistant Manager. Just the thought of being like the lady in this video is horrifying enough to make me reconsider the medical supplement testing. All's well that ends well.
Posts
