Carmen Miranda Wants Her Moves Back

Due to my gullibility servant’s heart, I have (somehow) recently taken on the job of Children’s Choir at my church.  I’m not really sure how it all went down, or how it was decided that I was qualified to run a few minutes of choir practice every Sunday night, although I seem to recall my music minister throwing around words like “fun” and “ministry” and “God” which made it all seem totally easy and perfectly normal for me to try to wrangle a group of 18 children ranging in age from 4-12 for an hour once a week.  How it came about is still a bit of a mystery to me, but there’s no doubt it’s definitely happening.

Let me just say that, as a person who has no children of her own but was once one, Sunday nights are hard times for anyone to concentrate- the weekend is almost over and you just want to cram all the fun you can handle into those last few hours before reality sets back in.  I get it, I totally understand.  However, my understanding does not stop me from feeling that there is a slight possibility that the children in my choir are sneaking behind their parents’ backs on Sunday afternoons and eating several spoonfuls of sugar before coming to church on Sunday nights.  It’s just a sneaking suspicion, but it’s either that or they’re all just TOO EXCITED! AND HAPPY! TO BE! AT CHOIR TOGETHER!!!!  My money’s on the sugar.

Other than a slightly wired feel to each rehearsal, we have a very cute little musical all picked out and I am so excited to see it coming together.  While I personally never had much of a church choir growing up because our little church was too tiny, I have sung in many a choir in my day and the most important thing to any great show-stopping group is the perfect combination of catchy music and rockin’ dance moves.  Don’t get me wrong.  I’m not talking full out ‘Glee’ dance routine- including, but not limited to any combination of pyrotechnics, laser light shows and live bands.  I’m talking about a nice little choir who has mastered the art of the box step (Not that I’m encouraging dancing amongst the children, mind you).

Anyway, one of the songs in this year’s musical is called “The Fruit That Is Rooted In You” all about the fruit of the Spirit and it has been stuck in my head for two full days.  Count ‘em- TWO- 1, 2 days.  It’s a precious little song with music in the style ala Carmen Miranda:

 

SO, so good.

(Not to be confused with the musical stylings of Charo). 

The whole thing is golden, but the highlight, for me personally, begins at 1:05.

There’s so much that is so right in this video.  But, I need to pause for a moment to point out two important details: 1. What the heck kinda workout is Charo doing because I am missing out? 2. Where do you think you find men’s high-waisted pants made out of jewel-toned glitter fabric?

Let’s just say I was already dreading the costume’s and choreography we’d need in order to do our own Carmen/Charo tribute song justice when I came across this video of our song, and a little jewel in its own right:

And then it hit me.  All this time I had been worried about the costumes I should have spent worrying about the choreography.

The Good News:  Choreography?  Between Carmen, Charo and Corrie the Choreographer we should be in business.

The Bad News?  High-Waisted, Jewel-Toned Glitter Pants? Never gonna happen.

The Even Worse News?  This song is going to be stuck in my head until May.

Ariel’s Bad Hair Day

My freshman year of college could very easily been known as “the year of the amateur hairdo”. 

My dorm room was the 18-year-old version of a perpetual beauty shop. 

We were forever cutting and coloring and crimping one another’s hair (If I ever had a male reader it’s safe to assume I just lost him with that sentence).  It was an interesting time, when our new found freedom combined with our frugal spending habits combined to make some of us a little shall-we-say ‘loose’ in our styling standards.  Some of us (read: ME) began to think a little too highly of our styling skills.  I may or may not have believed myself to be the Ken Paves of my dorm hallway.

It all began when my friend Jennifer ask me to cut her hair on a rainy Sunday afternoon.  Her previous cut had grown out and it was time for a change.  I first made her swear that she would not cut me out of her life if I failed and then proceeded to cut her hair.  It turned out I could cut in a semi-straight line and instantly became the Vidal Sassoon of room 315.

Unfortunately, as my client-base increased so did the need for me to have actual hair dressing skills.  Late one Monday night my friend Katy came home from Target with a beautiful box of auburn hair dye.  We all ‘oohed and aaahed’ over how beautiful she was sure to be once her hair was dyed and I began the process of coloring her hair.  We went through all the steps, waited the prescribed amount and then she went to wash it out.  I headed over to her room when I heard the hair-dryer blowing and nothing could have prepared me for what I saw.

Katy’s hair had turned Little Mermaid orange.

It was too late that night to run out and buy more hair dye so Katy was forced to live with it for a day.  Even though she was not to happy with me, she was still speaking to me.  I’ll never forget the hat she was forced to wear for the next day.  It was like a fisherman’s hat, with a brim, so she could show as little hair as possible, and she had two little braided pig tails peeking out from under it.  I’ll also never forget going to our college group later that night and our college minister took one look at Katy’s new magenta locks and said “Who did that to you?!?”.

After we told him that I (the John Frieda wanna-be) had performed the dye job, he asked Katy: “and you’re still speaking to her????”

We went straight to a Target and bought a new bottle of hair color.  Katy even trusted me enough to perform the new dye job (under the watchful eye of our friends).  Although I have rarely been as nervous as I was trying to fix her hair we did end up getting it back to a color found on planet earth, a very pretty brown color.

I am happy to report that Katy still speaks to me.  Even to this day.

Or, at least, she did before she read this friendly little reminder.

I Blame ‘Twilight’

Last week at school all the kids wrote out their dreams and some goals for how they could achieve their dreams.

Lots of children wrote about wanting to become a football player or a veterinarian and some wanted to work at their parents’ car shops or become rock stars.

As they were writing out their dreams I was walking around the room and one young man stopped me and asked me how to spell “ologist”.

I said, “like biologist?”

He said “yes, but just the ologist part”

I told him how to spell it and said “Do you want to be a biologist when you grow up?”

“No.” he said, “I want to be a werewolfologist.”

Behold, the youth of tomorrow.

I Can’t Handle The Truth

I don’t know if you’ve ever spent a great deal of time around kids who aren’t yours, but the same thing seems to happen every time.  They start out sweet and kind and flattering… then they get confused.  The kids start to believe that you’re one of the family and so they believe it’s ok to abuse you and misuse you any way they want.  Since I baby sit the twins everyday and have for the past two summers, and since I’ve known them for three years they have begun to think of me as family.  Part of me loves that.  The other part of me is busy nursing my bruised leg (from when Omar thought I was a jungle gym and accidentally kicked me doing a somersault off my body) and ego.  And the hits to my ego have been especially hard lately.

To prove my case, here’s a little conversation we had today:

Iman said, “Ms. Crystal?  There’s something wrong with my eye!”

“Oh No!  We should have my friend Sarah look at it.  She’s a doctor.  An EYE doctor.”  I replied.

“Wow.  We should introduce her to my Mom and Dad” (their parents are both doctors).

I said, “That’s a good idea, we could introduce Sarah to your parents and we should introduce her husband Justin to them too, because he’s also a doctor.”

“How old is your friend, Ms. Crystal?  40?”

“No, Iman.  She’s my age.”

“Oh, I know why she’s a doctor and you’re not.” Iman said.

“You do?  Why?”

Iman said, “Because she’s smarter than you.  She’s your age and she’s already got a husband so she must be A LOT smarter than you are.”

And there you have it.  Not only am I not a doctor, I’m also not married.  And apparently, stupid.

I know she’s 7, and her reasoning may not be totally based in logic, but I’m not going to lie to you: part of me thinks she might be on to something.

So, Cleopatra and a Pirate Walk Into A Costume Party…

When you’ve been friends for as long as Chelsea and I have you tend to have some of the same conversations over and over again.  Of course, they never start the same, but we typically end up discussing about the same old subjects in almost verbatim conversations.  If you get us talking long enough we are sure to fall into a routine.  Whether talking about our favorite foods or sharing our opinions on the Real Housewives of New Jersey we just can’t seem to think of anything new to say, so we stick to what’s familiar.

There is one bizarre conversation that has been repeated so many times over the course of our friendship, and it is the oddest of all of our running diatribes.  Chels and I often talk about our need to clean out our closets, and our mutual fear of losing something important if we ever actually do clean out our closets. 

The conversation is always the same and ends with Chelsea saying “I mean, what if I get invited to a Halloween party and I want to be a pirate and I’ve already given away the perfect pirate shirt?”  And then I add, “I know, I mean what if I want to be Cleopatra and I’ve given away all the right clothes and accessories?”

Obviously the conversation always ends the same.  I mean, clearly, you never know when you will need to be dressed up as a pirate or Cleopatra so the only solution is to NEVER clean out your closet.  And, it goes without saying that, this Halloween Cleopatra and a pirate are coming to a costume party near you.

Back to the Internet Land of the Living

I’m alive.  I promise.

It’s been an extra crazy week this week, so the crib has kind of fallen by the wayside.  I’m sure you were all waiting on baited breath for an update, but what can I say?  Sometimes life’s tough and you have to sacrifice things- like getting to daily read a blog filled with mediocrity.

So, I can’t really advertise what’s coming up, because I don’t really know what’s coming up.  I’m living life one day at a time.  But stick around, because that’s the beauty of this whole blog thing- you just never know what might be coming.

And, just to tide you over: as many of you know, I am a voice teacher and I mainly work with middle schoolers.  Apparently, the hottest current trend in middle school fashion are these rubber band bracelets called “Silly Bandz” (I don’t know if that’s ‘bandz’ spelled with a ‘z’ or not, but it just feels right, so I’m goin’ with it).  Silly Bandz come in a ton of different colors and when you take them off your arm they form shapes.  Last week I was talking to one of my students who was wearing about a hundred of the bracelets, and I shared about how, back when I was in school- aka “The Land Before Time”, we all were gaga over Slap Bracelets, and I told her how they were the coolest things ever back in the day.  My student said she knew what those were (I think she might have seen one in a museum, or even worse, I’m old enough that the trend has already come around a second time).  Anyway, this week, at the end of her lesson, my sweet student said “here, this is for you” and handed me a neon yellow Silly Band from her own collection.  I was so touched!  Then she told me “It’s in the shape of a singing dragon.”

A singing dragon…

A singing DRAGON…

I sing… and… ouch.

Am I reading too much into this or did I just get slammed by a 12 year old and her neon bracelet?  If only I had a slap bracelet handy, I could show her who’s the boss.

Romantic Reunion

Do you guys remember this story about a man named George, me, the library and new levels of social awkwardness?  Hard to forget, huh?

Recently, I was at the Kroger parking lot, minding my own business, heading to my car.  As I put my groceries in the backseat a (creepy, white) van pulled into the parking space next to me.  The driver had to wait for my friend Yumi to close her door before he could get out and when he finally opened it he smiled and spoke (in an accented voice) ‘I didn’t know if she saw me’.  I would recognize that voice anywhere…  GEORGE.

I looked up and we locked eyes. 

Then I jumped in my car and locked the doors. 

If I wasn’t sure before, then seeing George again confirmed two things for me:

1. I am seriously disturbed by him and his creepy van.

2.  If, for no other reason than the van, George and I simply aren’t meant to be.

At least I made good on my promise- I’ll never be able to forget him.

When You’re Right, You’re Right

Chelsea and I have been best friends for over ten years now.  For the most part, we understand each other and spend our time trying to make each other laugh.  However, we also have a tendency to bicker with each other- usually done in love, but with a careful sheen of sarcasm to cover our true feelings.

Since we’ve known each other so long we sometimes feel more like family than friends and will occasionally fall into classic birth order archetypes.  I am a youngest child and as a result am typically fairly easy-going and agreeable (what some might call a pushover) although I’m also attention-seeking (read: ham) and, at times, dramatic.  Chelsea is an oldest child but is probably the most easy-going and agreeable girl I’ve ever met- until something sends her over the edge and then she starts talking at a pitch only small dogs can hear (Luckily, that’s only happened about 7 times in 10 years of friendship).  Basically, we both come from the “don’t-rock-the-boat” school of thought.

Chelsea only displays her eldest-child sensibilities when it comes to one thing: being right.  The girl is plain stubborn and when she decides she is correct about something no amount of convincing or proven data can dissuade her.  Charts and graphs are lost on her. 

For example, a few months ago, we were watching the Grammy’s and Chels asked me which Jonas Brother was Joe.  I told her I thought Joe was the one with the really dark hair and nerdy glasses.  She said “no, I’m pretty sure you’re wrong.  Joe’s the little one with the curly hair.”  I wondered why she asked me if she already knew the answer, but told her “oh, ok.  Well, you must be right.”  The next day I got a text from Chelsea saying she momentarily confused her JoBros and Joe was, in fact, the dark-haired glasses wearer.  Note that there was no admission of guilt there.  I realize it doesn’t sound like a big deal, and I realize that bragging about knowing my Jonas Brothers may not win me cool points, but magnify Chelsea’s reaction times 10 years and you feel my pain.

Well, I am here to report that finally, last Saturday I heard the first “you were right” of our 10 year friendship.  About 8 years ago I told Chelsea that casual dating was pointless because it just has to be headed somewhere.  She said I was insane and why would I say that.  Last Saturday, after a week-long, whirlwind “romance” (consisting of Starbucks, bowling and several hours wasted on text messages), which began and ended in a matter of 7 days Chelsea finally said I might be on to something about casual dating.  Her actual words were: “you were right”.  And that’s all I needed to hear.

An admission ten years in the making.  Not that I’m counting or anything.

Ladies Who Lunch

I know this confession may shock you, but here it is:

I LOVE having lunch with friends.

Lunch?  Good. 

Friends?  Great. 

Lunch with friends?  Stupendous.

It truly is one of life’s greatest pleasures to meet friends for lunch.  Lunch has always been a special treat in my world.  When I was younger my Mother would pick me up from school when we had a half-day and we would go have lunch at our favorite cafe in town Conrad’s.  I would always get the Chocolate Chip Pecan Pie for dessert, and if that’s not reason enough to love lunch, I don’t know what is. 

So, yesterday when my students had testing all day I decided not to rearrange my schedule and instead met my friends for lunch. 

Miranda didn’t have long to get away from work so she, Katy, Ginger and I headed over to Sonic for lunch.  Which we ate in the car.  I realize it doesn’t sound all that awesome but it ended up being really fun.  We could be as loud as we wanted and there were tater tots involved so it’s pretty much a win-win situation for yours truly.

Katy was excited about Sonic!  (It bears mentioning that this little Mama had a baby less than two months ago.  Seriously.  She still looks like she did when we were 18. Not fair.)

Here’s the backseat where Miranda and Ginger were staring lovingly into one another’s eyes:

We had the best time chatting and eating.  Except Ginger, who didn’t get to try any tots and got a little upset about it.  I can’t wait for Ginger to be a bit older so we can go out for lunch, go shopping and teach her all the important things about being a girl! 

Finally, all girl’s know that one of the most important things about a good lunch is a good view…And nothing whets the appetite like “Urethane Foam”.

Bargain Shopping In The Haunted Graveyard Of Our Mistakes

This weekend, in addition to all our Easter fun my family had a garage sale.  The garage sale doesn’t exactly qualify as fun, but it did happen.  My mom has had a ton of stuff in the garage that she’s been wanting to be rid of since their latest home remodel and I am getting ready to move so I’ve been trying to weed out things that I don’t love enough to carry up and down a flight of stairs, so it made perfect sense to try to make a buck or two in the process of getting rid of our possessions, or as I like to call them, mistakes.

We were up bright and early on Saturday morning and by “bright and early” I mean well before that slacker the sun ever came up.  Here are all of our wares set up:

   

And, in a stroke of pure genius, here is our trailer which we set up as a table:

I kept telling Mom that we were like the Beverly Hillbillies because at a low point in the crowd we were sitting in our lawn chairs next to the trailer with Mom’s laptop watching videos on YouTube. 

Thus, making this the classiest garage sale in history.

Here are Mom and I looking our absolute best!

In a related note, this is the first and last time you will see me with zero makeup on in a picture.  Mainly because of my vanity, but also because I learned that if you are me and you don’t wear your makeup then you don’t get the SPF protection in your makeup.  Hence, the sun burn I am currently sporting (there’s nothing fair about fair skin).

Oh, wait.  That won’t be the very last picture of me with no makeup:

Apparently, I’m not to sure about this early morning business, while Mom seems perfectly content (And to answer your question: no.  I don’t know WHAT is happening with my hair).

Dad was a big help.  He offered to let us sell his shoes right off his feet.

Look who else showed up to help (and by “help” I mean mock):

Chelsea.  She’s all sunglasses and attitude.

So much about this pic cracks me up.  Mainly, the fact that Chels is wearing a short-sleeved v neck and I have on two shirts and a scarf and I was still cold.

My favorite item up for sale was this wooden box that my Mother used to carry as a purse!  HA!

The low point of the day was a toss up (besides waking up in the morning) between the time I accidentally left my camera on the table and a lady tried to buy it and when I displayed my haggling prowess by telling a lady I would take 25 cents for two shirts.  That’s a serious two-for, folks.

I learned a hard lesson from this garage sale and that lesson is: garage sales are not fun.  Sure, it was nice to see neighbors and we couldn’t have picked a more beautiful day to have it, but seriously?  It was a lot of work for not a lot of payoff.

Plus, did I mention the sun burn??

On Sunday we were a very tired little family.  Including Mom, although I had to take three shots before I got a pre-approved blog-worthy photo of her at the right angle.  Apparently, Judy’s not a fan of having photos of her asleep on the couch finding their way onto my blog.  And you wonder where the diva in me comes from…

All said and done our garage sale made us a little money and we were able to get rid of a bunch of our junk.  And once I catch up on all the sleep I lost this weekend I’m sure I’ll remember it fondly.  Or at least remember it.

The State Of My Obsession

The nature of my job requires me to have blocks of really busy time followed by blocks of nothing.  A lot of days I can fill the gaps in my schedule by copying music, making cd’s for students or sending out bills to parents.  However, there are several times during the month in which I have nothing to do.  I sit in my little practice room, at the table and try to keep myself occupied.

The truth is there’s only so much singing I can do in a day until I lose my voice or my mind, and there’s only so much reading I can do sitting in an uncomfortable chair bent over in an uncomfortable position.  So, I’m constantly coming up with ways to pass the time.  Occasionally, I’ll walk the halls at the school (but that’s a little creepy if you do it too often) and sometimes I’ll make phone calls, but unfortunately, my friends are all very important and their jobs or children don’t approve of me calling them just to chat at 10:40 on a Tuesday morning.

So, to occupy my time sometimes I play the state game.  In the state game you have six minutes to list all 50 states.  I know what you’re thinking… ‘Six minutes? Seriously? Give me a challenge’ but, I almost always forget one or two states (or occasionally six).  It’s a lot more difficult than it sounds.  Even though I’m just racing against the clock, the game has become a little bit of an obsession with me.  I HAVE to beat myself at it.

This week the obsession followed me home.  This website makes me feel like I’m in 3rd grade again.  Only dumber.  Last night I literally had to turn off my computer lest I lose my eyesight, mind and pride all in one fell swoop.

Try it.  Join my obsession and I dare you to beat me.

(But if you do beat me then please don’t tell me.  My fragile nerves couldn’t handle the defeat.)

Because I’m Not Above Thievery... And Also, Begat

It’s been a rough month.  I’m becoming convinced that March may  have it out for me.  But, I’m trying not to let it get me down, so I’ve decided to look on the bright side.  Now, to be completely honest, when it comes to thinking up fodder for my blog I am not above stealing.  I will gladly steal any idea that makes my life a little easier.  So, that being said… this is lifted from my sweet friend Katy.

HAPPINESS IS……

Happiness Is Chelsea Wearin’ Hats…

 

Happiness Is Havin’ A Little Chat…

 

Happiness Is Bein’ With Ginger, Who Katy Begat…

 

 

HAPPINESS IS THIS SONG!! 

BUM, BUM, BUM

(And yes, you are welcome for the ‘begat’ line.)

Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, Wednesday

Recently I went to the dollar movies (on a school night- I felt so cool) and I saw that movies are usually $2 (which totally defeats the purpose of calling them the dollar movies) but on Tuesdays they are $1.50.  I got so excited!  Who doesn’t love to save 50 cents?  That’s halfway to a happy hour drink at Sonic.  Well, whenever I went to pay the girl behind the counter charged me $2.  This instantly ticked me off, but there was a line and I hate confrontation so I meekly took my ticket and headed to the theater.  I sat through the whole movie (New Moon- for the second time) and I was ticked.  Every once in a while I would think about it and get really mad but then I would get over it.  After the movie, we were walking out of the theater I told my friend that I was super bummed that I didn’t get the discount and she said “yeah, me too.  Next time we need to be sure to come on a Tuesday.”  On the outside I was all, “yeah, totally” but on the inside I thought ‘it’s NOT Tuesday???’.  Nope.  It was a Wednesday.

The week before this story happened I was out to dinner with my friend Yumi and I ordered the Wednesday special, my cute little waitress said “I’m sorry ma’am, we don’t have that special today”.  I looked at her like she was crazy, ready to harm anyone in the way of my Chicken ‘n’ Dumplings (thank you, Cracker Barrell), and said “why not?”.  She answered “we only serve the Thursday special today”.  I thought ‘well that’s stupid, what kind of world do we live in where you can only get the Thursday special on Wednesday?’.  Then it hit me.  Yep.  Thursday.

So, all this to say: welcome to my blog, I hope you’ll join me along the journey to losing my mind.

The Wounded Walkabout

Last Friday I was invited to go to the opera with my friend Joey.

Sounds innocent doesn’t it?  Fun?  Elegant?  Refined?

What I didn’t know at the time was that it was not going to be any of those things.  In fact, if I had known what was actually going to happen I would have crawled into the fetal position and hid in a dark room for the night.

That’s not overly dramatic, is it?

Joe and I spoke on Friday and agreed to meet at his place (about 45 minutes from mine) and then ride together to the Dart train station.  Mainly because rush hour traffic in Dallas on a Friday is a formidable foe and not to be tampered with.  We also chose this option because it would save us the hassle of having to find and pay for parking in downtown Dallas.  So, I arrived at Joe’s place on time and he had some emergency which meant I had to wait for him outside (since he lives in the swankiest apartment ever and couldn’t come let me in).  As I waited outside I took this picture:

I took this picture because I’ve been trying out black nail polish and wanted your opinion (am I too old / un-hip for this?) and because when you’re wearing a ring the size of a golf ball on your finger you want documentation.

After waiting outside in the wind (I’m not bitter), Joey finally came out and we were on our way. 

We made it to the Dart station and as we began walking towards the platform I started regretting my choice of footwear.  I had thought long and hard about what shoes I could wear that would be comfortable enough to walk in and still fancy enough for the opera.  Unfortunately I had made the absolute wrong decision.

Stepping off a curb my shoe got stuck in a hole and the top of my body moved forward but my feet decided they weren’t interested in that.  Have you ever fallen in slow motion? The world slowly fades away and all you can see is the pavement rushing up to meet you face-to-face.  As I was falling I literally thought, “this is going to ruin my night”. 

Let me just stop right here and tell you that I typically have a high pain tolerance (I’m not braggin’, I’m just sayin’) but this was a long way down and therefore painful. I managed to break the fall with my knee and hands instead of my face, but when I was finished falling I ended up being laid out on the pavement.  Even though Joe jumped to action trying to help (and trying, unsuccessfully, not to laugh) I was so shocked I couldn’t even figure out how to stand up. 

I finally managed to pop up and my immediate reaction was to pretend that it had never happened.  I just thought “I’d like to pretend that no one saw that and that I didn’t do that and let’s never talk about this again”.  Unfortunately, Joe didn’t get the memo and proceeded to ask me “are you SURE you’re alright” every three minutes for the rest of the night.

Luckily I was wearing tights and they didn’t snag or anything so I managed to hide the evidence of my fall and soon I decided I was decent enough to move on.  After hobbling over to the Dart station we caught our train and we were on our way.

I was sitting on the train, trying to push away the bad thoughts of what happens when you walk on a twisted ankle and clap with a broken wrist, when Joey turned to me and said “don’t worry, the opera house isn’t far from the Dart station- I think it said 3 blocks, it might have said 3 miles but I’m pretty sure it said 3 blocks”.  I knew then that we were in serious trouble.  It’s understandable why Joe wouldn’t think to mention this to me before hand, boy shoes are always more comfortable than girl shoes plus 3 blocks isn’t that far to walk (normally, in normal shoes, when I haven’t recently broken all the important walking bones in my body).

I managed to survive the 3 blocks and we finally had the opera house in sight.

(Isn’t it beautiful?)

Anyway, we were steps away from where this picture was taken when… I fell again.

I kid you not.  I fell again.  This one only counts as a halfsie because I didn’t actually fall all the way down, I just tripped, dropped all of my belongings (my bag popped open and my lipstick rolled into the street) and grabbed onto Joe for dear life.  I decided that if I was going down again I was taking him with me.  Which, I think, was wise.  Especially since he later started pointing out every curb and stair to me for the rest of the night.

I seriously didn’t think it was possible but I managed to limp the rest of the way inside, shrug off the humiliation and watch the opera, which was beautiful.

Here’s (blurry) Joe, enjoying his $14 drink during intermission.

And (to make a long story even longer) when it was time to leave, my feet were hurting so badly that I was hobbling down the street back to the train.  Joe kept telling strangers “sorry, she’s just learning how to walk” to which I responded “I’m going to hurt you”.  At one point I asked him how much money it would take before he would give me a piggy back ride.  I think I heard him say that there wasn’t enough money in the world, but I’m not sure.

Finally, after walking from one end of the earth to the other, we made it to the Dart.  I eventually got home and checked out the damage to my knee… 

 

******Please turn away if you are sensitive to blindingly white legs.  Or scraped knees.  Thank you.********

 

You can’t even really tell this is my knee.  Partly because of all the swelling and partly because I cropped the begeezus out of this photo to save your computer screen and eyes from permanently turning white.

Anyway, this is one of the problems that led to a Saturday of recuperation and to this- the longest post in the history of the world.

So, after writing this epic post I am off to figure out how to walk again because, apparently, I’ve forgotten how.

Technology Time Travel

I often wonder what on earth we did before Facebook.  I know this may surprise you, but I can actually recollect a time when I only checked my email 2 or 3 times a week.  And a time before that when my family had a computer the size of a smart car in our house (After that confession I should probably go ahead and admit to remembering a time before cell phones.  But if I did that then I’d have to confess to listening to cassette tapes in my youth or purchasing movies on VHS for more than $2 and then you’d want to sit on my knee and ask grandma what life was like back in the olden days and we don’t have time to get into that).

Of course, we all know that Facebook’s predecessor was MySpace but I never spent much time there.  And although I thoroughly enjoyed sites like MySpace and (the blog-world’s grandmother) Xanga I don’t remember wasting a ton of time online in college (I saved all that for grad school) on social networking sites.

However, there is one big exception to this rule.  Let me paint you a picture: my freshman year, I was (once upon a time) a cute and funny 18 year-old, surrounded by other cute and funny 18 year-olds.  We had boundless fun together.  My dorm hall (3B!  Holler!) had the most cute and fun girls all living in one place at one time.  Scientific experiments would prove that never has a group of girls gotten along more famously… or wasted their time more copiously.  It all started when Renea, our RA, introduced us to the website Hot or Not.

Lord have mercy.

If I told you how many HOURS upon HOURS I lost my freshman year to this website it would truly shock you.  It shocks me when I think about it.  It shocks me more when I look at my monthly loan payment and think of how many dollars may or may not have been wasted because, sadly, my interest in studying did not match my “Hot or Not” fervor.  I literally remember leaving dinner one night at 6:00 and spending the next three hours nonstop ranking people (Hot or Not is a website that people VOLUNTARILY submit their pictures to and then other people rank from 1-10 how hot the person is).  We would all crowd around someone’s desktop or laptop, trying to peer around heads and argue about what number we should give people.  This particular website was made infinitely more entertaining because it was a group sport and people’s varying degrees of “hot” played an important role in the ranking system.

Another freshman year pastime was Ze Frank, once again courtesy of Renea.  Probably one of my favorite things on the internet, to this day, is Ze Frank’s Pre-Date Confidence Booster’s.  The man knows how to speak truth into a girl’s life.  My personal favorites include “Are my shoes ok?” and “How’s my body in this outfit?”.  My group of friends and I still quote these to each other from time to time.  As freshmen, we spent a lot of time trying to perfect our impressions of him, especially my friend Sarah who got the accent and the lips down perfectly.

What was interesting to me as I was doing my “research” for this blog is how quickly both these web sites sucked me back in.  Maybe it was just muscle memory, but I think the truth of the matter is they’re just really awesome.  So, I’m willing to take one for the team and do a little more “research” on the subject.  Can any of you recommend any fun sites that you have fond memories of?  Or any new sites that are equally as fun to waste your time on? 

Thank you so much for joining me today on my journey through my technological life and the world wide web hall of shame.

Oh, internets. What a wonder.

The BIG Mac

Last week my friend Yumi sent me a text message to wish me a Happy Chinese New Year and asking if I’d like to get together for dinner soon.  And since I’m always interested in meeting for dinner I said yes, please.

We met up soon after that and I asked Yumi how she had celebrated her New Year.  She told me that there was a Taiwanese Student Union at her school and she had gone to their New Year’s party.  And, as is our tradition, we began a cultural discussion.  Our “cultural discussions” usually just entail her telling me things about her culture that I’ve never heard of.  She spends a lot of time educating me.

So, Yumi was telling me that it is tradition in China to pass around a red envelope at the New Year’s party and everyone there puts in a little money.  After the envelope is filled up they give the money to the children and the children give the elder’s a blessing.  She was telling me about this and said that her friends at the party wanted to do this but they’re all poor college students so they didn’t have the money to.  She said that instead they decided to have a raffle and she won the raffle!

Yumi told me that she was mortified because she wasn’t technically a member of the student union and that they’re supposed to pay dues but she never paid any money.  I asked her what she had won and she told me: “Well, I opened it and it was a Big Mac box.”

My friend told me how she felt so awful because she couldn’t believe they would buy her a Big Mac, and especially because she didn’t pay her dues.  Yumi went on and on about how bad she felt because she thought they’d bought her a Big Mac.

So, I asked her if there was a Big Mac inside the box when she opened it and she said no, there was a t-shirt inside the box.

I thought about that for a little bit and then finally asked her how they’d managed to get a tshirt into a big mac box.  I mean, don’t get me wrong, Big Mac’s are great but they’re not usually THAT big (or, if they are then I am going to the wrong MacDonald’s for my Big Mac’s).

Yumi looked at me like I was crazy and said “I told you it was a BIG box.”  I told her I didn’t understand why they would get a big box for a normal-sized hamburger.  Even if they were putting a t-shirt inside it.

She said “I told you it was a BIG Mac.  A big Mac computer.  The Mac computer in the big box.”

Although we were both talking in English, we were clearly speaking two different languages.

Am I the crazy for thinking the hamburger would have been the better prize?

French Fries and Photos

My friend Miranda and I have a standing dinner date each week.  We always meet halfway between our homes on Tuesdays.  Yesterday, I sent Mir a Facebook message beforehand and told her that there was a big flaw in our plan…. LOST.  The premiere started at 7 that night and I told her I couldn’t risk missing even a second of it, because if I did I would be more confused than ever.  She and I both know that if I get confused about something that happens on LOST then I end up calling and text messaging her non-stop until my feeble mind understands. 

To be completely honest with you, it takes many phone calls for my mind to wrap around the space-time continuum of LOST.  Every time I think of it I feel like I did on the day they taught about cells in freshman Biology- very close to a mental breakdown.  For some reason that doesn’t deter me from watching the show, which is interesting since, I gave up on all-things-science many moons ago in that Biology class.

Anyway, in order to ensure plenty of time to prepare for LOST, Miranda and I decided to meet for a Blue Plate Special at 4:30 last night.  We decided to have a little snack at Kincaid’s- a delicious Fort Worth burger joint.  When we arrived there were two other customers in the store and an employee training session going on in the back.  Mir and I decided to split a large order of their yummy fries and a chocolate shake.

YUM!  And, since we split it- totally health conscious too!

After enjoying some of our fries we both realized that, come 8:15 we were going to be extremely hungry.  That’s when we decided to split a burger as well.  But, neither of us wanted to have to actually get up and go place the order- so we did what any rational adults would do.  We played rock-paper-scissors and left the decision up to fate.

As Miranda walked up to the check-out to place our second order of the night I noticed that the cashier and cook had disappeared somewhere in the back.  This left her standing at the counter with no one around, except me, an elderly couple and a room full of Kincaid’s employees in the back.  It was awkward for poor Miranda to just stand there and wait, particularly because I’m guessing they don’t get many repeat customers- especially when they repeat within 15 minutes of their first order.

So, as Miranda took one for the team, waiting to be helped in a nearly deserted restaurant I did what any good friend would do….

I laughed while I took pictures of her with my phone’s camera.

Bad Hair Day

I went to baby-sit yesterday morning and this is what was waiting for me:

Omar’s hair had revolted in his sleep.  I have nothing but sympathy for him since my hair does this ALL the time. 

Some days straight hair is a curse.

In the mean time….

Aren’t these the cutest kids ever?

Bad Decisions Make For Good Blog Posts

I spent my weekend at home, but I didn’t mention it here on The Crib because everyone who reads this blog already knew that and in case someone else stumbled across my blog I didn’t want them to rob my apartment blind while I was gone like I’ve been hearing so much about (maybe I only heard that one time but it has stuck with me and scared me ever since then).

Anyway, on Saturday, Chelsea and I went out to lunch and we were discussing all of the various style mistakes we had made in our past.  It seemed that the most painful and embarrassing were from our Junior High years.  It makes sense that those would be the years you work harder to fit in, so you force your parents to buy you completely ridiculous stuff in order to be cool.  It doesn’t make sense why it’s the most embarrassing.  I mean, somewhere there is a picture of me wearing a tie-dyed shirt with a t-shirt tie at the bottom, hot pink shorts and my hair is in a bow that I’m pretty sure was made from those curly-cue gift-wrap ribbons and I think I look super cute and in it.  But the fashions from 6th-8th grade?  Not so much.

Here were a few of my favorites:

1. Starter Jackets.

I had a big ole maroon and white Texas A&M Starter Jacket (Chelsea’s was a purple K State starter- only because it was purple).  As a point of interest, Chels reminded me of how awesome that front pocket was.  She used to store her Trapper Keeper in there so she could walk to the school bus with free hands.  I used it to store my pencils and pens for school.

I have to say that when I was researching the Starter Jacket for my blog, all the sites said that it was a trend in the early 1990’s.  This made me very sad because I didn’t get my jacket until at least 1996.  I’ve always been behind the fashion times.

2. Doc Marten’s

I begged for these for quite some time- promising my Mother I would wear them daily (a whole other fashion offense for a whole other post).  These were all the rage in my little hometown when I was in 7th grade.  Why I felt the need to join the crowd on this particular trend is beyond me- I didn’t even own the boots which might have been cooler, I just had the super-thick-soled shoes.

What is particularly upsetting about this is that they are still making these.  And if the price today is anything CLOSE to what they were when I had to have them, then I’d like to issue an apology to my parents for making them pay that much.

3. Flannel

There’s no picture necessary.  It’s shocking to think that the Grunge trend managed to find its way to my small Texas town but, unfortunately, it did.  Shocking and embarrassing, but I loved my flannel shirts.  Last week when it was –4 degrees here I briefly considered buying a new flannel shirt but then decided that this is a situation in which two wrongs don’t make a right.

4. Overalls

I have an incredibly clear memory of going with my Mom to the Gap in Plano (because we didn’t have one then) to shop for a pair of overalls.  I was 13.  I found a super cute pair of overalls that I wore quite a bit that year.  Also, I think I stored pens and pencils in the pockets of those too.  Why was I so concerned about my clothing having storage?

More than one friend has recently mentioned to me that they were on the lookout for a pair of rockin’ overalls.  Let me just stop you there and say: no.  Not a good idea.  I tell you this in love- fashion love.  And I reserve the right to change my mind the next time I take up carpentry and need the extra pockets for my hammers and pencils… or for the next time I can imagine looking cute in a pair of overalls.

5. Scrunchie’s

Scary, but true.  Who didn’t love to pull their hair back with the perfect accessory?  A scrunchie in a coordinating color to complete your ensemble.  The scariest thing of all is how long these stayed cool.  Or maybe the scary part is that I ever thought they were cool.

So, I hope you enjoyed the longest blog post in history, but that’s about all of the 90’s I can take for now.  I’m sure you all will be waiting anxiously for my next post dedicated to Lisa Frank, pogs, Beanie Babies and Furby.

What middle school fashion was your favorite?

Bring Your Bonnet

God has blessed me beyond imagination with my parents.  They are generous, gracious and kind.  That said….  all of those wonderful attributes occasionally combine into a ‘perfect storm’ of sorts.

You see, my folks- my Mother in particular, love to give gifts.  In fact, I’m pretty sure their love language is gift giving.  Most of the time I am the happy benefactor of their love, but every once in a while Mom seems to feel like NOT getting me something would be so rude that it simply isn’t an option.

A lot of the gifts I’ve gotten over the years have been offerings from my parents’ vacations.  My parents recently returned from a trip to Branson, Missouri (if you’re hoping to vacation soon Branson is a hotspot for all you crazy partiers).  When I went to visit them after they returned my mom told me that there was a gift waiting for me in my room. 

This is what I saw:

What is this, you ask?

I thought for a second she had gotten me a really cute blouse or maybe some sort of scarf.  It took me a while and then it came to me (after my Mom told me).

A bonnet.

That’s a bonnet folks.

She went on vacation and bought me a bonnet.

And if you are thinking I had recently begged my Mom for a bonnet you’re wrong.  I’m pretty sure I hadn’t even said the WORD bonnet for years and years.  Ever since I finished my Laura Ingles Wilder / Little House on the Prairie phase (and by the way, if you’re looking for a HILARIOUS Laura Ingles Wilder anecdote please read this story from Katy).

What I love about this bonnet is that it really puts all of those tourist t-shirts that people usually get from vacations to shame.  It says “my-family-went-to-Branson-and-somehow-managed-to-find-a-store-that-sells-completely-random-paraphernalia-and-all-I-got-was-this-bonnet”.  It’s not so much the gift as it is the fact that someone was selling this in their gift shop.  For the life of me, I can’t figure out the correlation between Branson and bonnets.  I’m sure it’s ignorance on my part but I certainly hope that they aren’t all the rage in Branson now and I’ve spent the better part of this blog making fun of them.

So, just to be safe, the next time you head to Branson you better not forget your bonnet.