I think we can all agree that boarding an aircraft is an uncomfortable, dreadful process. It all starts when the lady's sweet voice chirps over the intercom, "We would now like to welcome all first class passengers to board flight 1208 service to Boston," when really this cattle call sounds like "Let the madness begin. And may the odds be EVER in your favor." (shout out, Effie.) Of course, everyone gets up regardless of class or boarding group, which creates an unavoidably awkward situation once your group is called. You know what I'm talking about...you're standing next to a fellow "Group 2-er" shuffling toward the roped-off line after your boarding group is called, all the while wondering who will take that bold first step to establish their place further ahead in line. You don't want to be rude and boldly lunge ahead of them, but one small step (cool your jets, folks, it's just to get on the aircraft, not like a leap for mankind or anything) makes an extremely insignificant difference on your arrival time. But it's impossible to determine who actually got "in line" first.
So ensues the first step among a series of unpleasant events.
Then the walk down to the airplane begins. This long hallway always instills a kind of panic in me. Sometimes it's a short walk. Other times I walk for so long and take so many turns I begin to wonder if I'm walking toward an impending doom similar to those in the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. The walkway always has an ever so slight downhill slope...a slope just subtle enough to where you barely notice it, but prominent enough to cause the lower half of your body to uncontrollably move forward faster than the rest of your body. This results in an awkward motion where you try to compensate by leaning your upper body backward and jutting your pelvis out in an attempt to walk directly upright.
Then comes the small step that really matters (still not making much progress for mankind, but it's a slightly lengthier step than the one previously discussed). That step from the uncomfortably sloped walkway onto the aircraft I think we can all agree is one of the scariest moments not only in the boarding an aircraft process, but arguably in life. I know I am always terrified that at that exact moment when I'm stepping from the hallway onto the plane, the aircraft is going to shift, leaving me either suspended in mid-air doing the splits between the two surfaces, or falling into what may look like concrete, but what I'm convinced is a free fall into an endless black abyss.
Once on the plane, there's that deathly slow walk through first class. Most first classers are already sipping on their classy cup of airplane wine or reading the NY Times on their iPad, because clearly turning off an electronic device doesn't apply if you're wearing a sweater vest. By the way, I'm no wine connoisseur (yes, Mom, I did have to Google that spelling) but the key words hinting at quality here are airplane wine...and might I add, if you're one of those people who boast about the amenities in first class like the complimentary wine and snacks, let me remind you that it is not considered complimentary if you paid close to $300 extra to get it. I get drunk in economy class for waaay cheaper. Some high rollers are snuggled up in their 20-thread count wool blanket (key words here are 20-thread count and wool) and dozing off with a shmilk eye cover (I think we may need help with the key words on this one....leather : pleather :: silk : shmilk). But there are always those few who peer up at you as you shuffle by, some giving this shameful look as if to say "Don't judge me, my company paid for this," while others give a haughty look like, "That's right, shuffle past to where you belong, you Commoner, and let me enjoy my extra three inches of space in peace without having to look at your clearance-rack sweater."
Once past the high rollers and occasional gold digger, the tension decreases, but only just. It's as if the farther back you walk, the more your social status decreases. I usually always chose a seat toward the front of the plane to eliminate time spent waiting for people to move their always shifted luggage from the overhead bins at the end of the flight. However, on my most recent trip, I sacrificed time and convenience for one of the last rows in the plane simply so I could have a window seat...because sleeping with your head against a plastic wall and 5 inches of plexiglas is much more comfortsble than waking up on your neighbors shoulder...even worse, nodding off in the middle seatand jolting forward so violently when your head falls forward or twitching yourself awake so intensely that the other passengers stare so judgingly its as if they think you're about to beeline toward the cockpit and give them a live reenactment of Air Force One.
Anywho...row after row I passed, and the further back I got, the more sympathetic the looks became. Even the lady whom I politely let step in front of me at the start of this whole series of shemanigans had a seat further up than me. And as I passed her she gave me this sad look like she thought they might just stuff me in the back with the peanuts. Once I finally arrived at seat 31F, I politely said excuse me to the young lady occupying the aisle seat and she submissively got up to let me through and as I squeezed past her, I'm almost certain she patted me on the back and said "Welcome to the dark side...few survive here. And may I warn you...you can check out, but you can never leave."
Anyone? Bueller?
Anyways...I have talked/typed for far too long about aviation. I leave you with happy thoughts, as I'm sure you will find the below video extremely interesting and perhaps, if you're at all like me, life changing. I warn you, though...if you chose to watch this with people around, loud gasps of adoration and amazement are uncontrollable when you hear this little slice of musical heaven. You're welcome.
Enjoy.
Thursday, November 8, 2012
Sunday, October 21, 2012
Fear of the Free
Taking things for free makes me nervous. It gives me the heebie-jeebies. (Don't waste your time Google-ing the correct spelling for that, by the way...I already did, and it is correct.) Little booths set up giving free demonstrations, or the tiny food stands handing out free samples at Costco give me a sort of indescribable anxiety. Perhaps it's because my parents own a small business, so I'm well aware of the costs involved in handing out things for free and not seeing any return-on-investment. Could be simply because I feel like Andy and Dwight do in that one episode of the Office where they go back and forth doing favors for one another because they hate owing someone and being indebted to them.
Either way, I don't like it.
I know they aren't giving me an adorable, Polly Pocket-sized serving of tortilla soup because they don't want me to wander the aisles hungry. I know that the 5 Hour Energy exhibit right outside my office isn't handing out samples of their new Pink Lemonade flavored energy shot (don't get it...it's gross) just because they know a boost of B-12 is just what I need around 2 p.m. every day. And I'm without a doubt certain that the tent offering free 10 minute massages isn't out there simply to help release a little bit of the tension I carry in my neck. They all want something. So I pass them by because I won't give it to them.
Some would argue if I don't go snatch a toothpick with a sample of the new, spicy sausage-on-a-stick, or if I don't go get my shoes shined with the miracle shoe-shiner, that I'm wasting their time. That they'd rather me preoccupy them and give them a purpose for standing tirelessly for hours upon hours, as opposed to passing them by just because I won't shell out $50 for a power washer hose nozzle that removes dirt and debris from decades ago.
I don't see it that way.
The fact is...I am the person they want. I am that girl who will get talked into some ridiculous purchase just because I feel bad that I made them stand there and ramble for 10 minutes about a miraculous, handcrafted door stopper that not only keeps your door open, but also emits a bug-repellent and scented fragrances to keep your back porch smelling fresh. It's like word vomit. I walk by, keeping my stare down avoiding eye contact most of the time. But occasionally I look up, and catch someone's eye, and then the madness begins. They wave me over, and like a moth to the flame, I oblige.
Then they start their spiel.
Their first question is the hooker, and more often than not, it's something that doesn't apply to me. But rather than standing my ground and listening to the little voice saying, "Meg, be real. You don't need a seat belt cover that magnetically boosts your metabolism and increases blood flow," I enthusiastically start shaking my head, encouraging them to continue.
"Persuade me." I plead. And so they do. They get all excited about whatever crockery they're promoting, and like Mother Teresa, I give them anything they want. I'll stand on one leg so they can demonstrate the benefits of their foolproof, balancing sunglasses...I'll sample the disgusting new energy drink made 100% from wheatgerm and cow's blood (OK, that one's never happened). But in the end, I will buy what they're selling. Because I feel bad for them. I'll buy the magazine subscription to send the kid to Africa for three weeks, or the remote-control car that flips and flies with the push of a button (that one really has happened). I usually will cancel or take advantage of the return policy, surely built in because they know people like me out there will get suckered into the ploy, only to come to their senses once they're 10 steps away from the booth. But it's the fact of the matter. I'm weak, and my nerves get the best of me, and before you know it, my hands are full of unlimited amounts of miraculous hand soap made from seaweed found off sunken ships in the Pacific.
So do me a favor today, folks. If you walk by one of these stands/booths/facilities/tents today, walk on by. Because I assure you, I am giving them something to do.
Either way, I don't like it.
I know they aren't giving me an adorable, Polly Pocket-sized serving of tortilla soup because they don't want me to wander the aisles hungry. I know that the 5 Hour Energy exhibit right outside my office isn't handing out samples of their new Pink Lemonade flavored energy shot (don't get it...it's gross) just because they know a boost of B-12 is just what I need around 2 p.m. every day. And I'm without a doubt certain that the tent offering free 10 minute massages isn't out there simply to help release a little bit of the tension I carry in my neck. They all want something. So I pass them by because I won't give it to them.
Some would argue if I don't go snatch a toothpick with a sample of the new, spicy sausage-on-a-stick, or if I don't go get my shoes shined with the miracle shoe-shiner, that I'm wasting their time. That they'd rather me preoccupy them and give them a purpose for standing tirelessly for hours upon hours, as opposed to passing them by just because I won't shell out $50 for a power washer hose nozzle that removes dirt and debris from decades ago.
I don't see it that way.
The fact is...I am the person they want. I am that girl who will get talked into some ridiculous purchase just because I feel bad that I made them stand there and ramble for 10 minutes about a miraculous, handcrafted door stopper that not only keeps your door open, but also emits a bug-repellent and scented fragrances to keep your back porch smelling fresh. It's like word vomit. I walk by, keeping my stare down avoiding eye contact most of the time. But occasionally I look up, and catch someone's eye, and then the madness begins. They wave me over, and like a moth to the flame, I oblige.
Then they start their spiel.
Their first question is the hooker, and more often than not, it's something that doesn't apply to me. But rather than standing my ground and listening to the little voice saying, "Meg, be real. You don't need a seat belt cover that magnetically boosts your metabolism and increases blood flow," I enthusiastically start shaking my head, encouraging them to continue.
"Persuade me." I plead. And so they do. They get all excited about whatever crockery they're promoting, and like Mother Teresa, I give them anything they want. I'll stand on one leg so they can demonstrate the benefits of their foolproof, balancing sunglasses...I'll sample the disgusting new energy drink made 100% from wheatgerm and cow's blood (OK, that one's never happened). But in the end, I will buy what they're selling. Because I feel bad for them. I'll buy the magazine subscription to send the kid to Africa for three weeks, or the remote-control car that flips and flies with the push of a button (that one really has happened). I usually will cancel or take advantage of the return policy, surely built in because they know people like me out there will get suckered into the ploy, only to come to their senses once they're 10 steps away from the booth. But it's the fact of the matter. I'm weak, and my nerves get the best of me, and before you know it, my hands are full of unlimited amounts of miraculous hand soap made from seaweed found off sunken ships in the Pacific.
So do me a favor today, folks. If you walk by one of these stands/booths/facilities/tents today, walk on by. Because I assure you, I am giving them something to do.
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
Falling Whistles
I guess you could call me naive. If my mama hadn't raised me telling me "not to talk to strangers" and instilling fear of the unknown in me for my own protection, I probably would be dead by now at the hands of someone or something I thought had pure intentions.
I hear stories about loss, tragedy, torture, cruelty...whether in other countries or in my own backyard. (that's a metaphor...don't go thinking I torture people in my yard now.) I believe them, sure, but I always find myself thinking...."It can't really be that bad can it?" I support TOMS, and have since I first caught wind of the company's mission. "One for One." Buy a pair of shoes, and another pair is given to an unfortunate child in a developing country. Of course, as we know, this company has swept the nation and TOMS are now a hot commodity. The message is now buried between customized Botas and a new line of TOMS eyewear. But the message still remains, and the movement is still making a huge yet simple difference in millions of lives. People may buy the shoes just to make a fashion statement, or just because they go with pretty much everything, but those who truly believe in the cause are the ones who really benefit from a pair of simple, cloth shoes.
A lesser known charity buried in a fashion commodity is Falling Whistles.
Those of you privileged enough to know me may (haha) may have seen me wear a long, rustic silver chain with a 4 inch whistle with the engraving "fw" on the front. Yes, it really works. But the purpose behind it is something much more significant.
Recently I have found myself wearing the whistle more, as it jazzes up any outfit, and initiates conversation, which is the whole purpose behind Falling Whistles...conversation. To get people talking about the horrific story behind this beautiful, simplistic little whistle. As more people have been asking, I decided to dig a little deeper into the Falling Whistles website so I had my facts straight the next time someone asked what it symbolized. I was asked not two days ago what the whistle was, and I chuckled as I explained, somewhat embarrassed, what it stood for. My embarrassment was only because I wasn't fully aware of what exactly I was wearing around my neck, and what exactly that whistle nestled right over my heart meant to children in a country far, far away from me.
I would explain more, but I don't think my words would do the story justice. I wept at my computer this morning as I read a man's first-hand encounter with these children, enslaved for reasons they can't begin to comprehend, and treated with less respect than a mangy animal. My blog requires very little participation...you read it or you don't. You like it, or you don't. (In which case, I again reiterate your freedom to leave at any point.) But I am pleading with you all to take 5 minutes and read this story. I have even pasted the link below for you, so it requires even less effort. I promise you, even if you don't find yourself buying a whistle after you're done, you will see the world a little differently today.
http://www.fallingwhistles.com/story/
I hear stories about loss, tragedy, torture, cruelty...whether in other countries or in my own backyard. (that's a metaphor...don't go thinking I torture people in my yard now.) I believe them, sure, but I always find myself thinking...."It can't really be that bad can it?" I support TOMS, and have since I first caught wind of the company's mission. "One for One." Buy a pair of shoes, and another pair is given to an unfortunate child in a developing country. Of course, as we know, this company has swept the nation and TOMS are now a hot commodity. The message is now buried between customized Botas and a new line of TOMS eyewear. But the message still remains, and the movement is still making a huge yet simple difference in millions of lives. People may buy the shoes just to make a fashion statement, or just because they go with pretty much everything, but those who truly believe in the cause are the ones who really benefit from a pair of simple, cloth shoes.
A lesser known charity buried in a fashion commodity is Falling Whistles.
Those of you privileged enough to know me may (haha) may have seen me wear a long, rustic silver chain with a 4 inch whistle with the engraving "fw" on the front. Yes, it really works. But the purpose behind it is something much more significant.
Recently I have found myself wearing the whistle more, as it jazzes up any outfit, and initiates conversation, which is the whole purpose behind Falling Whistles...conversation. To get people talking about the horrific story behind this beautiful, simplistic little whistle. As more people have been asking, I decided to dig a little deeper into the Falling Whistles website so I had my facts straight the next time someone asked what it symbolized. I was asked not two days ago what the whistle was, and I chuckled as I explained, somewhat embarrassed, what it stood for. My embarrassment was only because I wasn't fully aware of what exactly I was wearing around my neck, and what exactly that whistle nestled right over my heart meant to children in a country far, far away from me.
I would explain more, but I don't think my words would do the story justice. I wept at my computer this morning as I read a man's first-hand encounter with these children, enslaved for reasons they can't begin to comprehend, and treated with less respect than a mangy animal. My blog requires very little participation...you read it or you don't. You like it, or you don't. (In which case, I again reiterate your freedom to leave at any point.) But I am pleading with you all to take 5 minutes and read this story. I have even pasted the link below for you, so it requires even less effort. I promise you, even if you don't find yourself buying a whistle after you're done, you will see the world a little differently today.
http://www.fallingwhistles.com/story/
Sunday, October 7, 2012
Pointing Fingers
I think about what to post in my blog a LOT. I try to pick something that is timely and appropriate; something that relates to worldly issues currently going on. Alas, I always fail and instead write about, for lack of a better word, nonsense. And considering my last few blogs have been summations of personal annoyances that I feel other people will be able to relate to, I'm going to try something a bit different. Go for a more "classical" approach to the web-log world. (Please be forewarned that at the end of this, you will probably realize that this post is nonsense as well. So really I'm not changing a dang thing.)
The presidential election kills me. I watched the debates the other night against my better judgment, because I knew before they even began that I would be left at the end more confused and irritated than before. Is it just me or has the presidential election turned into something resembling an amateur match of pointing fingers? How are you supposed to find clarity and a real connection with one particular candidate, when literally the rebuttal is always just about calling the other a liar?
Obama will describe his plans for lowering the national debt (of course, not before mentioning that the debt was never really his fault in the first place) and then Romney will come back by saying that Obama has been cheating the country since his term began, and that it will continue unless he is elected president, where he can really make a dent in this huge hole our economy has dug. He uses concrete examples of why the current president and his cabinet haven't turned this economy 180 degrees and put us "back on track." Then of course, big O will come back by saying that Romney is lying straight faced about the numbers, and that in all actuality, every word he is saying about what he "plans" to do, is literally impossible. It's like a ping-pong match of "No, you're lying!" "No, you're lying!" Like, what the hell?!
I read an article trying to sort through the muddle of apparent lies and deceit to try to figure out what small chunk of the debate could actually be taken to the bank (yes, pun is always intended) and I got a breakdown of what each candidate said, and how much of it was truth. The article left me even more disappointed, as it confirmed what I already believed: that the debates, and the whole manner of the election process in fact, is just a back-and-forth game of making the other look bad.
If we could just call a spade a spade and make this thing official, we may as well throw in a part of the election where each candidate struts around in a Speedo so we can judge based on physique, too.
Now I know there are those of you thinking "Do the research, Meg. Look up the facts and really dig into what's true and then decide who gets your vote." Um, no thank you. For several reasons no thank you. Not only do I think it's bologna that only those who have the dedication or right mind to "do the research" are the ones that will be making an educated decision come election day, but I don't think that months should be spent campaigning when in the end, I have to figure out what each candidate is really for. And even if I did "the research," how am I supposed to believe a damn word either of them say?? I'm just ready for November 6 to come and go and for us to just put an end to this madness.
On a happier note, I have been planning to write a post with links to some of my favorite Youtube videos...ones that really stir my insides and make me shout obscenities because they're so awesome, cursing is the only thing I can think of doing that will express my disbelief and gratitude at these people for sharing their music. However...that takes a lot of executive decision making (as I have a lot of favorite-goosebump-inducing videos that I'd like to share). So today, you get one. Let me assure you, though, this one is stupidly amazing. I'd like to know your thoughts.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hOKuAigsrec
The presidential election kills me. I watched the debates the other night against my better judgment, because I knew before they even began that I would be left at the end more confused and irritated than before. Is it just me or has the presidential election turned into something resembling an amateur match of pointing fingers? How are you supposed to find clarity and a real connection with one particular candidate, when literally the rebuttal is always just about calling the other a liar?
Obama will describe his plans for lowering the national debt (of course, not before mentioning that the debt was never really his fault in the first place) and then Romney will come back by saying that Obama has been cheating the country since his term began, and that it will continue unless he is elected president, where he can really make a dent in this huge hole our economy has dug. He uses concrete examples of why the current president and his cabinet haven't turned this economy 180 degrees and put us "back on track." Then of course, big O will come back by saying that Romney is lying straight faced about the numbers, and that in all actuality, every word he is saying about what he "plans" to do, is literally impossible. It's like a ping-pong match of "No, you're lying!" "No, you're lying!" Like, what the hell?!
I read an article trying to sort through the muddle of apparent lies and deceit to try to figure out what small chunk of the debate could actually be taken to the bank (yes, pun is always intended) and I got a breakdown of what each candidate said, and how much of it was truth. The article left me even more disappointed, as it confirmed what I already believed: that the debates, and the whole manner of the election process in fact, is just a back-and-forth game of making the other look bad.
If we could just call a spade a spade and make this thing official, we may as well throw in a part of the election where each candidate struts around in a Speedo so we can judge based on physique, too.
Now I know there are those of you thinking "Do the research, Meg. Look up the facts and really dig into what's true and then decide who gets your vote." Um, no thank you. For several reasons no thank you. Not only do I think it's bologna that only those who have the dedication or right mind to "do the research" are the ones that will be making an educated decision come election day, but I don't think that months should be spent campaigning when in the end, I have to figure out what each candidate is really for. And even if I did "the research," how am I supposed to believe a damn word either of them say?? I'm just ready for November 6 to come and go and for us to just put an end to this madness.
On a happier note, I have been planning to write a post with links to some of my favorite Youtube videos...ones that really stir my insides and make me shout obscenities because they're so awesome, cursing is the only thing I can think of doing that will express my disbelief and gratitude at these people for sharing their music. However...that takes a lot of executive decision making (as I have a lot of favorite-goosebump-inducing videos that I'd like to share). So today, you get one. Let me assure you, though, this one is stupidly amazing. I'd like to know your thoughts.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hOKuAigsrec
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
WHY DO YOU HATE MY BABY?!
I started writing this blog yesterday. I always start with my bullet points, and then come back to the intro at the end, as it will usually be based on my mood the day I decided to actually hit "Publish." Yesterday was a glorious day. The day flew by with no real disasters, and then I had a great workout, went to the parents for a delicious dinner with the family (thanks mama T) and then watched my favorite show premiere with mama and saster. Today hasn't been quite as awesome, due to some annoying "road blocks," but I'm going to the Rangers game tonight, so I can't complain because I. Love. The. Rangers.
I will preface this blog by saying if you are offended at any point while reading this, know that my intentions are pure and I mean no harm or ill feelings. Also know that you are probably being a little too sensitive, in which case you should steer clear of my blog and Google blogs about cooking or crafts. Those things couldn't be offensive if they tried.
1. If you know anything at all about me, you know that pointless Facebook statuses bother me. In general, Facebook bothers me. I would delete my account if I knew with complete certainty that I wouldn't run back to it the first time someone said "Did you see on Facebook...?" and I didn't. Most of all, I hate the people who post picture, after picture, after picture, after picture, of themselves. I hate it even more since last week, when my dear sister-in-law informed me that a Facebook friend of hers made some snarky status about people who post picture, after picture, after picture, after picture of their baby/ies/children. Now I can't hold this girl completely responsible, as she is apparently not a mother so she doesn't know the true joy of parenthood. But who in their right mind, gets irritated by pictures of babies!? I'm sure she was just trying to give my dear (can you tell I like her?) sister-in-law a hint that people don't like looking at pictures of adorable infants all day. Ah, yes. You figured it out, woman. People would much rather read about how you just got done with a GREAT workout and are now heading to have drinks on the patio with a friend <3 <3 <3. And can we please get a picture of you in your barely-there workout shorts, too? It's like a breath of fresh air compared to the picture of my friend's kid's first day of school. (Oh and while we're at it...having drinks on the patio immediately after what you deem to be a worthwhile exercise session kind of defeats the purpose ya' idiot.)
2. I'm nervous about having a little mini-me running around for a number of reasons. Most notably though, I am nervous about people grabbing at my tummy while I'm preggo, and even more notably, my baby, after he/she pops out of there. (That's my eloquent way of describing the miracle of birth. Nice, huh?) I see it all the time. In crowded rooms, it's like people (women most frequently) lose all sense of decency and personal space, and just grab at the baby like it's a sample at Costco. I'm not worried about it because I'm some germophobe, but as someone who thinks personal space is something not to be taken lightly, I think just grabbing at someone's child, especially a newborn or infant, like it's a God-given right, is just ludicrous! I am fascinated by big boobs, considering the good Lord forgot to give me a pair of decent-sized real ones, but you don't see me goin' around grabbing people's chests just because it's something they have that I want! I ask before grabbing! (kidding.) Just as people should ask before grabbing at a mother's child (a human being, mind you).
I only have two bullets, because my day ended on a slightly sour note. (I haven't got my gear on for tonight yet, though, so I'm sure it will turn right around once I'm decked out in beloved red and blue. Also...I'm not a mom. So come back to me in a few years and I'll have a "WHY DO YOU HATE MY BABY?! Part II")
You stay classy, Cyberspace.
I will preface this blog by saying if you are offended at any point while reading this, know that my intentions are pure and I mean no harm or ill feelings. Also know that you are probably being a little too sensitive, in which case you should steer clear of my blog and Google blogs about cooking or crafts. Those things couldn't be offensive if they tried.
1. If you know anything at all about me, you know that pointless Facebook statuses bother me. In general, Facebook bothers me. I would delete my account if I knew with complete certainty that I wouldn't run back to it the first time someone said "Did you see on Facebook...?" and I didn't. Most of all, I hate the people who post picture, after picture, after picture, after picture, of themselves. I hate it even more since last week, when my dear sister-in-law informed me that a Facebook friend of hers made some snarky status about people who post picture, after picture, after picture, after picture of their baby/ies/children. Now I can't hold this girl completely responsible, as she is apparently not a mother so she doesn't know the true joy of parenthood. But who in their right mind, gets irritated by pictures of babies!? I'm sure she was just trying to give my dear (can you tell I like her?) sister-in-law a hint that people don't like looking at pictures of adorable infants all day. Ah, yes. You figured it out, woman. People would much rather read about how you just got done with a GREAT workout and are now heading to have drinks on the patio with a friend <3 <3 <3. And can we please get a picture of you in your barely-there workout shorts, too? It's like a breath of fresh air compared to the picture of my friend's kid's first day of school. (Oh and while we're at it...having drinks on the patio immediately after what you deem to be a worthwhile exercise session kind of defeats the purpose ya' idiot.)
2. I'm nervous about having a little mini-me running around for a number of reasons. Most notably though, I am nervous about people grabbing at my tummy while I'm preggo, and even more notably, my baby, after he/she pops out of there. (That's my eloquent way of describing the miracle of birth. Nice, huh?) I see it all the time. In crowded rooms, it's like people (women most frequently) lose all sense of decency and personal space, and just grab at the baby like it's a sample at Costco. I'm not worried about it because I'm some germophobe, but as someone who thinks personal space is something not to be taken lightly, I think just grabbing at someone's child, especially a newborn or infant, like it's a God-given right, is just ludicrous! I am fascinated by big boobs, considering the good Lord forgot to give me a pair of decent-sized real ones, but you don't see me goin' around grabbing people's chests just because it's something they have that I want! I ask before grabbing! (kidding.) Just as people should ask before grabbing at a mother's child (a human being, mind you).
I only have two bullets, because my day ended on a slightly sour note. (I haven't got my gear on for tonight yet, though, so I'm sure it will turn right around once I'm decked out in beloved red and blue. Also...I'm not a mom. So come back to me in a few years and I'll have a "WHY DO YOU HATE MY BABY?! Part II")
You stay classy, Cyberspace.
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
Application for Designating of Idiots to Restricted Places Committee
I wish I could save the world. From exactly what I'm not entirely sure...it's tough to pinpoint the source of the frustration I feel at how messed up this planet is. To be completely honest, I wish I could take over the world. I think I have at least one person behind me, and I'm not sure if he's only behind me because of that vow we made a couple years back, or because he gets bored easily...but most times when I ask "What do you want to do tonight, shnookums?" He replies: "Same thing we do every night, Pinky....try to take over the world." It's comforting to know we're on the same page.
Exhibit C: (don't worry this one's not as deep)
My mama raised me right, and I plan to mirror her parenting advice to a "T" when I have some little rugrats of my own. She didn't necessarily write the book "How to Raise Your Child Right." (Man, that would make an editors' skin crawl.) She practiced what some would call "unorthodox" parenting methods, but overall I think I turned out pretty dang close to OK, contrary to unpopular belief. (Yes, you read that right.) I'll give one example, because if I give any more, I fear she would give an entirely new meaning to the cliche "I brought you into this world, I can take you right out of it."
Of course, this story has only been re-told to me, as I was far too young to remember...but I have been told that I grew into and quickly grew out of the pulling hair stage. Why? Well because the first time I pulled my mom's hair was the last, as she pulled mine right back. From what I've been told, I looked shocked and appalled as she pulled mine right back, but obviously it worked, as the pain made me realize it wasn't a fun thing to do.
Despite teaching me that intentionally harming others in the form of hair-pulling, biting, hitting, or with use of foreign objects, she taught me courtesy. Not just "Yes ma'am," "Thank you," and "Please," but things like waving at people when they let you over into their lane, holding the door open for those less fortunate, "killing with kindness," etc. One form that she taught me that apparently 90% of the population was not taught is to PUT YOUR DAMN GROCERY CART AWAY. It literally pains me when I see one left out amongst the many cars in the parking lot. It pains me more to the point where I see red and have to remind myself that my bed is much more comfortable than a jail cell, when I actually see someone leave their cart out. Not only do I wish to point out that they could probably use the exercise (as I've noticed it's often people who would only benefit from a few extra steps on the ol' pedometer) but I would like to see their reaction if all the carts they had left out in their life came back to attack their car all at once and they were left with dings and scratches. It is negligent. It is lazy. It is rude. But most of all...it is annoyingly idiotic.
That's all I got folks...and to quote thelovely radio personality Kelly Raspberry..."how'd ya like that?"
I'm not exactly sure what my strategy will be once I'm Ruler of the World (and inherently, since I will govern space research, Ruler of All Planets and Extraterrestrial Life), but I have a few ideas up my sleeve. My main idea involves implementing the "eye for an eye" strategy in the judicial system...as well as designating uninhabited (but ugly) countries as permanent living space for idiots. For the latter, I will need a trusty committee to decide who these "idiots" may be, so if you think your definition matches mine, send me your resume, please.
But to help you in the process, I will give examples of said "idiots" and let you decide for yourself if you're up to the task of serving on the Designating of Idiots to Restricted Places Committee. If you find yourself nodding your head while reading the below examples, and muttering to yourself "I know exactly the kind of person she's talking about...and I hate them to," then apply away. However, if you find yourself distracted while reading, thinking instead of counter-arguments and rebuttals to my examples...then don't waste your time applying. Oh, and get off my blog.
Remember, these are just examples. If you need further clarification, stay tuned, as I'm sure I'll give more later.
Exhibit A:
I was watching a special last night on the 9/11 attacks, and hubs and I got to discussing the controversies laced throughout that tragic day and the events that followed. I remember the grief President Bush got after footage was aired showing his reaction immediately after someone whispered to him that a plane had crashed into the World Trade Center. People were outraged that after he got the news, he calmly resumed his reading with elementary school students, looking impassive and unaffected. To those people who feel as if his reaction directly mirrored his thoughts when he received this news, and who subsequently believe it reflected his disappointing presidency and lack of sympathy for the victims of 9/11, I wonder how they would react were they in the same situation. Would they prefer that he had shot out of his chair and waved his arms around, outraged, shouting orders as he ran frantically out of the room? Would they prefer he had hung his head in sorrow and began weeping in front of the class? Or perhaps they wish he had simply informed the class that thousands of people had just lost their lives after a possibly-hijacked airplane crashed into the WTC in New York City, but promised: "Don't worry, I'll take care of it. Please, continue your reading while I excuse myself."
Exhibit B:
I'm not the sharpest tool in the box, but I know there is still racism out there. I want to change it (hence the whole "taking over the world" plan) but I accept that there are some people so single-minded that they still believe their race is superior to all others. My issue goes a lot beyond that...to the people who not only believe racism is still out there, but let this belief rule everything about their life. Not to do the cliche dictionary definition thing, but....I'm gonna do it:
Racism: a belief or doctrine that inherent differences among the various human races determine cultural or individual achievement, usually involving the idea that one's own race is superior and has the right to rule others.Those people who "cry wolf" by hollering about how some racist discriminated against them probably never consider that the "perpetrator" is discriminating against THEM, not their race. I know it's a hard concept to wrap your head around, but perhaps your demeanor is the very thing that's causing you to be pre-judged, and perhaps you are the one jumping to the conclusion that it's your race.
Exhibit C: (don't worry this one's not as deep)
My mama raised me right, and I plan to mirror her parenting advice to a "T" when I have some little rugrats of my own. She didn't necessarily write the book "How to Raise Your Child Right." (Man, that would make an editors' skin crawl.) She practiced what some would call "unorthodox" parenting methods, but overall I think I turned out pretty dang close to OK, contrary to unpopular belief. (Yes, you read that right.) I'll give one example, because if I give any more, I fear she would give an entirely new meaning to the cliche "I brought you into this world, I can take you right out of it."
Of course, this story has only been re-told to me, as I was far too young to remember...but I have been told that I grew into and quickly grew out of the pulling hair stage. Why? Well because the first time I pulled my mom's hair was the last, as she pulled mine right back. From what I've been told, I looked shocked and appalled as she pulled mine right back, but obviously it worked, as the pain made me realize it wasn't a fun thing to do.
Despite teaching me that intentionally harming others in the form of hair-pulling, biting, hitting, or with use of foreign objects, she taught me courtesy. Not just "Yes ma'am," "Thank you," and "Please," but things like waving at people when they let you over into their lane, holding the door open for those less fortunate, "killing with kindness," etc. One form that she taught me that apparently 90% of the population was not taught is to PUT YOUR DAMN GROCERY CART AWAY. It literally pains me when I see one left out amongst the many cars in the parking lot. It pains me more to the point where I see red and have to remind myself that my bed is much more comfortable than a jail cell, when I actually see someone leave their cart out. Not only do I wish to point out that they could probably use the exercise (as I've noticed it's often people who would only benefit from a few extra steps on the ol' pedometer) but I would like to see their reaction if all the carts they had left out in their life came back to attack their car all at once and they were left with dings and scratches. It is negligent. It is lazy. It is rude. But most of all...it is annoyingly idiotic.
That's all I got folks...and to quote the
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
I don't have a creative title today.
I almost feel like I need to be consistent with my inconsistency and keep up this trend of posting sporadically every few months or so. But what can I say? I've felt the love lately, and....I give the people what they want. Which is more insight into this conundrum of thoughts going on in my noggin every day.
Which brings me to this...
1. This Lance Armstrong "scandal" has really thrown me into a tizzy. (I'm feeling British this morning...or whatever nationality/species it is that uses the word "tizzy.") The ADA declared him guilty recently, after Lance bowed out of an arbitration hearing fighting the charges that he doped from 1999-2005. Lance claimed that he was tired of the fight to prove his innocence, and that the ADA claims were baseless and it was a witch hunt to try to strip him of his Tour de France wins; something that my dear friends at the Ticket don't feel will happen, considering the ADA doesn't have the power to strip him of his titles. I agree that Lance really chose the lesser of two evils, and that no matter what, this situation is a lose-lose for him. If he went through with the arbitration, person after person would come forward, claiming that they "saw Lance doping with their own two eyes," thereby ruining his reputation indefinitely, not to mention his Livestrong organization/foundation. The arbitration would carry on for weeks, each day with more ugly claims, and of course, who would ever believe these claims to be false or libelous? There's no proof. The guy passed more than 500 drug tests, and yet the ADA is still claiming he doped? What's the point of drug tests then, if you're only going to refute their credibility? The other choice, the one Lance chose, is to give up the fight, consequently giving the ADA what they want by declaring him "guilty." True, his reputation may take a bit of a beating, when all those (for lack of a better word) haters, begin singing their "I told you so"s. Is it so unbelievable that a man who battled testicular cancer could win a cycling race 7 times on sheer talent and determination? And if that is too hard to wrap your head around,then why is it soooo hard to believe that the ADA has ulterior motives and is a corrupt governing organization who has nothing better to do than to make baseless claims that would jeopardize one of the most honorable, gifted cyclist this world will ever see? Oh that's right...we only see the bad in people. Maybe Lance did dope during his winning streak. But until you show me the smoking gun, he's a-OK in my book.
2. I love watching people drive. It's one of the most vulnerable times in a person's life...and yet there are so many witnesses to it. Complete strangers. I personally sing...nay...BELT it while I drive. Sometimes I plug the ol' iPod in and jam out to songs I know I sound good on...other times, I try out songs I know I don't sound good on, because it's the only time I'm completely alone. (I'm fairly sure hubby jams out to the show I put on in the shower sometimes). It's one of the most embarrassing things when someone catches me. The worst is when it happens at a stoplight. I still haven't decided if I should keep going, confidently shrugging them off like I'm not bothered by their awkward glances, or if I should stick to my instinct and snap my mouth shut and turn bright red in the face. (This is what I usually do). I love that distracted driver (you know, texting/putting on makeup/eating/reading my blog/taking a nap while driving) who reacts by throwing up his or her hands in defiance and giving a dramatic "WHAT?!" look after nearly side swiping the car in the next lane. I want to follow that person to wherever they're going, get out of my car and say "I'm so sorry I almost interrupted your driving by....my driving. And I apologize even more deeply for honking my horn at you to alert you to the fact that you almost just took my life while you were applying a second coat of mascara to your already overly-mascara-ed spider eyes. I know now that the sound of a horn apparently strikes a nerve. Next time, I'll whisper 'watch out' and hope you hear me."
There's more in my head...but my fingers hurt.
There's more in my head...but my fingers hurt.
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