Thursday, November 8, 2012

The Awkwardness Found in Aviation

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'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 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.


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'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 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.

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.

Wednesday, September 26, 2012


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.

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'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.

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 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 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 is annoyingly idiotic.

That's all I got folks...and to quote the lovely radio personality Kelly Raspberry..."how'd ya like that?"

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 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.  

Tuesday, August 21, 2012

I'm no expert buuut...

Again, I find myself trying to reinforce the name of this online monstrosity: "Bond's Mindless Wanderings."  In all honesty, the title couldn't be farther from the truth.  These little thoughts that flutter in and out of my brain almost constantly throughout my day are very mindful, and quite often lead me to believe that I have powers beyond my wildest dreams, and that I really belong at Hogwarts.  If only I could get to Platform 9 3/4.... harumpf.

1.  I realize statistics don't lie.  I realized this when I took Statistics in college, and got an A+ (don't question it...they give A+'s in college).  So it would seem that giving statistics to rebuttal someone heralding an athlete  as "awesome" or "good" would be logical, eh?  I don't think I need to give an example, as I'm sure you are all picking an instance where this has happened to post a gleeful status about your love for, say, David Murphy, (my favorite underrated player), only to see hours later that a small war of words has broken out while people rattle off stats like his low batting average, or errors this season, or strikeouts in away games...or something.  My point is this: I don't like you people.  And although statistics may prove that a player's stats aren't as high as some other player's stats, I beg you to show me your stats and we'll see if you can do any better.

2.  I feel bad for people who like themselves soooo much so, that consequently, they end up liking themselves far more than anyone else likes them.  I don't mean this to be funny....I genuinely feel bad for these people.  Two schools of thought on this one:

  • They either suffer from such serious low self esteem that the only way to console themselves is to boast about how awesome they are in hopes that someone will actually believe them. In which case, I feel bad for them, because "you are beautiful in every single way, and you are beautiful no matter what they sayyyy..." (Thanks X-tina.)
  • They genuinely think they are far superior than any other friend, family member, acquaintance, colleague, etc., that they're associated with, and in doing so, cause those people to cross their fingers and pray/hope patiently that said person gets a reality check in the form of a swift kick to the gut.  In all seriousness, I feel more bad for these people because it's sad to say but, they probably aren't nearly as awesome as they think they are, in which case I wish they would become conscious of this reality so they could step off their high horse and have fun with the rest of us.
3.  If you're at all worth my while, you know my parents have a delicious little cafe in our hometown.  One of our business priorities is to make each person's dining experience personable and friendly; we want you to feel like part of the family.  One of our tactics in carrying this ideology out is to ask each person when they approach the register:
"Can I have your name, please?"


Sorry for that outburst. *Ahem.* But for real.  Nearly every time I ask this, people either give me a blank, utterly confused stare and begin to blubber, "uuuh, whaa....uhhh, -J-Je-Jeff."  "See, that wasn't so hard Jeff....assuming you've had this name longer than 5 minutes and aren't a con-artist using an alias.  In which case, don't worry; I'm asking your name not because I'm an undercover cop, but so that I know who to give your flippin' flapjacks to."  Other times, it's a couple, in which case they look at eachother with a confused look, until one of them coughs up, usually the other person's name.  In which case I'd like to reply:  "Oh I'm sorry, is this a blind date?"  My favorite is when they glare at me.  This one's rare, and when it happens, I know I'm in for a real treat of an're seriously going to act irritated that I asked you one of the most common questions on earth, and simply for the reason that I'd like to ensure that the food you're about to request and pay me for makes it to your table in a timely fashion??  It's not like I asked what size underwear you're wearing, ya fatty.

Ahhh....release.  I feel better after getting those little nuggets out of my head and onto the computer screen where they're safe.  Goodnight, blog-world.

Friday, August 17, 2012

Threat to all Fellow Bloggers

More often than not, I get discouraged by reading other people's blogs.  My sweet cousin has not only the most adorable little family that frequently pops up in her blog (making it much more attractive than mine), but she also seems to have the most interesting "ordinary" days, which give her lots to write about.  My mom's friend has a blog and I swear, when I'm reading it, sometimes I feel like I'm reading a TV script for some witty show like "New Girl" or "The Office." Other blogs are annoyingly intelligent and discuss things I only pretend to understand, but their overuse of words more than four syllables intrigues me, so again, I get jealous.  I'm most envious of blogs filled with creative recipes, DIY crafts, or "Things for the Home," and I find myself not only becoming depressed about my own boring blog, but then I start sulking about the fact that I'm living in an apartment above a warehouse the size of these people's garages, and those "Things for the Home" couldn't apply to me even if I wanted them to.

So alas, I resort to blogging own blog? (Much improvement, Margaret.)

My dad seems to like my blog.  My dear friend Alex loves it, although I think it's just because his job and subsequently entire day is that boring.  Hubby compliments it, which I used to find very flattering, until I realized he actually writes extremely eloquently himself, so now I feel like when he says "Hey shnookums, your blog was great today," what he's really saying is: "I could have done so much better."

I'm sure the dogs would like it, because it seems they're the only people in this world who like everything I do.  They especially admire my trait of leaving TOMS on the living room floor, and are even more fond of my inability to resist their begging eyes when I'm eating/cooking.  However, they can't seem to articulate that they like my writing....and to be honest, I'm not sure hubby listens when I tell him to let them read it.

Regardless, I used to think I suffered from severe writer's block.  I would use my trusty little notebook to jot down thoughts or ideas about what my next post could be about.  I would create a little "note" on my iPhone with little snippits I thought I could include in my next entry, and I've even go so far as to start a post with the hopes of striking some inspirational chord and being able to finish it later.  But then I leisurely read my favorite blogs and that little balloon of hope and inspiration slowly deflates, leaving me wordless and frustrated, but most of all, sad.

So I'm asking (nicely but forcefully) for all you dear, fellow bloggers, to stop showing me up.  Did you read the paragraph above? You're making me sad.  I ask, how can you sleep at night knowing that showing pictures of your almost unbelievably adorable child on your blog, or bragging about how you had the funniest experience today while tending to the lemon trees in your backyard, makes me feel inadequate and meaningless?  Give me a chance to scrounge up something in my life that is hilarious and adorable at the same time...something I can write a mere two paragraphs about that will leave people saying "That Meg, she has a way of painting a picture with just a few simple, one-syllable words."

Just give me a chance.

Thursday, July 19, 2012

Truly mindless wanderings.

Sometimes I like to blog about controversial things.  I really like to wait until a situation falls into my lap that I feel so strongly about that it's all I can do not to run to a computer and start tapping my thoughts onto the screen for the whole world to see.  And there's plenty of controversial shenanigans out there to blog about...there's health care bills causin' a ruckus; presidential candidates gettin' people's panties all in a wad; sexual orientation parades runnin' through the streets causin' people to just about have a heart attack whether they have anything to do with it or not; our pets HEADS ARE FALLIN' OFF!!! (OK, that last part was a little out there, but for all you that caught onto it...I applaud you.  I also apologize for goin' a little country on ya'll least I used correct punctuation.)

Anyway...where was I?  Oh yes.  The purpose of this blog.  Nothing.  I'm really playing into this whole "mindless wanderings" thing and letting you all know some of the thoughts I have about the real current events I think about...ones that matter.

*steps onto soap box*

1.  Someone should write a book (with pictures preferably) on what to do and what not to do after a gentleman or lady, whom you have absolutely no interest in, buys you a drink at a bar or other social gathering.  Oh, you want the background of why I first pondered this?  Ok, Ok, settle down.  So I don't get hit on a lot.  I choose to believe it's because I'm toting around this big ol' rock on my wedding ring finger, so it blinds and intimidates men and they say "Gah, won't even waste my time with that foxy, married lady."  Regardless, a few weeks ago I was at a bar and after setting down my money to pay for my way over-priced glass of wine, the bartender says: "Gentleman over there got your drink for you."  I peek over my shoulder to find a very nicely dressed, well-groomed...senior citizen winking at me. I merely thanked him repeatedly (probably awkwardly so) and scooted away to my sister.  Comments welcome on what I should have done, or if what I did do was appropriate enough.  Either way....if you are extremely confident in your answer, hit a sista up and let's get to work on this little tell-tale.  We could be billionaires.

2.  I don't understand the whole "take a picture of yourself and post it to Facebook/Instagram/some-other-social-medium and put a caption that makes it seem like you're not just trying to get comments on how good you look."  These pictures come in all different forms, all of which are equally irritating.  For the record: if you take a picture of yourself (face or full-body shot) and post a caption in the ballpark of any of the following: "Just went for a run"; "Happy Tuesday!"; "Just being goofy"; "Look, I got a new bikini! Beach ready!"; "I look horrible without makeup"; or anything relative, give it up.  We know you are just trying to get comments on how hot you are, or how you have such a good body, etc.  It is vain.  I realize pictures are a good way to make sure you look OK when there's not a mirror or especially reflective window around, but if you must do so, please keep it to yourself.  If for no other reason than because it annoys me.  Also, for the record...pouting your lips out and opening up your eyes really big, and only doing so when you happen to have a full face of makeup and a perfectly in-place hair-do does NOT constitute making a funny face, and is therefore, one of the most annoying types of said pictures.  THIS is a funny face:

3. This one will be short: If you ever use a Groupon, coupon, discount, deal, promotion, or the like, at a restaurant....tip on what the total would have been.  If you rack up $45.00 worth of food and have some sweet deal where you only have to pay $2.00, tipping $0.40 is not a good tip just because it's 20%.  If you don't follow me...go work in a restaurant, have that exact same thing happen to you, and then you'll understand.

4.  This happens to me all the time lately, probably more often than usual because I've just now become conscious of it.  I find myself frequently walking into a building and about 10 steps before I get to the door, I "merge" with someone coming from another direction.  We then begin walking in stride together, going for the same goal (in this case, a door), and I find myself pausing each time wondering: do we walk in side by side?  If it is a small door, do I wait and let them walk in first, or just go for it and hope they pause?  If I wait, and they wait, it's like that awkward moment at an intersection when you both come to the stop sign at the exact same moment and both wave each other on at the exact same moment and then when you decide "forget it, I'll just go," they are thinking the same thing and they start to go, and then you both brake so the other will go, and then you both get mad at each other because you both want to just GO...and it's all just very uncomfortable.  And I need an answer on how to fix it.  There has to be some rule book out there that addresses this kind of thing.

That's really all I have for now.  If you have stuck with this post 'til the end and find yourself wondering why you ever clicked on that silly link in the first place, and feel this was just a waste of time....I encourage you to go try to walk the opposite way up an escalator in less than 10 seconds and realize that that is a waste of time.

*steps off soap box, even though it was nice and cozy up there*

Monday, June 25, 2012

Yep. This one's about racism.

My mom used to say I wore my heart on my sleeve...which for the most part, was, and is entirely true.  Granted, I have learned to cope with it more easily in my years of accumulated wisdom, but I do still get my feelings hurt easily, and sometimes misconstrue jokes or "insults" as serious.

But, in this society, ya' gotta have thick skin.  So as I have grown, I have learned to let a lot of things slide.

I let comments about the standard for women being "unhealthy" and "too thin" slide off my back.  Back in the day (which was a Wednesday, for those of you wondering), these accusations of being too skinny would have offended me.  But in a society where allegations about weight and diet are all too common, I have learned to let them go.

I used to get upset when I heard or saw someone ignorantly claim that being a Christian was a fantasy, or that Christians are judgmental, "holier-than-thou" bigots.  Back on this Wednesday (mind you, it was a busy day) I would have left a snooty comment, or let the accusation boil my blood a little.  But nowadays, I just turn the other cheek, as us silly Christians would say. 

I used to try to fight the jabs boys or men would make about women being moody, irrational, and hard to please.  "We are not moody, boys are just stupid!" I would proclaim!  Well...this insult I not only let slide because boys are indeed, and innocently enough, slightly stupid when it comes to figuring out a woman...but also because women are scientifically, and also innocently enough, kind of moody, irrational, and hard to please.  (You know it's true, ladies.)

I take pride in being able to slough off the occasional comment.  Opinions are opinions, and each individual is entitled to their own, no matter how illogical or downright dumb I may think it is.  I have learned to tell the difference between an opinion, which is not to be argued, and a truth, which leaves room for correction, if necessary.

Well...I have some correcting to do.

Recently on Facebook, I saw a status from an old acquaintance, who happens to be African American.  It read something like this:

"So dude gets shot by the police in tha cliff at Taco Bell off Camp Wisdom...he was smoking a blunt and when law tried to approach him he reached for his gun..."

To which many friends, also African American, left several comments, including:
"These white folks don't give two sh*ts about n***as!"
(Granted, the young gentlemen did not censor himself, but I inserted the asterik for your reading pleasure.)

Now I'm not sure exactly what she was implying.  It is my hope that she was insinuating that had he just handed over his little "treat," he would be alive today; not the latter, which the eloquent young man obviously felt....that some stupid white cop carelessly shot a black man simply for pointing a gun at him.

A few weeks ago, another old high school acquaintance, who also happens to be African American, left this as his status:
"I got kicked out the club for goin into the women's Gimme a better reason than that racist's cool I got a bottle first"
After which he posted a picture of a bottle of Grey Goose vodka.  I won't go into this one too much, as I would hope it's obvious what is wrong with this statement, but in case you're a little cloudy today, let me be clear: kicking a boy out of a women's restroom is not racist. It is sane and logical and decent; and you sir, are a creeper and an apparent thief who should probably be kicked out of clubs before you even make it through the door.

I will let a lot of opinions/accusations/allegations/insults slide, as I previously discussed.  But I am fed up with seeing and hearing comments about how "white people are so racist."  In reference to the young boy who was shot after pulling a GUN on a POLICE OFFICER....what exactly does this comment person (excuse me for lack of words; this is the part where I get a little worked up) think should have happened?  Does he believe the officer should have paused to consider that perhaps the black man was just worked up and didn't mean any harm; he just wanted to smoke his marijuana in peace?  Does he think the officer should have put his life, and his family and friend's well being in jeopardy just because he is white and this young man is black?  Or, were the roles reversed, would the intention be the same?  If it was a black police officer shooting a white boy with a blunt, would it be OK in that instance?  If it were this comment person's father who was out patrolling the streets, would he have wanted his father to not fire his weapon at someone who was POINTING A GUN AT HIM, and just hope that instead it would be an unloaded weapon, or perhaps the whole thing would just blow over and they could go have a taco together?  And to the other status regarding the "racist man" who kicked him out of a restroom...yes, I'm sure that the white security guard/bouncer walked in and said: "Absolutely nothing about this situation is unordinary, unsafe, or inappropriate in ANY way, and I allow guys to hang out in the women's restroom at this club all the time, but since you're black, sir, you need to get the hell out of here."

Yes.  I'm sure that is exactly what went through his mind.  And I'm sure similar thoughts went through the police officer's mind before he defended himself against a threat.  I'm sure he didn't think "Well, I'm going to have the possible death of a young boy on my hands for the rest of my life, but because he's black, I'm going to shoot him anyways."

I can tolerate a lot.  But it seems to me that the ones so quick to call white people "racist" are the only ones looking at the skin color in the first place. 

Wednesday, May 23, 2012

There's Hope. (Thanks, sis.)

I'm stressed lately.  Scratch that...I'm always just a little bit stressed, but lately it's been magnified.  I tend to worry more about the future than simply enjoy the present.  I cringe every time I log on to my online banking account, regardless of the available balance.  I hesitate calling on my friends, family, and dear husband for help or even words of encouragement, because I fear I'm irritating them; and even when I do get up the courage to call, I worry that the flood of support they give me in return will soon run out.

Add to all that, I recently decided to go back to school.  And let me tell you one thing I have learned for sure (aside from the names and functions of all 206 bones in the body [227 if you count the fetal skeleton])....being in school as an adult is much less fun than being in school as a "full-time student."

My personal theme for the month of May was this:
"Stress won't help anything."
Well, here it is May 23rd and I have had enough of that silly theme.  I'm ready to lay in the stress; to completely envelop myself in it by crying, whimpering, giving myself an unbearable headache by thinking of all our upcoming expenses, injecting my veins with caffeine to prolong the days (who came up with only 24 measly hours in a day, anyway?), and carrying an edge of irritability along wherever I go.  I'm ready to swim in the stress, and let it bury me alive, because that is so much easier than believing that...
"Stress won't help anything."

And then my sister comes along and puts this song on her iPhone and pulls the lyrics up on the computer and tells me that even though I have heard this song many times before, that I need to listen to it and read along....

Have you ever had one of those moments where you're eating something you've eaten 1,000 times before, or driving down the same road you've driven down every day for two years, or looking at someone you've looked at nearly every day for your entire life, and all of the sudden, you REALLY appreciate it?  You take that monotonous bite, just masticating away (gotta love science classes), and you realize how much you really love that hint of garlic?  Or you see on the side of that same ole' road, a beautiful garden blossoming with bright roses?  Or that person you look at every day, that person whose face you have memorized, you suddenly notice that when their eyes catch the sunlight, they have the most beautiful hint of amber/gold in them? (That's my husband's eyes by the way, so back off ladies, he is TAKEN.)

That happened to me today.  And I'm sure the words of this song won't resonate nearly as much with you all as they did with me this morning, but I hope it hits home for somebody.  But promise me this: if you DO want to scroll just a little further (you didn't think I'd ramble on about this song and not post the lyrics, did you?), please open a new tab up on your browser and listen to it as you read.  If you have ever been in this state of mind I'm in right now, where you literally feel like you're drowning in it all, her voice will beckon you to keep your head above water.  I love you, sister.  Thank you for being my rock.

India Arie: There's Hope

Back when I had a little,I thought that i needed alot. A little was over rated, but alot was a little to complicated. See zero didn't satisfiy me , a million didn't make me happy. That's when I learned the lesson that its all about your perceptions. Hey, are you a papa or a super star so you act ,so you feel, so you are. It aint about the size of your car, It's about the size of the faith in your heart

There's hope. It doesn't cost a thing to smile, you dont have to pay to laugh, you better thank God for that.There's hope. It doesn't cost a thing to smile, you dont have to pay to laugh, you better thank God for that. There's hope

Off in the back country of Brazil, I met a young brotha that made me feel that, that i could accomplish anything. Ya see just like me he wanted to sing he had, NO windows and NO doors, he lived a simple life and was extremely poor. On top of all that he had no eye sight, but that didnt keep him from seeing the light he said, Whats it like in the USA, and all I did was complain. he said living here is paradise, he taught me paradise is in your mind,you know that ....

There's hope. It doesn't cost a thing to smile, you dont have to pay to laugh, you better thank God for that.There's hope. It doesn't cost a thing to smile, you dont have to pay to laugh, you better thank God for that. There's hope

Every time i turn on the t.v ( there's hope)Somebody's acting crazy (there's hope)If you let it'll drive you crazy (there's hope)But im taking back my power today (ther's hope)Gas prices they just keep on rising(there's hope)The government they keep on lying (there's hope)

But we gotta keep on surving, keep living our truth and do the best we can do because 
There's hope. It doesn't cost a thing to smile, you dont have to pay to laugh, you better thank God for that.( Yea yea ).There's hope. It doesn't cost a thing to smile, you dont have to pay to laugh, you better thank God for that. (Yea yea yea) There's hope

Stand up for your rights, Keeping shining your life, and show the world your smile
Stand up for your rights, Keeping shining your life, and show the world your smile

There's hope. It doesn't cost a thing to smile, you dont have to pay to laugh, you better thank God for that.( Better thank God for that) .There's hope. It doesn't cost a thing to smile, you dont have to pay to laugh, you better thank God for that. Yea yeaThere's hope
Two, one, two, one, two, two, two, one 

Thursday, April 26, 2012

Brady wrote a blog.

Now I want to keep this short and sweet...but I must preface this groundbreaking, once-in-a-lifetime post with a little sappiness.

I fell in love with Brady the summer of 2006.  Since then, I have fallen even more in love with his family.  His sister, is not only my sister, she is my soul sister and one of my dearest and truest friends.  His brother-in-law, is my big, protective brother, who is also one of my favorite people in the whole world to be around. (Might I add, the two of them recently added to this family the cutest baby girl in the world, who is also the love of my life and, though he doesn't know it yet, will grow to like me more than Brady.) His mom, is not only the best mother-in-law in the world, she is one of the kindest, most honest women I know.  And his dad...well, his dad is the reason my husband is who he is today.  I see more and more of him in Brady every day, and let me tell you, folks, that is a good thing.  I have always known my FIL is an excellent writer, but it wasn't until the day of Pudge Rodriguez's retirement as a Texas Ranger, that I discovered that's one more quality he passed along to Brady.  (I actually got a little jealous when I read this email.) 

So enjoy, folks.  Brady Bond wrote a blog.  It may not have been intended that way, but with his blessing, I get to share it with the masses.  I must warn you, is completely unedited (I said he was a good writer, not the best speller.)  Oh, and if you love it and decide you like his writing more than mine....keep it to yourself.

If you will allow me a moment to let the dad in me come out.

First of all 26 is right around the corner, let's be honest it's all down hill after that. Last week it hit me, I am gettin old. I talk about how kids have it so easy, I don't get why anybody would want a phone that's in between a computer a phone. I think lectures are better than working on the Internet. And most of all it takes me about 10-15 to warm up before feeling good when exercising. I'm just getting old.

It hit me even more when I heard the news that Ivan Pudge Rodriguez was retiring. For those of you either not around in my childhood or forgot Pudge was the man. Pudge had IT. I am not real sure to this day what it is, but being a coach you just recognize when someone has IT. Few people have it but when you come across those that have it, it is a pleasure to watch.

Growing up a baseball player I had to do what he did. I wore #7, I played catcher. I refused to wear that stupid hockey mask of a catchers mask because Pudge didn't wear one. I remember telling dad I HAD to have that shoulder flap on the chest protector because Pudge had one. I remember being as old as 9th grade and dad saying your doing too much in between pitches, your not ready. It didn't matter, my swing was modeled after Pudge and I wasnt going to change it till he changed his. Hell I remember being a kid and trying in a game to do the cross (like the Catholics do) before pitches just because Pudge did it.

Pudge produced on the field. A lifetime 296 hitter for a catcher who played to 40 is pretty good. 300+ home runs and just a shade under 3000 career hits. Behind the plate he was a piece of art in motion. He threw out almost 50% of runners for his career. He could fire a ball from home to the center field wall on his knees, or so I thought. In 2009 he passed Carlton Fisk and owns the record for most games caught in MLB history. Pudge holds the record for RBI in a ranger game at 9, he is also the first person to score a run in ranger post season history(much like myself who scored the winning run in cedar hills first ever playoff win).

Pudge broke into the league at age 19. Just a kid. He was an AL MVP, a 13 time gold glove winner and a 14 time all star, he also has a world series championship with the Marlins.

What is more refreshing at age 19 he promised to learn English so he could communicate with the fans, media and American players, the same cant be said for some of his peers. In the mid 90s his contract was up with the rangers. He went and sat down with the owner and gm without his agent and said I want to stay let's get it done. And got it done. How refreshing would that be in a day in age where people making 20+ million HAVE to have 2 million more or they won't play. Be real Drew Breese, learn from Pudge. I remember reading a lot of Dallas Morning News sports day sections and never heard of Pudge complaining about playin time, money, anything. He just went to work every day and produced. He caught Kenny Rogers perfect game and he was chasing Robin Ventura from behind before Nolan put a whooping on him!

Pudge was and in my opinion is the face of the Texas Rangers and always will. Yea he prob was on the juice at some point but juiced or not he had it. Players have come along that are better, and flashier. But nobody could ever be Pudge. I can still to this day Remember sitting in the first row of the third deck at the ballpark and hear dad say watch how he gets set before the pitch, watch his leg kick, watch how quickly he throws the ball. Dad was right, maybe he saw IT to, thankfully he passed it along to me.

I've witnessed some great moments at the ballpark. I remember gettin chills when Cal Ripken hit his final pitch in Arlington over the left field wall and Chuck Morgan set off the fireworks and played the music. Me, mom and Lo sat outside when they clinched the division vs the Angels. Me and dad were there in 99 when they clinched vs the As. Meg and I were they when they beat those hated yanks in the playoffs. Many more memories will come but none will replace the memories of number 7 behind the plate.

I hope one day I'm blessed with a son and I hope for my sake and his he can find his Pudge in this world. Someone who will take the time out of his pre game preparation to sign a baseball for that little kid who sat above the dugout all batting practice just hoping for his signature on a baseball. An era closes to today. But I am thankful for parents who cared enough to go sit through batting practice so that little kid could get a signature on a baseball.

You may now return your regularly scheduled day.


Sent from my iPhone

Monday, April 9, 2012

Utter NCAA Nonsense

I have big issues with the NCAA.  They pride themselves as a superior organization of college athletic programs, and constantly remind us how hard they're working to keep players focused on education first, sports second.  Rules are amended, athletes punished, and teams stripped of their title, all in an effort to guide these young athletes toward a bright, beaming future, whether that future has to do with sports or not.   To the NCAA, it's not about the politics, or the hefty paycheck that comes along with the booming business of college athletics; it's about education.


Well, obviously, I don't feel that way.  And if you didn't gather that by now, please do me a favor and contact me in a private manner to let me know...because apparently I need to work on conveying messages via computer screen.  The NCAA is a business. Period.  And as good businessmen and women do, they ensure that above all else, they are painted in a favorable light to the masses; no matter how much deception or unethical decision making that entails.  They preach the value of a college education, reiterating that above all else, the students under their legislature know good and well that they must abide by all NCAA rules and regulations before they're able to play.  These noble soldiers of education claim their students must excel in the classroom before they're allowed to excel on the field (or court, or diamond...whatever).


Lebron James.  Recently, the usually camera-shy celeb debuted in a PSA urging students to "stay in school."  He rattles off some statistic about how many kids drop out of school each year (never clarifying what level of schooling he's referring to), and gives his own testimonial about how he himself could have been a drop-out, but miraculously defied the odds. (Bravo, King.)  I hate to pick on such a good-natured person, but he is ironically a perfect example of the hypocrisy in the sports industry.  I'm not sure what networks aired this commercial, but I saw it for the first time on ESPN.  And my brain exploded....

The double standards the NCAA, ESPN, and many professional sports teams have for education and schooling, is absolutely ridiculous.  Lebron preaches about the importance of education, urging students to "stay in school."  Really, Lebron?  This coming from the guy who has been getting handouts since he was merely 18, once even risking his high school eligibility after accepting several lucrative gifts?  The same guy who went straight from high school to the NBA?   Not a lick of college? I find it extremely hard to believe that had the NBA allowed high school students to enter the league before graduation, Lebron would have passed on the offer.  Nowadays, there are age requirements on students entering into pro sports.  The NBA requires athletes to be at least 19 years old at the time of the draft, and at least one full NBA season must have elapsed since the player's graduation.  This rule, I believe, is in place so that the head honchos sleep a little more soundly at night, because requiring students to theoretically complete only one year of college, is the exact opposite of the NCAA's supposed standards.

(I promise, this rant is almost over)...the NCAA has their gun cocked and ready when it comes to punishing athletes for acting like pros.  SMU is the best example I know: short version, they were given the "death penalty" and virtually the backbone of their program was indefinitely destroyed because the higher-ups at the school were caught giving high school recruits monetary a big way.  It's argued (by hubby) that this "kiss of death" was given to scare of the many other colleges engaging in such acts.  SMU was made the example of what not to do, and the inevitable punishments for all schools who disobeyed.  The message sent was that above all else, the NCAA would not tolerate amateur athletes accepting money or gifts based on their athletic abilities.  And yet, March Madness is touted as one of the most-watched "programs" on ESPN; the BCS National Championship Bowl is hyped up all during college football season; the College World Series is broadcast on every major network in TV.  Thousands of people and businesses make money off college sports, yet the only people who don't see a dime are the entertainers themselves.  How can college basketball players, hell even high school players, be expected to turn away anything remotely related to a "gift," when all these big whigs are making bookoos off airing their games?  How can high school athletes be expected to work toward a bachelor's degree and ignore the calls from the NBA or NFL, etc., when Lebron James, who went straight from high school graduation to the Cav's locker room, is making more money than some people with PhD's?!  How can we demean these athletes who stay in college just long enough to be drafted, when the NCAA itself put the rule in place requiring them to make an extended appearance on a college campus before they're eligible to go pro?!  I know if I had the choice between a college educationn at 19 years old, or a $7 million signing bonus, I sure wouldn't be shopping for college ruled notebooks.

It's almost pointless talking about this kind of thing, because it's not going to change.  The NCAA and all it's cronies will continue to exalt their organization as a model of educated, amateur athletes.  And they will continue to pull the puppet strings on the many athletes/coaches under their jurisdiction until the cash comes rolling in.

Sunday, March 25, 2012

Inspired by Peanut Butter

I guess the rambling past writer's block worked...

I carry around a mini composition notebook.  This thing is in my wallet, purse, sweater pocket, or at least within walking distance, nearly 99% of the time.  The family (me, Hubbs, Sister, and two best friends/the pups' Uncles) all got the notebooks a couple months ago.  Sister came up with the idea.  All too often, we would come up with brilliant, earth-shattering theories, and as quickly as they came, they were gone.  This became quite an annoyance until Sister decided to do something about it.  The original plan was to carry the notepad/notebook in our back pockets (and if you didn't wear pants with pockets, well....nobody sniffed your notebook).  This would eliminate "losing thoughts" and instead, give us constant access to write down our most profound thoughts and ideas, as well as equip us with the means to keep lists, to-dos, workouts...really anything our hearts (and brains) desired. Mine has by far gotten the most use.  Uncle A and Andrew Brees (don't ask) neglect theirs like an abandoned animal; Sister is following in their footsteps, save for the occasional to-do list or reminder about school work; Hubby only keeps track of his miles in his notebook, though sometimes I make notes for him, which we haven't decided is completely legal yet.  Here is a picture of my book:  (no I can't show you the inside, because then I'd have to hunt you all down and kill you.  And I'm sure there are millions of you, and let's be honest...time is money, folks.)

A few nights ago, I filled about 4 pages of my notebook with ideas for blog posts.  I got my swag back.  (Hopefully for longer than a few weeks this time.)

This post, however, was not inspired by Hubby, the pups, politics or was inspired by peanut butter.   Note to all you fair-weather readers; BB and I are on a no-carb diet.  (Natural carbs like fruit, nuts and veggies are allowed...hence the peanut butter inspiration.)  The past two and a half weeks have had its ups and downs.  Example: BB and I were chaperones for the Girls State Powerlifting Meet in Corpus Christi this past weekend.  It was on this trip that we both realized we should have packed snacks.  It is next to impossible to find anything of any substance without carbohydrates in a gas station or convenience store.  The entire 8 hour trip, we snacked on beef jerky, sunflower seeds, and peanut butter.  Those three don't make a good combination, whether eaten separately or together.  Desperate times call for desperate measures...but, overall, we both love this new lifestyle change/experiment/diet, and it has forced us to think outside the box to fill our cravings.

We are both craving sweets.  Hubby more so than me (his set of "sweet teeth" are aching from lack of sugar).  The other night, after buckets of drool and constant mention of Oreo's and Snicker's bars, I took matters into my own blender.

I am quite the cook.  My creations may not be elaborate, and most are made in bulk to accommodate the swinging door of boys with empty bellies coming into my house, but they are most of the time pretty delicious.   So get ready, World....I'm going to share some of my favorites.  This particular creation is absolutely scrumptious, and best of all, 100% healthy and satiating.  I'd continue, but you should just whip your Kitchen Aid out and try for yourself.

Banana Peanut Butter Protein Shake
This recipe makes one shake, but I would suggest doubling or tripling it so you don't waste your time making another one after your friends/family/significant others ask for one.

  • 1 banana
  • 2 Tbsp. peanut butter or almond butter
  • 1-2 cups of water or almond milk
  • a cup of ice chips
  • 1-2 scoops chocolate flavored protein powder
  • Berries option (strawberries, blackberries or raspberries are recommended; to your liking)
It's pretty self-explanatory what happens next.  Slice the banana, throw the rest in, and BLEND!!!  Enjoy in your favorite glass or mug, preferably with a crazy straw so you can watch in anticipation as the chocolatey mixture makes its way up.  

Tuesday, March 13, 2012

A Carb-Free Me!

This happens to me every time I start blogging regularly...I get writers' block.  I think of what to blog about all the time, but nothing comes to mind.  I try to make my blogs relevant.  I mean, if I had a cute, little baby crawling around doing cute, little baby things, or if I was so inclined to adopt a theme for my blog and share my tips on cooking and crocheting and...being domesticated, I'd probably post a lot more.  But I try to only blog when I really have something to say (or type).  Then, of course, a wall goes up and I can't write a decent post to save my life.  So, the only reasonable solution for this rut, I believe, is to just get back in the habit of the act of blogging.  (Hence why I have rambled on for nearly 10 lines with nothing of real importance being said.) Thus, the randomness develops:

Ever since middle school, I have observed "fasting" or giving up a vice or bad habit during Lent.  I'm not Catholic, and to be honest, I don't vehemently practice one specific religion.  Never mind why I do it; I just do it. In the past, I have been known to give up sodas, fast food, Facebook, and cheese (that one was rather difficult).  This year, I gave up drinking.  Not just one specific family of alcohol, but alcohol in itself.  I've struggled the most with red wine, but so far, it hasn't been too terrible...just a little aggravating.  I also gave up carbohydrates.  This...has been tough.  I actually didn't start this "fast" until last Wednesday.  My two best friends (who are pretty beastly with carbs in their diets) decided on this diet when I was discussing giving up drinking.  Last week, Brady and I jumped aboard.  It's surprising what all has carbs in it; or rather, what I don't think of as a carbohydrate.  It's not just breads, pastas, and rice that I'm exempt from; it's any kind of sugars, potatoes in any form, oatmeal, protein bars, smoothies, you name it.  Goodbye eating out for the next 3 weeks.  But now that I'm done ranting, I must admit...I feel awesome.  I do get a little sleepy at odd times during the day, but it is extremely liberating knowing exactly what I'm putting into my body.  We all agreed that fruits and vegetables with natural carbohydrates in them are allowed, as well as natural peanut butter/almond butter, almond milk, and some other modified regularities.  So for every meal, BB and I have to eat raw foods straight out of *gasp* our own refrigerator.  But it feels so nice knowing that nearly everything we're eating is 100% nutritionally beneficial.  Everything we eat is fresh, because it has to be, and forget about swinging through a fast food joint to avoid cooking.  Here is an example of my menu for a day on this new "diet":

one hard boiled egg
piece of turkey bacon
coffee (OK, OK....two cups)

fresh green leaf lettuce with grilled chicken, chopped turkey bacon, cheddar cheese, and homemade salsa
string cheese

 protein shake with a handful of almonds

Filet Mignon from our lovely, local Brookshire's
one hard boiled egg

Dessert/Second Snack
banana with natural peanut butter
an orange

I'm not suggesting you try this diet.  It is definitely difficult, and especially for guys like my dear hubby who consumes nearly 2,500 calories a day on a regular basis (he has also run almost 200 miles so far in 2012...beat), you are definitely hungry a lot.  It takes some serious consideration, research, planning, and dedication.  But it is awesome.

OK...I feel better.  I at least remember how to type.  Now off to yoga with the hubs.  We love yoga night. :)

Friday, February 17, 2012

Saving the best for last

This post, I decided to spice things up a little.  Really let you into the mind of "Margaret Bond."  It is "Bond's Mindless Wanderings" isn't it?  Anywho, I thought I'd take a different route this post.  Instead of rambling on about life, liberty and the pursuit of happyness (you're welcome, Will Smith) I wanted to discuss something I am extremely passionate about.  Something I feel is so incredibly groundbreaking, I feel it would be a disservice not to share with the whole bunch of you.  I hope by the end of this, at least one of you (and there may indeed be just one of you) change your ways and accept into your life this theory, which I believe in so fully...

Let's start with pizza.

You may not know this about me, but I was lucky to be born without several metaphorical teeth.  Most astounding is the sweet tooth.  I lack that tooth.  In it's place, I have what I like to call a "chip" tooth; not to be mistaken with a chipped tooth.  I could down an entire bag of Dorito's in less time than it takes the biggest chocoholic to go through a bag of Lindor truffles...yes, I will take bets on that.  Another craving I was born without, is the bread craving.  I don't touch the rolls they put on the table at Texas Roadhouse (nor the cinnamon butter, because it's too sweet).  I don't particularly enjoy donuts, especially Krispy Kreme, because they're the worst of both worlds.  And I strongly believe that the smell of fresh baked bread is the best part of fresh baked bread.

That being said, I eat my pizza backward.  I start with the crust, eat alllll the way along until the crust is gone, and proceed to the bite most commonly known as "the best bite," "the tip of the iceberg," "the big kahun," "the triangle of glory."  (pick your favorite.)  I was chastised the other night for doing this. Most arguments were that the crust is the stabilizer of the pizza, and by eating it first, holding it was illogical and unnecessary.  Some threw in the argument that the previously mentioned "best bite" of pizza is the crust.  Neither of these arguments hold any merit to me.  Jimmy's is my favorite pizza place in the world.  Don't waste your money flying me to Chicago or Italy for a slice of deep dish.  Jimmy's is all I need in this world.  I have watched many people devour this delicious pizza in my home, and although those with any shred of sense agree that it's immensely gratifying, for the most part, they all do it wrong.  Everyone eats pizza by diving right in, holding the crust, and taking that first bite of pizza at the tip of the pie.  Even those who eat pizza with a fork (because Jimmy does make his pizzas a little tricky to hold) make this naive mistake.  DON'T YOU EAT THAT BITE FIRST BECAUSE IT'S DELICIOUS?! Then why not save the best for last?!

Don't think I restrict this theory to pizza.  The same goes for sandwiches, burgers, hot dogs, oh the list could go on and on.  Sandwiches for example...I eat in a circle around the middle of the sandwich, so the last bite is filled with all the goodness a sandwich entails.  Hot dogs! There is always a tiny bit at the end of a hot dog where there is no dog, only bun.  So I take the normal "first bite" and then flip that dog right around to get the empty, neglected bun out of the way, ensuring that my last bite will consist of everything that makes a hot dog delicious...bun, mustard, ketchup, and processed pig innards.  (OK, that was unnecessary, and completely contradictory of my entire post.)

All I can hope is if you don't adopt my practices, you at least respect them.  At least consider them.  Because, let's be honest, the next time you eat a piece of pizza, you'll see what I mean.  Those of you who don't eat the crust first after reading this....I'll be forced to say "I told you so" when your last bite of pizza is a crusty piece of risen yeast and salt, void of the beauty that is cheese, marinara sauce and whatever other toppings your heart desires.  And in this case, I hate saying "I told you so."

Friday, February 10, 2012

Dear Josh Hamilton..

Hi Josh,
My name is Meg Bond.  I am a 23-year-old, petite, female with no dreams or aspirations of being a professional baseball player.  But you’re my hero. 
Let me explain.  My husband has been a big fan of yours for years.  He grew up playing sports, and now coaches football at a middle school in our hometown.  He has an undeniable appreciation for athletes, which he has passed on to me throughout our relationship.  When he told me your story a few years ago, I was mesmerized.  For all the selfish, greedy, and unappreciative professional ball players out there, I was refreshingly overwhelmed to learn about your struggle with addiction, and how despite the odds, you overcame it.  I could go on and on about how I’m envious of your dedication and transparency about your love for God; about how as a wife, I’m inspired by how devoted and patient your family is; about how humble you are in your successes…but I know you’re busy and my jibber-jabber is not your first choice of “light reading.”
But know this: you’re my hero.  I live in Dallas, so I heard about your relapse. I don’t care.  It brought me nearly to tears at how brave you are to make a statement about your mistakes, and to apologize for letting down your fans and followers.  Every single person who cast judgment upon you should be more appreciative of how private their lives are.  They should count their blessings, because their secret vices and hidden demons remain locked in the closet, while yours are strewn about for everyone to see.  It’s not fair for someone as deserving and remorseful as you to be thrown into the public eye for something you’ve been fighting against for years.  I know I now think twice about my mistakes, and how glad I am that I don’t have to share them with every person I know, and even those I don’t know.  If I had the means, I would give all those people who made a negative comment about your relapse a piece of my mind.
I don’t know where your path will lead you, but I can say this:  I wish the very best for you, Josh Hamilton.  I pray for you and your family’s strength, and although I may not be the most model citizen or the most devoted Christian, I hope that my husband and I can be as solid and strong as your family is one day.  I speak for my husband and myself when I say I hope you come back to the Rangers next season.  I wish I could write the check to make you stay, but unfortunately our mediocre jobs probably wouldn’t do the trick.  Just know, if you do leave, there will be two very sad Rangers that day.  But also know that if you do go somewhere else that I will be a fan of yours for life.  No matter what adversities come your way, I will be cheering for you.  Even though your head may not follow it all the time, I know your heart is pure.  And to me, that means a whole heck of a lot more than championship rings or trophies.

Your biggest fan,
Meg Bond