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

Thursday, February 2, 2012

Perspective: Calming the Road Rage monster

I drove my mom and I to Oklahoma when I was moving off to college.  Dad followed behind with the trailer (in hindsight, I'm not sure why we needed this, as the ancient dorm room I moved into had all the furniture nailed to the walls), but that's irrelevant.  Point is, I drove my mom and I.  Hold on to that piece of'll need it later.

I am what most would call a "grandma driver."  As of yesterday, I had never had a traffic ticket in my life, and yesterday it was for an expired registration sticker, which expired a month ago.  (Be real.  Don't even get me started on how I feel about one Officer Peters in Irving, Texas.)  But for the most part, I always use my blinker, crawl at 10 mph through school zones, don't change lanes within 200 yards of an intersection, etc.  I abide by the rules, because when it comes to driving, I think they're there for a reason.  On this particular drive with Tenacious Teril (my mother), I became great friends with my cruise control.  I was cruising along at a steady pace of 75 mph for a length stretch up I-35 when some guy cruisin' for a bruisin' (yep, I said it) comes speeding up behind me right on my tail.  I could feel his fury as I maintained my speed, and after a few minutes I angrily said to my mom: "Oh my gosh, I am going 5 miles over the speed limit.  If he wants to go faster he can go around me."  Nope.  This guy wasn't causin' me to break my stride.  My mom automatically snapped back "Never be that car who is making the left lane slow.  It's for passing only.  Always." 

My momma don't have to tell me somethin' twice.  (She would probably beg to differ.)

Now this is a pretty minor life lesson in the grand scheme of things, but the point stuck.  Momma was right.  She usually is.  If someone feels like driving at 90 mph on the highway, I would rather them restrict their erratic behavior to one lane.  I used to be infuriated when I saw cars closing in behind me in the left lane, and now I just move out of the way.  Moving out of the way is a win-win situation: I get them off my tail, thereby calming that road rage monster inside of me as they speed off into the night (or day) and out of my life, and they get to wherever the hell it is that's so important they feel they need try to break the sound barrier to get there.

One thing that's nice about getting older is gaining perspective.  Sometimes it's as easy as momma telling me not to be "that guy" on the highway.  Other times it takes an earth shattering fight with a best friend to realize technology is not the best means of communication all the time.  It's the most satisfying feeling in the world to realize something that's caused you anguish or distress in the past can be fixed with just a change in perspective; taking a new outlook on things and applying different logic and reason to the same old situations results in surprisingly pleasing outcomes.

On a completely, 100% separate note:  has anyone else ever noticed that the size of the average laundry basket/hamper is eerily equivalent to the size of a full load of clothes in the washer?  Your laundry basket will never betray you.  A full hamper equals an exactly full washing machine.