Everything and Nothing At All

The World Is Your Garage Sale

2008-07-23T22:44:00.000-07:00

When I was a child, about once a year during the summer my neighbors would do something fantastic. They’d set up card tables in their driveway, pile all of their junk onto them and sell the items for pennies on the dollar. That’s right…I’m talking about a garage sale (or ‘yard sale’ depending on where you’re from).

The idea of garage sales always thrilled me and I found myself looking forward to them year after year. Watching the parade of thrifty hoosiers* milling about and bartering for things that probably should have been in a dumpster somewhere was amusing and intriguing to me. Of course my father refused to allow us to host such a gathering. He claimed that encouraging strangers to come to our property was pretty much like issuing an open invitation for them to ‘case the joint.’ Our house wasn’t exactly filled with Faberge eggs and original Monet’s, mind you, but eventually my mother, sister and I gave up the battle and accepted the fact that we’d never host our own garage sale.

Since I’d never experience the joy of setting up my own card tables, I’d usually do my best to latch onto a neighbor’s sale and toss a few of my undesirable items into the mix, hoping to turn a profit so that I could immediately take my earned riches to the gas station and blow it on lemonheads and Flaming Hot Cheetos. I don’t recall ever making more than $20, but I found the exercise to be exciting and a good means to clear out my bedroom to make room for newer, better junk.

As I got older, I’d occasionally go to garage sales myself. I went through a phase where I had the burning desire to buy old chairs so that I could sand and paint them different colors. Don’t ask. I remember the joy that would come with each bargain. It was like finding five dollars on a sidewalk. Pure joy. I found that garage sales weren’t just a means to buy and sell crap…they were a way for things to have another life.

So recently when I was in the midst of moving to a new place and in desperate need of bedroom furniture and a washer and dryer, I considered perusing the classified section of the Post-Dispatch to find garage sales. That was until someone pointed me to a 24-hour online garage sale encompassing the entire region called Craigslist.

For those unfamiliar with Craigslist, it’s essentially an online marketplace where you can, among other things, buy and sell all sorts of stuff ranging from bicycles to leaf blowers, and even hideous pink purses that sort of look like dresses.

Once I began my search, I found myself checking Craigslist throughout the day in search of various items to adorn my new apartment and cringing at the majority of household items that I saw. I found that much like garage sales, there is an abundance of heinous items on Craigslist. But in the midst of a bunch of tasteless crap, I eventually found gold. Not only was I able to procure a new washer and dryer for $250, but I also found a cute dresser to, you guessed it, strip down and paint. And best of all, I didn’t have to leave my computer chair to find them.

It seems that in the span of about 10 years technology has enabled the world to become one giant garage sale and I think it’s fantastic. No need for card tables or dot stickers. No risk of being ‘cased.’ Only the risk of buying an item that will either quit working in a week, or contain something completely bizarre…like, oh…I don’t know…an old pair of SuperWoman underwear once worn by the girl that sold you the dresser.

I guess there will always been something inherently hoosier about the buying and selling of used items. But it’s a risk worth taking in my opinion.
Who knows, maybe this summer I’ll have my own garage sale. It may start with taking pictures instead of setting up card tables, but I assure you that it will end with me buying lemonheads and Flaming Hot Cheetos. I guess some things will never change.

*"hoosier" is a St Louis term describing people who in other regions may be referred to as "hillbillys" or other, less flattering terms

Brush With Death...Or Not

2008-02-02T17:16:00.000-08:00

It's been entirely too long since I wrote last and I appologize for leaving you, my faithful (and by now, possibly nonexistent) readers without any musings to help you pass the time. I'll try harder to think more, observe more and subsequently write more. Crissy, this blog is for you…so you'll stop hounding me to post something new. Stern encouragement is obviously effective with me, so thanks!

Anyway, enough of the niceties…I've got a story to tell you. Like to hear it? Here it goes…

The other day at work the minutes and hours passed much like they normally do, with me hunched over my computer occasionally leaving my cubicle (or 'office' as I refer to it when talking to people who are unwise to the fact that I'm not of senior enough stature to actually possess a door in my work space) to refill my drink, shuffle to a meeting, or ride my Razor scooter to the bathroom.

Around noon I made my way to the kitchen, prepared a peanut butter and honey sandwich (the first I'd had since high school, easily) and went back to the salt mines. An hour or so later my stomach felt like it was cramping up. Tolerable, but mildly uncomfortable, and not the sort of cramping that is a result of digestion issues, if you catch what I'm throwing. It just hurt.

By 3:00 I was reeling. It felt like someone had reached into my stomach, wadded it up in their giant man hand and then started poking it repetedly with tiny sharp objects. I was miserable. After a team meeting I decided that I had to go home, curl up in the fetal position and hope that it would pass.

Around 3:45 I packed up my things and began the journey home (all 3 miles of it). I barely made it to the car and climbed inside in the same fashion that a pregnant woman would, easing into the seat, lifting my legs up and pulling them under the steering wheel and then groaning as I reached for the door handle.

"What on earth could be causing this," I thought to myself. "I don't think I've ever been in this much pain."

After going through the list of probable causes, I simply couldn't figure it out. Perhaps I'd developed an allergy to peanuts and my stomach was slowly shrivvling up like a sliced banana in a Ronco food dehydrater. Maybe the Crystal Light that I had with lunch was made with a rare sugar substitute that my body couldn't process…it was pretty sweet after all. Or perhaps I just needed to pee really bad and my body somehow wasn't able to let my brain know it.

As I drove home I literally did breathing excercises and when I finally arrived at my front door it appeared to be backlit by a heavenly light. Upon entering I immediately changed into pajama pants, and the second that I did, the pain was gone. Not like, sort of gone, or hurt less…it was completely gone.

Amazing huh?!

Well, not really…here's where embarassing tidbits are revealed to provide explanations for a miraculous recovery.

You see lately it's been pretty cold and I'm not sure if you're aware, but tights are magically back 'in'. I don't necessarily like this trend, but in an attempt to keep up, I bought a couple of pair. So unbenounced to colleagues or anyone else who doesn't watch me get dressed in the morning (which is pretty much everyone) I've been trying to pull one over on Old Man Winter.

That's right, sometimes I wear a pair of tights under my pants in an effort to layer up and keep warm during Starbuck's runs, etc, etc. It's not a big deal. That is, until the very tights that were supposed to keep me safe and warm instead started squeezing my guts so tight that I could barely move without yelping like a wounded dog.

You see, kids…apparently tights and eight hours of sitting on your ass don't mix…like oil and water or Red Bull and anything. I experienced that most intense pain of my life thus far as a result of wearing an article of clothing that's name is in and of itself a warning. They're not called "comfort hosiery" or "body hug" for a reason, they're called "tights" because they're f'ing tight!!

After figuring this out and having left work early with an assumption that I'd be curled up in a ball for the remainder of the day, I wasn't quite sure what to do. So I did the only thing that made any sense…logged onto the internet, checked my work email to make sure that I wasn't missing anything and flipped on Oprah.

Let this be a lesson to us all that wearing tights under pants for more than a few hours is a bad idea. Not only that, but when or if people find out that you wear tights under your pants…they'll make fun of you.

Go ahead and laugh it up. But I will say that that day my legs were warmer than usual.

Things I know for sure

2007-09-30T18:57:00.000-07:00

Every month in ‘O’ magazine in an attempt to be insightful and inspire millions of women and gay men across the country, Oprah lists something that she knows for sure. So maybe mine aren’t really inspiring, but I thought I’d give it a shot anyway. Here are seven things that I know for sure:

Wanting to run a marathon is a lost cause if you never run. I used to really desire to train for a marathon and one day have strangers lining the streets to give me dixie cups of water. Then I realized that my ability to run mile after mile isn’t an indication of my inner strength. I also realized that I just really don’t like to run more than a block at a time.
Even when you think you’ve met the most stupid person on earth, there’s always Flava Flav.
I will never own a mini van. Unless SUV’s are suddenly banished from earth, I really just don’t see the need. I know that vans have come a long way since my mom’s blue Dodge Caravan, but they still make me uneasy.
Sex and the City and Seinfeld reruns will never get old.
God exists - I know this because when I look really closely at my eye - slightly pulling down the bottom lid towards the center of my face, there’s this tiny pinhole that I assume has something to do with air pressure in my eye. If I was not created, or if I (and every other human) was the result of a cosmic incident or evolution from apes, or sand or whatever, then how come we’re all not a bunch of weird blobs? Go ahead…find a mirror and check it out.
Chicken never tastes as good reheated. Pasta, yes. Chicken, no.
If a tiny Asian woman in Chinatown tells you to follow her through a maze of alleys and up two flights of stairs to a discreet apartment, do it. It’s a little scary at first, until you see walls of knock off designer purses at unbelievable prices.

Pass the Invisible Red Ball

2007-07-29T21:15:00.000-07:00

This past week I traveled to Chicago to do something that many people don’t have the opportunity to do. I went to live a dream; one that I’ve had since Jr. High school, in fact. This may shock many of you (or absolutely none), but I was horribly awkward in Jr High…not like a nerd, or geek, just an athletic twig of a person with braces who wore a ponytail everyday, refused makeup and everything girly. I babysat on the weekends to avoid social outings and spent one Saturday night after the next watching a show that made me laugh and realize that popularity and self actualization (hey Maslow’s hierarchy) was possible even for those of us who weren’t blessed with cheerleader figures, sensibilities and charisma. Saturday Night Live was a ritual for me; an escape from one reality and an entrance into another…the reality that it was possible to be witty and be loved for it. A dream was forming in my mind.

After watching the comic geniuses perform week after week I became intrigued and had to know more about the people behind the sketches. I began researching the performers and found a link between many of them. On the road to the Rockefeller Plaza stage, stars like Chris Farley, Tina Fey, and Gilda Radner had made a life-changing stop at The Second City in Chicago to train in the art of improvisation, sketch comedy, and other sects of the religion of comedy. The Second City has given birth to some of the world’s most notable and beloved comedians and I knew that I simply had to go there.

Fast forward to my sophomore of college. The dream still living inside me, a conversation between my mom and me ensued. It went something like this:

Me - Mom, I’ve been thinking about this a lot and I think I’d like to go to Chicago for a while to train at The Second City.

Mom - What’s that?!

Me - It’s like college, but for comedians…like the people on Saturday Night Live.

Mom - So, it’s not an actual college?

Me - No, it’s more like training and a lot of the people who study there go on to do TV shows and other stuff.

Mom - That sounds interesting honey…but no.

I started the communications program at Bradley the following fall. While I never fully regretted the decision to not pack up all of my things in the cover of darkness, drive to Chicago in the car that my parents had given me and make a phone call later to explain myself, with 300 miles of distance between us, the dream still lingered. The Second City traveling troupe came to Bradley and I of course went. That was as close as I thought I’d ever get.

Fast forward again to earlier this year (2007). I wrote an essay about my dream and my wish was granted by perhaps the most unlikely genie that anyone could think of…my employer. My company has a program that gives employees the opportunity to live a dream by simply submitting an essay about their dream and hoping that it’s chosen. My sister was the first to read the essay and knew that mine would be picked, but I had some doubts…mainly afraid that someone else would have written about their desire to help save babies from wells and end world hunger…I mean, who can argue against that?! Luckily no one did and I was on my way to a circus performers equivalent of clown college. Yippee!

On Monday, July 23rd I made my way to Wells Street (which required paying a taxi to follow to my destination…I got a bit lost and started freaking out). I spent six hours a day for the next five days training/learning the art of improvisation and sketch comedy writing at The Second City, a place that I’d known about, and was finally experiencing. It was incredible. There were about 15 other people taking the classes with me from all across the country. Some were actors, others writers, some both, others neither. But everyone was there to learn from the best and that’s what we did.

You’re likely thinking that my time was spent learning jokes or studying the anatomy of a comedy bit, but it wasn’t. During improv training we spent some of our time in a giant circle playing a game that involved tossing an invisible red ball, throwing an invisible arrow and passing an invisible mouse to one another. Our time was also spent playing a game that involved chanting “Big Booty” to one another, dancing one at a time in the middle of a circle, pretending to be inanimate objects, telling stories through each other and putting together skits without notice. All of our activities were designed to help us connect with one another and enter into a place where we could anticipate what someone else was thinking and react accordingly with little warning. Amazing.

During the writing training I learned the principles of sketch comedy writing and wrote quite a few sketches of my own, working with my fellow trainees (which I struggled with due to my propensity to write alone). At the end of the week, we wrote sketches and then cast our characters. I was flattered to be cast in every other sketch that my classmates had written. I’m no actor, that’s for certain, but they trusted me to play the roles that they had created and that meant a lot. So I went to Second City on Monday as a publicist who was interested in comedy and I ended it by playing Lindsay Lohen, the tooth fairy, Hilary Duff, Gretel, and an anteater. Not many people can say that after returning from a vacation!

Part of me hoped that I’d go to Second City and have a light bulb moment, where the clouds would part and Chris Farley’s ghost would announce that comedy was my reason for being, but it didn’t happen. The experience was amazing, certainly something that I’ll never forget, but it’s not my calling and knowing that is certainly worth the cost of admission (which was incidentally paid by Weber Shandwick…incredible).

On the final day I approached my improv teacher to thank him for the comedic wisdom that he’d imparted. He replied by telling me that I should audition to train at Second City full time, adding that they’d love to have me. I didn’t hear him say it to anyone else, but I do have selective hearing. Sweet validation was mine! If it was my dream, I left knowing that I could live it…or at least have a fair shot. Since I found that such a career is not my dream, I left with a smile and memories that I’ll pull up from time to time. I also left looking forward to coming back home, going back to work for a company that allowed me to live my dream, and maybe occasionally tossing an invisible red ball to my friends and coworkers.

Dog Eat Dog

2007-07-18T08:35:00.000-07:00

I recently became a mom. Well, not a real mom or even a step mom…I became a temporary dog mom. That’s right, I dog sat for four days and I learned a thing or two in the process.

Lola, the medium sized, brown haired mutt whom I was trusted to care for, is a dream. She does nothing. She sleeps all the time. She eats twice a day. She only barks at cats and squirrels. Apart from some mildly annoying following of me around, she was a breeze to care for (although I did arrive home after a great date to find that she’s piddled on her bed, but that was quickly forgiven due to my happy post-date mood).

During my short stint as a dog mom I discovered that there is an underground (or maybe just invisible to non dog owners) club, to which all dog-owning humans are entered into upon purchase/adoption/rescue of their pooch. I got a glimpse into the club by walking the walk (aka strutting around, leash in hand, occasionally giving stern tugs to assert my authority) and doing it in front of the world (aka, my neighborhood park and the streets of downtown).

Neighbors whom I’d never met made introductions, dog walkers gave me an affectionate nod and sometimes a wave, total strangers would ask questions for which I would make up answers. It was like the world gave me a hug and all because I had a canine in my midst.

On Sunday, Lola was returned to her real owner, thus revoking my membership into the underground dog club. To be honest, it was sort of a relief. I’m not sure if you know this, but dogs have to pee quite often and when they go “#2” you have to pick it up and throw it into a trash can with about 10 gallons of it’s counterparts. They also stare at you while you sleep, which is something that I don’t like unless it’s in an adoring fashion and coming from a being with a opposeable thumb. And even then, it can be unsettling.

Nonetheless, it was a good experience and I left it knowing that when it comes to being a mom, I’ll be a much better human mom than dog mom any day of the week. Informing my neighbors that Lola isn’t actually my dog was tough though. It was a harsh reality for one gentleman in particular. I’d never spoke or even seen him before taking Lola for a walk last week. He made small talk then and when I saw him out the other day while taking a solo walk (you know, because I don’t have a dog) he asked where my dog was. I told him that I was dog sitting before and she wasn’t mine. The conversation ended somewhat abruptly and I have a sneaking suspicion that I’ll never see him again.

I was sad for a minute, but when I reached in my pocket and didn’t pull out a plastic bag that was meant to carry around doodie, I smiled again and picked up the pace.

*Edited by Bridget Westhoff

You Get Paid To Do What?

2007-06-11T20:03:00.000-07:00

OK, so I planned to write a blog about the easiest jobs a few months ago and never did it. Perhaps if I had one of the following jobs, I would have had time to finish this very blog:

Construction sign holder - They stand around, holding signs and they get paid more than me for doing it. If my skin were capable of being tan, I’d apply…although the outfits are usually less than attractive and there is always a chance that you’ll get killed by a semi. Otherwise, it seems pretty easy.

Hand model - If regularly getting manicures is part of your job description, then I think you’ve got an easy job. Sure, maybe if hands had moods, being a hand model would be more difficult. “I’m sorry they’re not cooperating, but my hands are really pissed off right now…I mean that guy tried to give them a high five - doesn’t he know who they are.” But hands don’t have moods. As a hand model, you basically have to moisturize your hands, get your nails done and show up. Occasionally you have to hold something and sometimes people adorn you with millions of dollars in diamonds, or you have to wear gloves and diamonds, or occasionally a tarantula and diamonds. (Little known fact: I was a hand model for a Yahoo! Personals photo shoot a year or so ago. And yes, it was pretty damn easy)

Samantha Brown, Travel Channel host - Is anyone else mildly obsessed with Samantha Brown’s job? Have you seen her? She’s a personable, girl-next-door type who happens to get paid to travel the world and film what she sees and experiences. It’s completely amazing to me. Sure, she’s very busy filming, but she gets paid to go to some of the most beautiful places in the world and eat at some of the best restaurants. I want her job!

Vanna White - Every since Wheel of Fortune joined the 21st century and got automatic letter screens there has really been no reason for Vanna White to work. I’m not even convinced that she has to touch the corner of the screen for the letter to appear now…I think it’s all for show. At this point, she’s just being paid to be Vanna White. I’d like to get paid for standing around and being me.

Santa Claus - I’ve told others about my thought that Santa has an easy job and a few just don’t see it. They think that visiting millions of homes in one night is hard work. It’s not the hard work part that I argue about…it’s the one night thing. For 364 days a year, Santa is managing elves. The elves do the work while he sits around getting fat (or “jolly). Sure management isn’t easy, but I feel like there’s a solid internal hierarchy whereby the young elves report to the mid-level elves, who report to the C-suite elves, who report to deputy elves and very few things ever actually make it to Santa himself. You know he’s not typing out the naughty/nice list…he’s off playing a round of golf with the Easter Bunny and talking about the good old days when kids didn’t have two families and suffer from A.D.D.

Naked Cowboy in Times Square - If the word “naked” is in your title, you’re job is easy. Enough said.

Co-host of “The View” - If you have a brain and are mildly opinionated then you’re the perfect candidate to sit ‘round the table on ABC’s “hit” daytime talk show. Every time I watch The View, I think to myself “shit, I could do that…I’m stubborn and witty. Hell, the show would be better if it was only me and auntie Babs chatting it up about current events and her precious dog Cha Cha” - seriously, it would be. As a co-host, your primary responsibilities are to (A) watch E! News, (B) read one New York based paper a day, ( C) make nice with Barbara Walters, (D) be literate enough to read a prompter, (E) be smart enough to not imply that US troops are terrorists on-air. That’s not very challenging. Unless your Rosie O’Donnell, of course.

Voiceover Talent- When I used to work at a TV station, we’d send scripts to some dude who’s job it was to be the voice of WEEK-TV. Seriously, he worked from his basement (from somewhere in Wisconsin or another random state) and talked into a microphone. That’s it. He did this for countless other stations across the country. He got paid to speak and no one ever saw him. Now that I think about it, he may have been a robot, or worse…morbidly obese and completely naked.

Ebert & Roeper - If you think about it, the roles that Roger Ebert and Richard Roeper play in our society it’s sort of mind boggling. They watch movies. That’s their job and, let’s face it, unless there are subtitles in a film, that’s a pretty f-ing easy job.

Knowing that the success or failure of a film was hinging on your inclination to raise or lower one of your phalanges must be a power trip, of sorts. Actors would have to be nice to them, otherwise the next time that Tom Cruise aka Crazy Face, released a movie there could be bad reviews and a possibly groundbreaking review of “One thumb down and a middle finger,” said Ebert and Roeper. And what are their qualifications even…do we know that? Didn’t think so.
Basically two middle-aged white dudes have been given a license to brainwash the American public into thinking that their taste in films is worthy of knowing about. Well, friends…I say f Ebert and Roeper, and hell, why not Siskel. Go forth and watch cinematic adventures - the good, the bad and the ugly (not that film particularly, I mean just those categories of movies…although, who doesn’t love them some Clint Eastwood?).

Flipping the Bird

2007-05-21T20:30:00.000-07:00

Let me preface this story by saying that I do not endorse or condone flipping someone the bird. I’ve rarely done it myself. I find myself wanting to flip the bird from time to time, but I also fantasize about jumping on the hood of someone’s car and yelling when they’ve pulled into a pedestrian cross walk during a red light. I must draw lines. But what happens when you want to flip a bird, yes A BIRD, the bird? Well, today I found out.

Let me double preface by saying that I’m a sports fan. Not huge, but fairly large. I’d take a night at a ballpark over a trip to the theater most any day…unless of course, it’s raining, or really hot, or cold, or extremely sunny - I burn quite easily, you know. My favorite sport to watch is baseball. In high school I’d sneak up to the announcer’s booth during home baseball games and take over the mic to announce my favorite player‘s name, one Jeremiah Dugger, in my best announcer voice. I secretly wondered what it would be like to announce for my favorite major league team, the St. Louis Cardinals. I’m certain that if I wanted it bad enough, it would have happened. I’m naïve like that…thinking that anything is possible, with the justification that if something has been done, it can be done, and I can do it. But I digress.

You can imagine my delight when I found out that one of my office’s pro-bono clients had David Eckstein (or Little Davie Eckstein, as I like to call him) as a spokesperson. I was even more delighted to learn that he would be at an event that I was invited to. I made it my mission to have him sign something, anything for my nephew who will undoubtedly have a Cardinals room someday - you know, once he’s done with the whole breastfeeding and diapers thing. It would be the perfect Father’s Day gift for my brother-in-law, for whom we’d thrown a surprise 30th birthday party for at Busch Stadium last year (I got him a personalized jersey with the number 30 on the back…because I’m the best sister EVER). Yes. How hard could it be? Just me, David Eckstein, about 100 other people, a baseball and a Sharpie.

The only problem was that after hours of waiting, for whatever reason, David never came. Sure, I was disappointed. I’d eaten a hot dog, which I really don’t like much due to the innate mystery of their conception, and everything while I’d waited for his arrival. But alas, the elevator doors opened time and time again and the closest thing to David Eckstein were a series of posters bearing his likeness on the walls around me. A bright spot came when it was rumored that another famed Cardinals favorite had indeed arrived. The lovable, rambunctious Fred Bird, that is.

“So it’s not the 2006 World Series MVP, who cares. Fred Bird’s likeable, adorable and very kid-friendly, that is, when he’s not pretending to bite the heads off of children and adults alike,” I thought to myself. “I’ll get his autograph and get a Fred Bird Build-A-Bear at the next game - together they’ll make for a wonderful shelf display and I’ll still be a hero.”

So here I am, 24 going on 45, accosting a giant stuffed bird in hopes of landing his John Hancock. I found my opening when Fred was visibly distraught over someone handing him a Bic pen for use in signing a stuffed version of himself. As he cast the pen down to the floor, I seized the opportunity by quickly grabbing the Sharpie that I’d brought and lovingly presenting it to his Birdness. Then, while he was signing that, I grabbed the baseball that I’d brought and asked for his signature on it. He obliged by signing it on my head. I was flattered and slightly giddy.

As he finished, I turned around to reclaim the stitched masterpiece when he leaned downward. “What’s he doing,” I thought. “Can he not see through the netting - does he think I’ve shrunk.” Before I could get a word out, he handed my ball - or should I say, my nephew’s ball - to a nearby child who was thrilled with her luck. I leaned down to the child, put my hand on the ball and said “wow, did Fred Bird just give you a ball?” I wanted to take it from her pretty badly, but for the love of all things fair and right in the world, I couldn’t.

I walked back to where I’d started. My colleagues had seen the series of events, and were amused with what had happened. I secretly wondered if he’d done it on purpose and will likely never know for sure. But even the thought of such an injustice made me long to be a meaner person that I am. I yelled “hey, Fred” and when his feathered head turned my way, I flipped him the bird.

OK, I didn’t flip him the bird, but I wanted to. Can you imagine the repercussions of displaying such an act in mixed company? I’m shocked that you even for a second believed that I would do such a thing (batting eyes). Instead of acting in an unlikable way, I retold the story multiple times to my colleagues, reliving each moment. Then, I collected the empty ball display case that I’d brought and made my way back to my belongings.

I’m not sure how impressed my brother-in-law will be with an empty case to one day display in his son’s room, but I may give it to him anyway. After all, it comes with a story about the day that Aunt Lorie had an overwhelming desire to flip a bird the bird.

Age Is Just A Number

2007-05-16T07:18:00.000-07:00

Sometimes it freaks me out to find out how old people are. It’s gotten more and more difficult to look at people and guess their age. Perhaps it’s because I’ve gotten older and age is less cut and dry . The logic of “she’s old, like my mom’s age, old” or “he’s still got hair, he must be young” simply doesn‘t work anymore. Instead, deductive reasoning is heavily relied upon, at least for me. I find myself looking at people and thinking “well, she looks pretty young, maybe late 20’s, but she’s not married and doesn’t have kids, so she’s probably actually mid-to-late 30’s.”

When I was a child, 40 was old. Period. Now, it‘s just not. So, what happened?

It could be any number of things really; the downfall of the tapered jean, the virtual extinction of the station wagon, the increased prevalence of divorce and subsequent re-entry into the dating world, fear, the overnight popularity of tiny dogs, the widespread availability of ProActiv solution, the introduction of low-rise jeans, more convenient access to salons, Denise Austin, the Gazelle, Sex and the City, a greater focus on dental hygiene..

While any one of these things could be responsible for today’s “40 is the new 30” attitude, I think that it ultimately boils down to one thing: selfishness.

This is what I think happened:

Warning: the following statements are based on my perception of how life used to be, when people were old. I do realize that I‘m 24, which is an age that wasn‘t even considered old when people were old. You should also know that I’m a recovering feminist, which is why I credit women for changing the societal attitudes of a nation.

For years, women especially were given roles, sometimes spoken, sometimes not, but almost always implied. Career women were bitches, stay-at-home moms were weak, single women in their late 30’s or early 40’s were probably gay. If a woman wasn’t working for ‘the man’ or waiting on a man, she was trying to be a man, or so thought society. It was all about the man. Then one day in the mid-to-late 90’s, at least in my imagination, some chick woke up and said “fuck the man” - which likely caused confusion if she was lying next to one. She decided to be selfish. She decided that it was possible to have it all. She decided that it could be all about her and that was OK.

She got up, dumped her boyfriend, quit her job, adopted a baby, opened her own business, dated Angelina Jolie, got a mani/pedi, burned her mom jeans, trained for a marathon, got botox, rescued a puppy from a well, and learned how to fly a plane…all before noon. Instead of being tired, she was invigorated and told all other women that they could do the same. All other women under the age of 40 at the time rejoiced and simultaneously embraced yoga.

For the first time, women began taking care of themselves before others and were no longer defined by their age. Men saw the women and started to become selfish too; embracing skin care products, highlights and flat front trousers. They began investing more in looking good themselves, because they were forced to vie for a place in the lives of women that they once didn’t have to work very hard to earn. Both sexes began looking and feeling younger because it became harder to get old than to stay young.

Yes, it was on that imaginative and magical day that 40 became the new 30, and the world has never been the same. We all realized that we can not only have it all, but we can look damn good doing it - with a little botox and a cardio strip tease class or two, of course. Thanks to one women, who is a figment of my imagination, we decided that age is not a definition, it’s only a number.

I applaud her and look forward to being 40 because of her epiphany. In fact, she walked past me the other day. I thought to myself “well, she looks pretty young, maybe late 20’s, but she’s not married…oh, who really cares.”

You know what…scratch all that. I think it was the downfall of the tapered jean that turned the tide. I just let my mind wander for too long ;-)

Do You Eat?

2007-05-12T15:01:00.000-07:00

Every once in a while I run into people who are either intrigued by me or are incredibly bored and searching for anyone to talk to. It happened today. I was strolling through Schnucks in search of the perfect cracker to go with the triangle of Brie that was in my cart, when a short, dark-haired, slightly round lady walked by and said “I don’t know where all these tiny people come from” at an audible, yet not overly loud tone. She slowly walked past me, turned around, peered into my cart and a conversation ensued. It went something like this:

Her: Do you eat?
Me: Yes, I eat
Her: I mean, do you watch what you eat? How are you so skinny?
Me: Well, you’re going to hate me, but I eat whatever I want.
(I now realize that I missed a perfect opportunity to say something like “yes, I watch what I eat - going down and coming up” or an equally atrocious and politically incorrect comment that would imply that I have an eating disorder…damn!)
Her: You’re right, I hate you.
Me: Most people do.

The conversation continued with her asking about my dessert eating habits. She was intrigued with my indifference of chocolate and general dislike of all cake. I was surprised she wasn’t taking notes because I felt like I was part of a research assignment.

She was one of those ladies who hands out product samples. Dressed in all black with a black ball cap on. (I’m just telling you this so you can visualize her)

After she’d had enough with the food talk, she moved on to my clothes. She was digging my shirt* big time. We talked about what colors she looks good in and what colors I look good in. She determined that I’m “a fall” - which I already know, but it was nice to get a confirmation of such from a total stranger.

The entire exchange lasted about 10 minutes. She walked me to the products that she was pushing today (100 calorie Nabisco snacks) - I of course bought some. Then we talked at length about the cost of cereal and V-8 juice. I ended up back in the cracker aisle right where I’d began.

I felt like we’d covered a lot of ground and ended the conversation by telling her that it was nice to talk with her, thanking her for her help and wishing her well. I picked up some water crackers to go with my Brie and proceeded to the checkout. I saved $2 on Nabisco 100 calorie snacks. It will probably take me two months to eat both boxes.

The series of events has left me with a series of questions - for you, my precious, attentive, and patient readers:

Does this shit happen to other people? Anyone?
What type of crackers go best with Brie?
Is not liking dessert that f’ing weird?
And the most important question of all -one that I ask my mother every time she tells me, in a slightly concerned tone, that I look like I’ve lost weight: Do I look like Maria Shriver to you? If that line has been crossed, I’ll start drinking protein shakes and eating lots of cake. She looks like a skeleton.

You may think that being skinny is the tops, but I tell you that it comes with it’s downsides. Some people are concerned for your well being, others just hate you, and sometimes strangers stop you in grocery stores , peer into your cart and ask you if you eat.

*Background: I was wearing a new shirt that’s burnt orange with a black, brown and white design - sort of tie-dyed looking. The shirt was a purchase from last week and one that I almost returned. It cost $70, which is an insane amount for a shirt, I know. I decided to keep and have worn it twice this week. I’ve been complimented both times. I’m glad I didn’t return it.

Helpless and Empowered

2007-04-08T21:43:00.000-07:00

For the past five days I’ve been in a place that has left me feeling both helpless and empowered, on many levels, but I’ll only speak of one. I just got back from spending five days in New Orleans, a city that’s like me and most human beings - looks put together at first glance and like a total mess when you take a step back. I went there for work and spent most of my time working, at least for the first few days. On Saturday I took a bus tour of the aftermath of Katrina, and although I didn’t feel it at the time, it was pretty life altering.

When disasters like 9/11 and Katrina happen I glue myself to the TV, engulfed in the coverage, trying to wrap my mind around what I‘m seeing and hearing. News has always been in my blood, which is why I do what I do now. But after a while, the footage looks the same, the story repeats, the TV is turned off.

A condition of being human is using a brain that sometimes makes it impossible to comprehend the human condition. As I watched people being rescued from the roofs of their homes, surrounded by murky waters, did I know how they felt. No. When it was reported that hundreds of bodies were being found around the city, did I understand what that really meant. No. But after two years, did I think that the tragedy was over. Yes. And that is perhaps what upset me the most.

When I bought my ticket aboard a Grayline bus which promised to show me what remained of New Orleans neighborhoods, I felt very consumerist…almost like tragedy was being capitalized on and I was supporting it. But it’s not like that at all. Knowledge, as they say, is power. And I bought a ticket to enlightenment.

As we drove past each neighborhood intrigue became amazement, amazement became sadness, sadness turned to disgust and disgust to anger. I saw homes marked with spray-paint signifying the date that help had come and what they found. Imagine walking down your street and seeing each house marked with red telling you that two bodies had been found inside. Our guide pointed out homes with man-made holes in their roofs where residents had literally sought higher ground by hacking out of their attics. Surrounded by undrinkable water, in unbearable heat, they waited, and waited, and waited. Some were rescued. Some died trying to rescue themselves and their families, like the grandfather’s daughter and granddaughter who fell off of their raft and drown in front of his eyes. A wreath is now nailed to the tree where their lives ended. I saw it.

In addition to spray paint, water lines are visible on nearly every home, showing just how high the water came and stayed for weeks on end after the levees broke - levees that the US Army Corps of Engineers knew were faulty, but chose not to fix. If there aren‘t lines, it’s likely that the entire house was underwater. Drowning homes and churches, drowning people and animals, drowning dreams and memories - the water was equal opportunity. Katrina was a bitch and the government only fueled the fury through years of neglect and a lack of foresight that could have saved lives.

But those things - the paint, the lines, the stories - are part of the past. What is being done now? That’s what I was upset by the most. Nearly two years later there are parts of the city that have yet to be combed for remains. There are bodies - likely hundreds, if not thousands, that are patiently waiting to be discovered, just as there owners were waiting some twenty months ago. One woman said that she hears screams occasionally as her neighbors discover things that no one should have to. Children can’t play outside for obvious reasons.

Insurance companies are answering claims with vigor - vigorously telling residents that despite having paid nearly $50,000 in premiums over the past eight years, they will only be given a check for $5,000. Those who want to move back face insurance rate hikes of 200 to 600 percent, discouraging them from making a home in the city that is part of them. The middle class is being hosed for contributing to society, while the poorest of the poor are rewarded, in some ways, for their poverty.

Did you know that post-Katrina local prisoners were given meals and cared for while thousands upon thousands of residents went without food and water? They were.

The people who have so bravely moved back and are rebuilding have to drive miles and miles away to get necessities because grocery stores, convenience stores and big box stores have yet to return. Home Depot is there and their lots are full. Wal-Mart, the largest retailer in the country, allows their stores to remain closed. Makes me wonder if the mom and pop stores that they undoubtedly put out of business would abandon their neighbors in the wake of disaster? Probably not if they could help it, and Wal-Mart, among others can certainly help it. They should have started rebuilding long ago, if for no other reason than to offer stability and comfort to residents. But businesses don’t operate like that, now do they. Oh, poor, naïve me.

In the midst of the tragedy and the remains, there are glimmers of hope. The colorful Habitat for Humanity homes that line a block in the Ninth Ward are met with smiles. Delight is found in knowing that people from across the country are coming to the city to lend a helping hand. Tourism is slowly rebuilding as well. The bus company that hosted my tour only serviced about 20 percent of pre-Katrina tours last year. This year, they’re hoping for 40 percent.

There is lots to do and see in the city. Lots to experience and it’s certainly not all gloom and doom. If you have the desire to visit New Orleans, do it. Don’t expect to be depressed or down because the spirit of old New Orleans is alive and well. I can’t tell you how many people thanked me for coming to the city. They didn’t know why I was there and they didn’t care. What mattered to them was that people were coming to visit, to shop, to eat, to rebuild and to experience the city. Go if you can. If you can’t, help someone else go.

There is still great need. The people feel forgotten. We must show them that they’re not.

Visit www.levees.org to sign a petition to help improve the levee systems across the country so that future generations of New Orleans and other gulf residents won't have to live in fear that history could be repeated.

In Case You're Wondering

2007-03-18T13:55:00.000-07:00

Hi all,

You may have noticed that the address of the blog changed. Occasionally I Google my name to see what comes up (no comments, please) and it seems that the blog was popping up. While I do anticipate one day becoming very, very famous for my writing (I'm talking book signings at the Crestwood Barnes & Noble famous), I'd prefer that the blog not be as easily accessible as it had become. As a reader, you're well aware that blog content may not be entirely suitable for random strangers (aka 'strays') and/or clients, reporters, ex-dates etc. Basically, no one else with my name exists (at least not with my spelling) and I'd prefer that my sarcastic ramblings not be so readily available to anyone who may not fully understand or appreciate my twisted mind.

Surely you can understand my concern. Please bookmark this address (stlbe.blogspot.com) in place of leigenrauch.blogspot.com. As a reward for overcoming this mild inconvenience, I've posted a new blog below.

Thanks.

~Lorie

Sometimes I Just Want to Dance

2007-03-18T13:52:00.000-07:00

I should start this blog by telling you that I’m not much of a dancer. I mean, sure I’ve had more than five years of “professional” training, and from time to time I have fun going out with friends and shaking it (by ‘it’, I do mean my ass), but I’m no dancer.

As a child I endured five years of tap dancing lessons and about two years of pom-pon lessons; training that resulted in me absolutely despising any outfit that had lace, spandex, sequins and/or any combination of the three. I recall many a recital day that started with mild excitement and resulted in me crying my eyes out as my hair was curled and I was stuffed into a heinously bright costume that would make even Tara Lipinski cringe. At some point my mother must have seen the light and decided to save her money, allowing me to be free from dance. Perhaps she realized that even after years of lessons, I still had the coordination of a newborn giraffe attempting to stand for the first time, and simply gave up.

I provide this bit of background as a means of expressing my due resistance to the fine art of dance. But despite my muddled past experiences, there are times when I just want to dance…and I want to dance like they do in the movies.

No, not like Julia Stiles in Save the Last Dance or even Francis “Baby” Houseman in Dirty Dancing (although I wouldn‘t mind perfecting ‘the lift’ in the well toned arms of a young Patrick Swayze)…instead, I want to live out scenes when hard times and hurt feelings are put aside and characters are inspired to meet in a random room of their home and find happiness in the simplicity of a good song. I want to dance in the middle of my living room like Annie Savoy and Crash Davis in Bull Durham, dance psychotically in my kitchen to Bonnie Tyler‘s “Holding Out for A Hero” like Cate Blanchett's character in Bandits, and eventually sing backup into a hairbrush microphone while bouncing around and dancing with my kids a la Stepmom.

It seems like every great movie has at least one such scene that almost undoubtedly turns into a highlight for me. I’m not sure how prevalent uninhibited moments of dance actually are in life - especially for those of us who are cursed with constant self awareness - but I secretly hope that they will happen quite often for me…if for no other reason than to momentarily supersede my otherwise very inhibited mindset.

After all, when’s that last time you saw me do more than the fingertip to fingertip arm wave while in a sober state? I rest my case.

Q to Readers: What’s your favorite cinematic dance scene?

Saving Daylight

2007-03-14T20:31:00.000-07:00

This past weekend something happened that really changed my perception of life. (Sure, I ended a relationship, but that happens all the time.) I’m of course referring to Daylight Savings. You see friends, when I am forced to push the ‘time’ and ‘hour’ buttons on my Timex Nightglow digital alarm clock, I’d much rather push it 11 times, than only one.

For me, springing forward is kind of like being tricked into thinking that someone has left “plenty” of hot water for me to take a shower and then discovering after five minutes of leisurely tub time that I’ve been lied to. It’s a sham and I’m left confused and disoriented.

Because Daylight Savings happens on a Sunday, I hardly noticed the change on day one. Hell, I was happy to have extra daylight and was even inspired to go for a walk/run around the park. “I think I’ll walk every night,” I cheerily told Melissa upon returning. “Right,” she replied, unconvinced of my pseudo commitment. She knows me too well.

On Monday morning I hit snooze about five extra times, woke up looking like a Picasso (as usual) and my day was screwed. My Outlook calendar at work was jacked up (probably because I deleted the 55 messages from IT telling me what to do to avoid such havoc), so I didn’t know what I was doing, when. And did I run on Monday? Oh, no. I didn’t run. I barely walked to and from my car (I really want to hire and/or marry someone to carry me around someday…but that’s neither here, nor there).

Today is day four of operation “ruin Lorie’s life” and I’m a zombie. I know it’s only one hour’s difference, but it’s just not fair (jumping up and down and stomping fists)! If Daylight Savings were my parents, I’d say “I hate you, Spring” and cuddle up to Fall Daylight Savings. Spring would pretend to not be bothered and then go in the other room to quietly cry.

Oh, and it happened earlier than usual this year…WTF? Anyone else feel like the whole concept of time is cramping your style lately?

Blast From the Past - Part One

2007-02-20T21:05:00.000-08:00

So, I recently came across some random documents that I had written while in college. At that time, I don't even think that blogging had truly hit mainstream and if it had, I was probably too skeptical to get involved. Anywho, given my dry spell with posting new material, I thought I'd regurgitate some oldies, but goodies and mix them in from time to time. Commentary on thoughts at the time vs. current situation will be italicized. I hope you enjoy...

I wrote the following while attending Bradley University (2003-2005) and living in my own apartment sans roommates. I now have a roommate, which is good for the most part, although I do miss the good ole days from time to time.

Advantages of Living Alone/Disadvantages of Living Alone

(Advantages listed first, followed by corresponding disadvantage)

1A. You finally have an excuse for being totally selfish.
1D. Because you become totally selfish, the odds of finding a desirable roommate in the future dramatically decline. In extreme cases, this includes future spouses.

2A. Any questionable follicles adorning the bathroom floor are undoubtedly yours.
2D. While the origin of such follicles is known, it doesn't make cleaning them up any less gross.

3A. Dancing and jumping around on furniture is permitted at all times.
3D. Once fully grown, the idea of jumping on the bed may still seem fun, but the reality of an impending concussion -- not so much.

4A. Two words; Naked Time! Everyone does it so don't bother denying it.
4D. There's no time like naked time, until there's a knock at the door...then it's panic time.

5A. Total solitude is an attainable goal (unless your ass-hole neighbor likes to rock the bass at 1 a.m.)
5D. While solitude may seem great at first it is eventually a harsh reminder that there are billions of people in the world, none of whom desire to see, speak or interact with you in any way.

6A. Just like Vegas - what happens in the apartment stays in the apartment.
6D. It may sound sexy and seductive, but if there's nothing happenin' in the apartment, then the whole concept borders on pathetic.

7A. All mail is your mail.
7D. The harsh reality is that more often then not there will be more Pizza Hut coupons in the mail box than actual mail, and even they only come a couple of times a month.

8A. Sleeping until the mid-afternoon never results in verbal scolding from others.
8D. Sleeping until mid-afternoon...who has time for that? There are bills to pay, clothes to clean, dishes to wash, floors to mop, and those Ramen noodles don't exactly fix themselves now do they?!?

9A. There is no one to keep tabs on you or question your questionable behavior.
9D. Because there is no one watching out for you, you must chew food very well and avoid drunken showers. One wrong move and your ass is either choking to death while trying to perform the self-inflicted Heimlich over a chair, or you're lying naked in a pool of blood and vomit after taking a nasty spill in the bath tub while reenacting the NSYNC dance from the 'Bye, Bye, Bye' video. (Neither of these scenarios come from personal experience ; )

Cracking the Code: Lying by Omission

2007-01-27T14:51:00.000-08:00

A recent eye-opening dating experience (see UpDated Posting Alert below) has inspired me to create a list of questions that all single women need to ask men on or before their first date (or anything that may be perceived by one or both parties as a date). They are as follows:

Are you currently, or have you ever been, married?
Are you currently, or have you ever been, engaged?
Do you have any children?
Is it possible that you have children that you don’t know about?
Scenario: We go to a restaurant that has been voted “most romantic restaurant” in a popular local publication. For well over an hour, we have great conversations about everything. You pay. Was this a date?
If a woman sends you something for your birthday (let’s say…a monkey made entirely of balloons), is this an indication that (A) she’s flirting with you (B) she just wants to be friends with you or (C ) despite having a relatively low-paying job, she likes to buy people she barely knows random gifts

If his responses to these questions are to your liking, proceed. If not, punch him in the face and walk away. From now on, I will.

UpDated Posting Alert

2007-01-27T14:25:00.000-08:00

Well, a recent dating event has lead me to update the blog titled "The Dating Equivalent of the Runaway Bride" - enjoy. Please note that this time, I did not run because I wanted to...I really had no other choice.

You Say You Want a Resolution

2006-12-27T18:23:00.000-08:00

As the New Year fast approaches, chances are that you’re thinking of ways that 2007 can be a winning year - personally, professionally, relationally, rationally, spectacularly…OK, so I started typing words ending in “ly” and got carried away - strike the last two from the record.

If asked about making resolutions, I’d likely immediately reply by condescendingly saying something to the effect of “resolutions are bullshit” (the term “bullshit” BTW is a secret favorite of mine…when I say it, I feel a little politically incorrect and oddly reconnected to my Southern Illinois roots). Despite this reaction, the truth is that I too have fallen victim to the “new year, new start” mentality in years past.

A few years ago I vowed to stop drinking soda - the cocaine of beverages. Surprisingly, I made it 11 months in…and then it happened. While visiting my parents, I relapsed (I‘d venture to guess that family time has resulted in many a relapse from many an addiction ). I thought I’d kicked the habit and had the will power to drink just one soda - but just like an ex chain-smoker bumming a Virginia Slim from a stranger during a drunken night on the town, thinking that the habit could be casual and controlled - I fell down the rabbit hole and have yet to get out of it. When I reflect on my almost-year of soda soberness, I do so with pride and slight disappointment for not having kicked the habit for good. I know I could do it again, but the place that I work has a soda fountain, and frankly I don’t want to quit drinking it…it’s free and delicious.

I tell this story for two reasons (A) to expose my weakness for carbonated beverages and (B) to prove that no matter how hard one tries, it is nearly impossible to keep a New Year’s resolution. Because of this, I no longer make resolutions, instead I safely set goals. You’re likely thinking “she’s just renaming resolution…a goal is the same thing.” Even if that is the case (which I will neither confirm nor deny), is it so wrong?

In the spirit of sharing, some of my *goals* for 2007 are:

Get my car detailed - a can of soda (note the irony) exploded all over my back seat and it must be cleaned before my lease ends
Run sometimes
Learn how to cook something other than pasta, vegetable soup and pretzel crusted chicken
Take a rock climbing class at least once
Build something (furniture, a house, a time machine…whatever)
Exercise regularly (or at least hold my abs in more throughout the day)
Read a book a month
Fly a kite

Tis the Season

2006-12-14T20:07:00.000-08:00

Well, friends, it’s that time of year again. Time to hang stockings, drink egg nog , and buy gifts that will likely be immediately returned in exchange for store credit. With each passing year I’ve found that the excitement of the holiday season has become less and less encompassing. If Christmas was a faucet, my level of “cheer” would be equivalent to a trickle. It’s not because I’m a Grinch or Scrooge - I appreciate the meaning of Christmas and enjoy the spirit of helping others that comes with the season…it’s just that as a child I would count down the days, the hours and the minutes until the magical day and lose sleep over the whole thing. I miss that.

In the spirit of reflecting on such times, I’ve put together some of my favorite childhood memories of Christmas. ( You should know that if I still had jammies with feet, I’d be wearing them right now.)

8 years old - I received “Home Alone” for Christmas from my grandparents on Christmas Eve, had the entire movie memorized by New Years and proudly recorded myself reciting the lines to the entire movie into my Sony ghetto blaster shortly thereafter.
9 years old - My family went to Idaho for Christmas. My legs were growing so fast that none of my pants fit right (yes, they had zippers and bows on the bottoms - and they were tapered). My aunt and uncle gave me a battery operated crawling troll doll. It was my favorite toy.
Every year on Christmas Eve my entire family would gather and exchange gifts. My great aunt would always tell dirty jokes, which made me very uncomfortable.
Until the age of about 13, my sister and I would get a rather lengthy letter from Santa on Christmas morning outlining our good behavior for the year. I always wondered how he had that kind of time - what with the whole “visiting millions of houses in one night” thing.
On Christmas morning, my mom would turn on the local CBS station, which played holiday music recorded by local high school choirs. The whole production was taped in a mall. We ate cheesy eggs and Pillsbury Cinnamon Rolls for breakfast while trying to spot people that we knew.
Starting at about the age of 10, my sister and I would wait until my parents left the house and open all of our presents. We would ever-so-carefully untape the end of the package until we could either read what was on the box or open the edge and slip the item out. After inspecting each gift we would slide it back into the wrapping paper and retape the end. If we suspected that there were other presents hidden about the house, we would hunt for them, take mental note of what we uncovered and pinky promise that neither of us would squeal. This practice may or may not continue to this day.

I would continue, but I've got to start thinking about what I'll buy with all of the store credit that I will soon have. Ahh, the holidays!

(Oh, if you're wondering...I'm getting a new pair of jeans, a Nora Ephron book, a Mitch Albom book, a medium sized brown purse, and with any luck a generous Starbucks giftcard in my stocking. And I'm sure my mom will throw in a random piece of silver jewelry to "surprise" me.)

Name That Tune

2006-11-28T19:21:00.000-08:00

From time to time, while strutting down the street or hustling from store to store in a mall, I get a song stuck in my head that I just can’t get out. Sometimes it’s “Bitch” by Meredith Brooks, other times it’s “Under Pressure” by Queen or “Sleep to Dream“ by Fiona Apple, it just really depends on my mood and level of walking confidence. Sometimes the lyrics play a role in my song choice and other times it has more to do with the way that the beat and tone of the music matches each step. Either way, in those moments, the noise of my surroundings is drowned out by the music in my head and the song that plays up top is not just any song, it becomes my theme song - the score to my life.

So, maybe this is just confirmation for some of you that I’m ten types of crazy, but before you open a new browser window and Google “psych ward” and “St. Louis” hear me out. Wouldn‘t it be insanely interesting if everyone had an audible theme song?

I imagine that there would have to be some parameters to this concept, otherwise the world would be a loud bumbling mess of noise (as if it’s not already), but I have a solution. Each person’s theme song would only be audible to those who were looking directly at him/her, sincerely interested in who that person is and how they are feeling at any given moment. I’d imagine that sometimes the blank stares on someone’s face would be met with white noise and other times, when someone’s mind is racing, there would be a loud indecipherable mass of notes and words, but in between the two extremes would be a window into people’s lives that would either confirm or reject your physical impression of them. Instead of reading someone’s mind, you could hear their mood.

It’s very Ally McBeal of me to think this way, I realize. And since I know you’re wondering…yes, sometimes when I’m certain that no one is watching, I will dance a little to the music in my head. It’s not a big deal.

Driving Me Crazy

2006-11-27T21:59:00.000-08:00

I feel like I’ve been driving more than usual lately and on a couple of recent trips I've found myself thinking about some of the odd scenarios that play over and over in my head whenever I’m on the road. I often catch myself daydreaming and upon reflection, noticed that many of my daydreams are reoccurring and their content is highly dependant on the day part that I drive during.

Here are scenarios that I often think about while driving in daylight:

I pull over to help a stranded motorist change a tire and when they pull away (after thanking me profusely for my assistance) I discover that my car isn’t working. No one stops to help me and I’m stuck on the side of the road. For the record: I don’t usually pull over to help people on the interstate because I don’t want to be murdered
After noticing something odd lying in a wooded area along the side of a highway, I pull over to discover the dead body of someone who has been missing for a long time. I wonder why no one else has noticed and call the police.
After spotting something odd along the roadside, I pull over to discover that someone has abandoned a baby on the side of the road. The baby is unharmed. I call the police and end up taking care of it until a suitable home is found.
I’m itching my eye while driving and the car in front of me stops short. I don’t notice it in time and end up hitting them and poking out my own eye. Imagine the odd timing that would be involved. I wonder if it’s actually ever happened.

Scenarios that I often think about while driving at night:

A small woodland creature jumps out in front of my car and causes an accident. Note: For some reason I don’t picture hitting actual animals, but rather cartoon animals, with the lovable bunny Thumper from Disney’s “Bambi” landing at the top of the list. It’s weird, I know
A stranger in distress jumps in front of my car and ultimately kills me. Yes, he has a hook for a hand and I do know that this is an urban legend. I still think about it.

If anyone knows what any of these daydreams mean, I’d like to know. Just don’t call to tell me about it while I’m driving…I’ve got other things on my mind.

Bonus Blog: A-list

2006-11-07T21:28:00.000-08:00

Things that annoy me

Cell phones. I don’t like the idea of being accessible at all times…In fact, I find the notion to be quite burdensome
People who start speaking with an accent when they are emotional (I’m talking to you, Tyra Banks and Mario Lopez)
Drivers who refuse to change lanes when traffic is merging from a ramp
Lindsay Lohan
When people use ‘I‘ instead of ‘me‘ in a sentence when referencing themselves and another person because they think that ‘I‘ sounds more proper
Biting into something hard while eating a chicken nugget
When my mom asks me to walk behind her to make sure that there’s nothing stuck to her ass. What does she thinks she’s constantly sitting in?
The stalkers in shopping malls who want me to fill out surveys in exchange for a chance at winning a decent prize and a lifetime of being hounded by telemarketers
Target’s exchange policy
My alarm clock (or maybe it’s just waking up that I find to be annoying)
The excessive use of voiceovers on reality TV shows

The secret's out - I'm a list maker.

A Trip Down Wisteria Lane

2006-11-07T19:14:00.000-08:00

This Halloween I decided to resurrect my idea for last year’s costume and go as Bree Van De Kamp (Hodge) from the critically acclaimed ABC primetime soap-esque indulgence known as “Desperate Housewives.” Traditionally, I’m not a fan of Halloween or the idea of dressing up, but I figured that this year I’d get in the spirit while adding a little order, and a few muffins to the holiday.

My ‘costume’ - sadly enough -was not much of a stretch (I had all of the clothes in my closet, undoubtedly purchased when I went through a phase of buying clothes fit for a stroller pushing soccer mom). Add some pearls, a personalized apron, a faux wedding ring and a slight hair adjustment and I was ready for a trip to Wisteria Lane aka Tucker Avenue, St. Louis.

One of my coworkers had tickets to a Halloween bash at City Hall and I was drafted to go. Thinking that the party would be a fancy, but tame affair, I grabbed my basket of muffins and made my way to the party. Upon entering, I knew that I had chosen a fitting costume because I quickly felt like an uptight and very straight laced republican woman in her early forties. I expected to see some over-the-top costumes and what I got was a herd of TWA stewardesses, a couple of scantily clad cheerleaders, and a Pooh fairy…yes, I said Pooh fairy. I may have stepped into City Hall, but I quickly found myself smack in the middle of the gayest party of the year.

Traditionally, I’ve never been uncomfortable in a room of a gay men (not that I’ve been in a lot of rooms filled with gay men…that opportunity rarely presents itself). This time, however, the sheer amount of estrogen* thinly veiled in testosterone** was overwhelming at times. My party -which included three straight women and one straight man who had no idea what he’d walked in on - and I seemed to find ourselves giggling and pointing like a group of tweens in a sex ed class. (Key: *code word for ‘packages’ ; ** code word for ‘Spandex’)

After a few drinks, and many compliments on my costume (Bree has quite a gay fan base, although they do question her motivation for abandoning her gay son on the side of the road - I told them that I regretted that decision and was living in torment), I became more comfortable in my surroundings. As the night went on, I engaged in conversation with a few party goers, and at one point thought that I’d discovered the only hot straight guy in the whole place.

He was dressed in a Top Gun jumper (pretty straight costume), he didn’t really know who Bree is (very straight) and he was eying my muffins (any straight guy would). Could it be?! Our conversation went something like this:

Him: So, are those muffins real?
Me: Yes, of course, I wouldn’t dream of arriving at a party without bringing a snack.

Him: My friends told me who you’re supposed to be…that’s pretty funny.
Me: Thanks (coyly). I like your costume too. I love Top Gun!
Him: Yes, it’s a great movie.
Me: Where are your aviator glasses?
Him: Oh, I don’t have any…one of my friends gave me the costume, otherwise I wouldn’t have dressed up.
Me: So, should I call you Maverick?
Him: Actually, I’d rather be called Ice Man…Val Kilmer was so hot in that movie.
Me Thinking: Damn it! They’re always gay or married…why are the hot one’s always gay or married
Me: Yeah, he was pretty cute, although I always loved Tom Cruise…especially when he was playing volleyball in jeans.
Him: He was pretty hot in that scene.
--introduced using real names --
Him: Well, it was nice to meet you.
Me: Yea, you too.

Shortly after my Top Gun encounter, my party decided it best to leave before things got too scandalous. As I left the party O’ queens, muffins in tow, I couldn’t help but think to myself 'I wonder if they all knew that I’m actually a woman and not a dude dressed like Bree Van De Kamp from the critically acclaimed ABC primetime soap-esque indulgence known as "Desperate Housewives." Surely it’s obvious (looking down at my boyish figure), well, maybe not.'

Love, Hate

2006-10-29T17:58:00.000-08:00

People who know me well would likely describe me as being a pretty middle-of-the-road person. I’m not very political, I’m passive enough to not let little things effect my day, and I’m usually very neutral when it comes to taking sides. There are some things, however, that I’ve found it impossible for myself and others to find middle ground on. I’m talking about things that most people feel so strongly about that they would classify their emotional attachment to these things as being in either one of two categories; either they love it or they hate it.

Search your own emotions, and consider your feelings about the following things. Do you love or hate:

Dr. Phil - Simple Texan who’s tough love approach to giving advice and guidance helps millions, or freakishly tall oaf with a creepy mustache and questionable credentials? I used to love him, but now I hate him.

Beer - I don’t care how cheap it is, I’d rather spend $8 on a cosmo and catch a buzz in half the time. Beer sucks and I hate it.

Sushi - Does the thought of consuming raw fish and seaweed make you want to run to the bathroom or grab a puke bowl? Or does the mere suggestion of a trip to a sushi bar cause you to immediately go for the extra pair of chopsticks that you keep in your purse (you know…just in case) and start saying “konichiwa“? Saki it to me, I love sushi.

Feet - My brother-in-law has the prettiest feet of any man that I’ve ever seen. I notice such things, because I love pretty feet. I hate ugly feet though, so perhaps this is a trick example. (BTW- whenever I tell Brad -my BIL- about his feet, it makes him mildly uncomfortable, but I know he’s blushing internally and wondering if he’s got a future as a male foot model)

Joan Cusack - I have yet to meet anyone who loves her…perhaps one of us should break the news to U.S. Cellular that they are pissing away their budget by hiring arguably the most annoying person alive to be the face of their company.

The Lord of the Rings Trilogy - I’ve never had the desire to sit through any movie that follows the fictional lives of hairy footed creatures in search of a retarded ring that symbolizes God knows what. Nuf said.

Cats - They are soft, independent and moody , and I love them. Not enough to want a sweater with a cat on it, but I love them nonetheless.

Pork Rinds - Can someone explain to me exactly what the hell a pork rind is? Until I know, I’ll have to keep hating them.

The music of Barbra Streisand - I don’t feel like this one requires any extra input.

Meredith Viera - I’ve found that most people are highly opinionated when it comes to the former “View” moderator. I love her and find her sense of humor to be both refreshing and endearing. You?

Thankfully, not everything in life is black and white. While I try to remain in the grey, sometimes it’s simply impossible. Now you know why.

The Dating Equivalent of the Runaway Bride - Revised 1/07

2006-10-22T16:04:00.000-07:00

In this world, there are two types of people. There are relationship people and there are daters.

If relationships were like ordering ice cream, relationship people would be the one's who look inside of the glass enclosed freezer, point at the treat that looks like it would taste the best and then order two scoops in a waffle cone. Daters are the one's who stand in front of the case in near-agony trying to decide if it's worth it to get just caramel when you could get something that has not only caramel, but almonds too. Daters irreverently use the freakishly tiny plastic sampling spoons to test the goods, eliminating each flavor one by one, until the best flavor emerges.

In the ice cream parlor that is my life, there are dozens of tiny used spoons and I have yet to find a flavor worth ordering.
______________________________

I have went on too many dates to count, so as any good wanna-be journalist would do, I've kept a dating diary. I cannot guarantee that every single person has made it in, but I've done my best to document my relational failures and all of the hilarious details that have come along with them.

Here are a few of the highlights, or lowlights - depending how you look at it - beginning in my junior year of high school:

B.W. (Jr. Year Prom Date) - in an ass backwards series of events, I managed to secure my prom date before I had actually ever went on a date with him. In an attempt to remedy the situation, we went out to dinner and a movie weeks before prom - you know, on a "real"date. After the date, he took me home and as we sat in my driveway, I turned into a babbling jackass.

The conversation unfolded like this:

Me: So, I had a good time
Him: Me too
-insert mildly awkward silence -
Me: Well, since this is our first date, we should probably kiss or something
Him: (sounds of crickets chirping)

I leaned in for a kiss and he backed up. I didn't pick up on the hint and laid one on him anyway. Prom was pretty uncomfortable and he didn't talk very much. His friends also seemed a little weird --I found out later that he'd told them what happened and they had all laughed at me.

The Chef (Early college) - My sister set me up with a random friend that she had made while she was at work. After insisting that he was a "good guy" we went out on a date on Thanksgiving Day. We watched a movie (Love Actually) and mid-way through I knew I didn't like him. We (Crissy and I) later found out that he was a raging alcoholic and ended up checking himself into rehab shortly after our date.

Hockey Boy (Late College) - In one of my marketing classes I met a very cute and mildly charming guy who looked like he'd fallen out of the pages of an Abercrombie ad and into the seat right in front of me. Despite this, (I have strict rules against dating guys who are prettier than me) we struck up a friendship. We began going grocery shopping together every now and then and even having dinner from time to time. During one of these said dinners, we were sitting on the couch, watching TV and preceded to embark on a makeout session. Afterwards -because we weren't really dating - we had a conversation about the events that had just taken place. I can't remember the conversation verbatim, but I believe it went something like this:

Me: Well, that was uncharacteristic of me
Him: Yes, why did you kiss me?
Me: I didn't kiss you, you kissed me
Him: Whatever. Things aren't going to be weird now, are they?
Me: No, they shouldn't be
-pregnant pause-
Me: I don't know why that just happened
Him: Me neither. I mean I like hanging out with you and stuff, but I don't really want to date you or anything
Me: Oh my gosh, me neither. Well, that's a relief
Him: You're a good kisser though
Me: Yeah, you too
-he left-

I graduated shortly after that and haven't seen or spoke with him since.

Karate Kid (Late College) - We met while I was working at WEEK-TV and assisting on a video shoot (you guessed it; an instructional video for karate). He had a great nose and salt and pepper hair despite only being in his mid-twenties. We went out a couple of times and on the second date we saw Million Dollar Baby. I cried during the movie, got embarrassed and didn't wait around for a kiss at the end of the date. It must have freaked him out, because I never heard from him again.

The Pilot (post-college) -I began chatting with a guy on Facebook who was a pilot and we set up a date without having seen each other in real life (or IRL for you IM geeks). Big mistake. He was about a foot shorter than me and still lived with his parents. We cut our losses and never spoke to one another again. (Yes, I'm mildly ashamed of having met someone on Facebook, but I don't consider it online dating, so neither should you)

Ironman (post-college) - After going on a few dates with this triathlete guy, things were going well. He was on his way to date number four when disaster struck. After pecking me at the end of our third date (while I was snacking on a treat, mind you), he left my apartment and was going to be leaving for a ski trip before I would see him again.

After he left, I was dishing about him with Melissa and my cell rang. It was him. I didn't answer it because I had just seen him and wondered what the hell he'd want to talk to me about so soon after leaving. He didn't leave a message and preceded to immediately call back. Melissa insisted that I answer it.

Our conversation went something like this:

Him: Hi Lorie, its . I'm outside of your apartment, can you come down here?
Me: Umm, OK.
-hang up-
Melissa: What did he want?
Me: WTF, Melissa, he's downstairs!
Melissa: Did he get a flat tire or something?
Me: Hell, I don't know, he just asked me to go downstairs
-I walked downstairs, opened the door and stepped outside-
Him: I got all the way home and had to turn around.
Me: Is something wrong?
Him: No, I just couldn't stand the thought of you thinking that the kiss that I gave you upstairs was the best that I could do.
-He leaned in and preceded to attempt a make-out session on my front porch - practically pinning me against the wall-
Me: (visibly uncomfortable) Um, my roommate' mom is in town and she's going to be coming back any minute. I'd rather her not see me making out with someone.
Him: Oh, well, I just had to come back
Me: (uncomfortable and wanting to rid myself of the situation) Well, that was a brave and very movie-esque thing to do. Have a good trip.

Apparently my eagerness to get out of this situation was not a clear signal, because he left me a few voicemails while he was on his trip (which I didn't return) and then finally emailed me to see what was up. I made a classy move and broke up with him via email, citing his actions as being "adorable, if I had felt the same way, But I didn't, so you freaked me out." I have not seen or heard from him since.

Slobber Boy (post-college) - A kiss was not just a kiss with SB. An otherwise attractive male with a good career path and decent manners, SB had a solid shot of being a good date. That is, until the kissing -and slobbering- began. Things ended rather abruptly when I realized that every kiss with SB was going to result in me needing a paper towel to wipe the aftermath off of my face. He went into every kiss mouth open, like a snake unhinging its jaw to engulf its prey, and I was terrified. Crissy suggested that I teach him how to kiss, but I insisted that my schedule was far too busy to teach 20-something males how to kiss girsl without making them want to vomit. I stand by my decision.

The Cat (Early 2007) - So, by now you know that I’ve had quite a few awkward experiences while playing the field. Recently, however, all others were trumped and I was left questioning the mental stability of pretty much all single males, but especially one that I will refer to as “The Cat”.

You see, I met a guy at work (he works in my building) and we started talking a lot and eventually going out together on what some people may refer to as “dates”. After three weeks of what some people may refer to as “dating”, he decided that he should let me in on a part of his life that he’d failed to mention in every long conversation that we’d had, email that he’d sent and phone call that he‘d made to me…he decided to tell me that he’s engaged.

Needless to say, I was shocked and appalled. We had discussed so many other things, including an admission by him that he regularly uses Clinique products to moisturize his skin (ha - and I said I’d never tell…see how fun secrets are!), that it was obvious that he had consciously decided to not tell me about his relationship. His attempts to convince me that it was actually my fault that I didn’t know of his engagement (because “did you ever ask me if I was engaged or married? No.”) were futile, and frankly laughable, and I realized just how jacked up he is.

To make matters worse, throughout our relationship I’d made a conscience effort to do thoughtful things for him. This included sending him a monkey made entirely of balloons for his birthday. I mean, he broke my trust big time, but the fact that I can never send someone else a balloon monkey without recalling this horrible dating experience…that, friends, could be the real tragedy here.
_______________________________

When it comes to dating, I've been accused of being very picky and have even been called the Jerry Seinfeld of dating. I suppose that I am guilty as charged, but what can I say, I'm just looking for the right ice cream before I order a cone, and maybe eventually buy a whole pint.

My name is Lorie, and I'm a dater.

Numero Uno - Let the blogging begin

2006-10-18T19:20:00.000-07:00

So, I've received numerous requests that I start a weblog, or "blog" for those of you who are hip to the scene. Although I've traditionally prided myself on resisting peer pressure, I've decided to give it a shot. My guess is that this will quickly become an ill updated collection of random ramblings that will ultimately become an afterthought for me. Perhaps I'll think "man, I should blog about that later" when something interesting and/or humorous or terrifying happens to me during the day. Then, inevitably, I'll get home from wherever the said event took place and forget all of the juicy details, making for a less than interesting account of my day's activities. Either way, it's an opportunity for me to write - something that I love to do - and share my life with others, no matter how how uninteresting it may be.

I hope you enjoy reading it. If you don't, then for the love of all things holy, find something better to do with your time.