It's never a good situation when your personal cell phone requires duct tape, fishing line, and crazy glue to keep working properly. Unfortunately, that's my current situation. I could go get a new one, but I'd have to pay full price and I don't exactly have $300 lying around waiting to be spent on anything I want. If that were the case, I'd be flashing some hot as hell leopard print peep toe pumps.
Nurse Betty was very concerned about the grim possibility that I might be without a phone soon, but not because this would leave me without the means of sending or receiving a call in a time of emergency. More so because she would have no way of sending and receiving texts with me. Ahhhh, how sweet....sort of?
I can see her point. Just about the only time Nurse Betty and I have a real conversation is in person - not over the phone. Anytime we're conversing over the phone it is through text, and we both have plans with unlimited text capabilities, so we're quite adept at making rapid responses on our keyboards. I'm sure that if you looked at our bills, you'd see more than 500 texts per month to each other. It's insane really.
I mentioned that we could go old school and write letters to one another. She didn't think it was a good idea, though. Since we spend most every waking hour either together or glued to our phones texting one another, I'm sure that some people must suspect we've begun batting for the other team. Sending snail mail to one another would send those people over the edge. Of course, I'd send her love letters just to see their reaction. Oh Nurse Betty, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways...
But really? Could our relationship - or any current relationship - survive if we had to remove a cell phone from the equation? Most of us depend on them for our whole life's existence. We conduct business, catch up with cross country friends and family members, and some of us even use it to surf the web. Most friendly flirting is done over text these days, just as a precursor to what may lie ahead. I believe life as we know it would cease to exist without a cell phone.
I, for one, always write in those "20 things you didn't know about me" surveys that the one thing I'd take with me to a deserted island would be a cell phone. Yeah, yeah. 10 points to the stupid geniuses who'd take a yacht so they could chug, chug, chug away to civilization. Hello? I get 20 points for having a phone to call in some cute National Guardsmen to come rescue me. And bonus! I get a date, too. (This is my delusion, so don't go bursting my bubble and pfft'ing the thought of me getting a date. It could happen.)
Nonetheless, the fishing line and duct tape can only hold up for so long. If anyone wants to send donations my way, including a cute National Guardsman or leopard print peep toe heels, or a winning lottery ticket, I'll gladly accept your benevolence. I'm sure Nurse Betty would find a way to thank you as well. There'll be a donut in it for ya!
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Sunday, September 19, 2010
I'm Just a Girl
I drove to work on Thursday in the downpour of a summer Kansas storm and stopped off for a time-zone buster of a caffeine jolt to keep me wide awake for the next two centuries - or at least provide me enough caffeine to keep from careening off the side of the road in the deluge of rain and hail. On the radio was a morning show for some Midwest wanna-be top 40 station and the DJs were doing their best to be considered “with it”, although they were seriously lacking in my judgmental, holier-than-thou, I-live-in-CA-so-I’m-better-than-you frame of view. I was a bit tired and therefore a bit – a lot, really – cranky and so The Single Girl stepped up on her high horse and judged these land-locked Ryan Seacrest hopefuls only up to the point when a steaming hot cup of quad-grande skinny vanilla latte was secured neatly in her hand. I’m like that guy in the McDonald’s commercial that refuses to engage in conversation unless coffee has been consumed.
The DJs were talking about pick up lines, and specifically what lines women could use to approach a guy and strike up a conversation. Now, The Single Girl isn’t up on the club scene and she doesn’t troll around the downtown bars dancing and drinking every Friday and Saturday night away. I have my fair share of fun. But, ultimately, I’m a mom and my fun generally ends around 9:30 pm. So when these DJs were talking about picking up hot guys at a club, I can’t really relate. But the technique is what had me intrigued.
These DJs had trouble coming up with catchy, original lines to open up dialogue and make a woman seem appealing while others strike out. What is a woman to do when she sees a guy who catches her eye but also catches the eye of all the other women in the room? How can she stand out in the herd and get this one guy to talk to her instead of anyone else? What they came up with astounded me.
These girls said that a woman who approaches a hot guy needs to go for the gender stereotypical topics, like asking for directions or help with a flat tire. They also suggested that the guy give advice on her outfit. Um...really? Are we really all that helpless and immature that we need to go the route of big, strong man versus damsel in distress to get a guy to talk to us? How about trying that age old introduction called…
Wait for it…
Hi.
Hi is the distant cousin of “hello” and is so close in resemblance that it can pass for a “hello” when the user of said word is in a rush. But are we women all so scared to actually try to start up a decent conversation between humans that we have to forego a simple introduction for some opener that might catch someone’s attention? Here’s a thought: try being yourself. And by “yourself”, I mean an intelligent, interesting woman who has enough going for her to catch the eye of any worthy guy. Not one who is immature and needs a guy to comment on the sluttiness of her outfit in order to feel like she has a shot in the dark with some member of the opposite sex.
You see, ladies, its all about attitude and confidence. If you are confident in who you are, you are confident enough to stand on your own, even if that means that you stand without a partner by your side. And here’s where some of you will take a crack at the fact that I’ve been on my own for the last eight years and that I haven’t always taken this “be confident on your own” approach. I'll admit to the occassional irrational outbreak of tears, hysteria, and binge chocolate eating. (Here’s where The Single Girl sulks and calls each of those dissenters a biotch.)
Okay. (Rolling my eyes.)
It’s true. (I say this very quietly so those dissenting biotches have to strain to hear me.)
But in my old age, I’ve become a crotchety old bag a la Shirley McLaine’s character, Wheezer, in Steel Magnolias. And when you’re an old crotchety bag of stink like Wheezer, you can stand up and say crazy things like, “hi”, and (O.M.G!) “hello”. Crazy, right?
The DJs were talking about pick up lines, and specifically what lines women could use to approach a guy and strike up a conversation. Now, The Single Girl isn’t up on the club scene and she doesn’t troll around the downtown bars dancing and drinking every Friday and Saturday night away. I have my fair share of fun. But, ultimately, I’m a mom and my fun generally ends around 9:30 pm. So when these DJs were talking about picking up hot guys at a club, I can’t really relate. But the technique is what had me intrigued.
These DJs had trouble coming up with catchy, original lines to open up dialogue and make a woman seem appealing while others strike out. What is a woman to do when she sees a guy who catches her eye but also catches the eye of all the other women in the room? How can she stand out in the herd and get this one guy to talk to her instead of anyone else? What they came up with astounded me.
These girls said that a woman who approaches a hot guy needs to go for the gender stereotypical topics, like asking for directions or help with a flat tire. They also suggested that the guy give advice on her outfit. Um...really? Are we really all that helpless and immature that we need to go the route of big, strong man versus damsel in distress to get a guy to talk to us? How about trying that age old introduction called…
Wait for it…
Hi.
Hi is the distant cousin of “hello” and is so close in resemblance that it can pass for a “hello” when the user of said word is in a rush. But are we women all so scared to actually try to start up a decent conversation between humans that we have to forego a simple introduction for some opener that might catch someone’s attention? Here’s a thought: try being yourself. And by “yourself”, I mean an intelligent, interesting woman who has enough going for her to catch the eye of any worthy guy. Not one who is immature and needs a guy to comment on the sluttiness of her outfit in order to feel like she has a shot in the dark with some member of the opposite sex.
You see, ladies, its all about attitude and confidence. If you are confident in who you are, you are confident enough to stand on your own, even if that means that you stand without a partner by your side. And here’s where some of you will take a crack at the fact that I’ve been on my own for the last eight years and that I haven’t always taken this “be confident on your own” approach. I'll admit to the occassional irrational outbreak of tears, hysteria, and binge chocolate eating. (Here’s where The Single Girl sulks and calls each of those dissenters a biotch.)
Okay. (Rolling my eyes.)
It’s true. (I say this very quietly so those dissenting biotches have to strain to hear me.)
But in my old age, I’ve become a crotchety old bag a la Shirley McLaine’s character, Wheezer, in Steel Magnolias. And when you’re an old crotchety bag of stink like Wheezer, you can stand up and say crazy things like, “hi”, and (O.M.G!) “hello”. Crazy, right?
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Shhh! They'll Hear You
Did you ever notice how the moment you get yourself on a new plan to get healthier (i.e. lose gelatinous goo surrounding the "boom! boom! fire power!" muscles) that all these voices start creeping up? I have two sets, and neither one is really making me happy.
The first set guilts you into pushing harder, going longer, and avoiding donuts, hamburgers, pizza, coke...and did I mention donuts? One of these voices sounds like Jillian Michaels - a bit butch, a bit bitchy, but has your best interests at heart. I don't care much for this one, because it's the one that makes the sugary, oh so yummy fried donut sting in my pudgy hand. Then there's another one that is a dead ringer for Kerri Strug - helium voice, happy kittens and puppies and shiny rainbows telling me that I am superfantastic and that I can achieve anything I want. This voice encourages me to go longer when all I really want to do is go home and watch SATC reruns. Kind of makes me want to remove her voice box or dislodge the grape from her nasal passages.
There's also the voices that get loud, obnoxious and somewhat condescending about this new plan to get happy. They incessantly shout how much you've missed cheese and bread...since yesterday. And they're really good at making you see all the benefits of drowning your popcorn in melty butter and washing it down with a slushy coke. Ahhh! My people! I love these voices. Imagine Rosie O'Donnell and Gabriel Iglesias playing havoc on your willpower. If I listen to them, though, I'll enter one of the five stages of fatness, and I refuse to achieve "DAMN!" status.
I think one voice in my head is that of a Yiddish grandmother. Bubbie says that I don't need any buttah on my popcown otherwise I'll be forced to wear a schmatta for the rest of my life. She's not very nice, actually. Nudnik.
This makes me very ferklempt. How can I get on the path to detesting all things covered in mayonnaise and butter (sorry, Bubbie - buttah) and cream when I have visions of dancing cupcakes floating about in my mind? Should I give in to these urges every once in awhile to prevent those cupcakes from turning into dancing schmattas? I think I'm fercockt.
I really want to push harder but the food porn is winning out. And this is only week 2, people. We're in for a long haul. On the bright side, I'll be here to retell all the mishegoss.
The first set guilts you into pushing harder, going longer, and avoiding donuts, hamburgers, pizza, coke...and did I mention donuts? One of these voices sounds like Jillian Michaels - a bit butch, a bit bitchy, but has your best interests at heart. I don't care much for this one, because it's the one that makes the sugary, oh so yummy fried donut sting in my pudgy hand. Then there's another one that is a dead ringer for Kerri Strug - helium voice, happy kittens and puppies and shiny rainbows telling me that I am superfantastic and that I can achieve anything I want. This voice encourages me to go longer when all I really want to do is go home and watch SATC reruns. Kind of makes me want to remove her voice box or dislodge the grape from her nasal passages.
There's also the voices that get loud, obnoxious and somewhat condescending about this new plan to get happy. They incessantly shout how much you've missed cheese and bread...since yesterday. And they're really good at making you see all the benefits of drowning your popcorn in melty butter and washing it down with a slushy coke. Ahhh! My people! I love these voices. Imagine Rosie O'Donnell and Gabriel Iglesias playing havoc on your willpower. If I listen to them, though, I'll enter one of the five stages of fatness, and I refuse to achieve "DAMN!" status.
I think one voice in my head is that of a Yiddish grandmother. Bubbie says that I don't need any buttah on my popcown otherwise I'll be forced to wear a schmatta for the rest of my life. She's not very nice, actually. Nudnik.
This makes me very ferklempt. How can I get on the path to detesting all things covered in mayonnaise and butter (sorry, Bubbie - buttah) and cream when I have visions of dancing cupcakes floating about in my mind? Should I give in to these urges every once in awhile to prevent those cupcakes from turning into dancing schmattas? I think I'm fercockt.
I really want to push harder but the food porn is winning out. And this is only week 2, people. We're in for a long haul. On the bright side, I'll be here to retell all the mishegoss.
Friday, September 3, 2010
Fourteen Steps
Fourteen steps.
That's how many steps I have to get up to and back down from my apartment. Know why I know this? Because I did my usual leg workout on Wednesday. Voluntarily. Without someone holding a gun to my head. The only problem was that I haven't done it in four months, so when I was done with my short, 30-minute rotation and decided to head down to the elliptical machine to do my 30 minutes of cardio, my legs were like jelly. I couldn't muster up enough energy to push the thing forward for more than 10 minutes at a time. And while getting up those fourteen steps after my workout was humorous, getting back down them an hour later to pick up Princess from school was downright funny. Good thing I haven't pissed off any of my neighbors lately. Otherwise, you'd find a wincing Single Girl You Tube video. I had to hold onto the stairwell rail just to keep from going head-first down the run.
Mamma Bestie laughed her butt off when I told her about this. Don't worry. I'll totally laugh my butt off when she's in labor. But she did tell me that I needed to at least walk on Thursday to avoid "even worse pain". Worse pain, my ass! And Nurse Betty called me an idiot, then told me to stretch. Pfft! I have to brace myself just to sit down on the bed...among other things. I ain't stretching! It's amazing how much being in pain can turn me into a three-year-old.
So as I was stretching before Princess and I went on our walk last night, I decided to text my old trainer. Sir Kicks My Ass And Laughs About It reprimanded me for my lack of consistency, but gave me a few pointers and did a good job of encouraging me. Once I get back into my workout regime again he will give me a plan for each workout. And bonus! No trainer fees. Is good since I'm broke.
Believe it or not, the walk actually did me some good, successfully hitting my second-day soreness with a one-two punch. I'm still going to count the stairs on the way down to the car this morning. If you listen closely, you can hear me serenading you with the post-hellacious-workout song called "Ow". It's an original composition. I'm planning on releasing it soon. It goes like this:
"Owwwwwwwwww. Ow. Ow. Ow. Owwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww. Fuck that hurts. Ow. Ow. Ow. Owwwwwwwww. I must be crazy. Ow. Ow. Ow."
That's how many steps I have to get up to and back down from my apartment. Know why I know this? Because I did my usual leg workout on Wednesday. Voluntarily. Without someone holding a gun to my head. The only problem was that I haven't done it in four months, so when I was done with my short, 30-minute rotation and decided to head down to the elliptical machine to do my 30 minutes of cardio, my legs were like jelly. I couldn't muster up enough energy to push the thing forward for more than 10 minutes at a time. And while getting up those fourteen steps after my workout was humorous, getting back down them an hour later to pick up Princess from school was downright funny. Good thing I haven't pissed off any of my neighbors lately. Otherwise, you'd find a wincing Single Girl You Tube video. I had to hold onto the stairwell rail just to keep from going head-first down the run.
Mamma Bestie laughed her butt off when I told her about this. Don't worry. I'll totally laugh my butt off when she's in labor. But she did tell me that I needed to at least walk on Thursday to avoid "even worse pain". Worse pain, my ass! And Nurse Betty called me an idiot, then told me to stretch. Pfft! I have to brace myself just to sit down on the bed...among other things. I ain't stretching! It's amazing how much being in pain can turn me into a three-year-old.
So as I was stretching before Princess and I went on our walk last night, I decided to text my old trainer. Sir Kicks My Ass And Laughs About It reprimanded me for my lack of consistency, but gave me a few pointers and did a good job of encouraging me. Once I get back into my workout regime again he will give me a plan for each workout. And bonus! No trainer fees. Is good since I'm broke.
Believe it or not, the walk actually did me some good, successfully hitting my second-day soreness with a one-two punch. I'm still going to count the stairs on the way down to the car this morning. If you listen closely, you can hear me serenading you with the post-hellacious-workout song called "Ow". It's an original composition. I'm planning on releasing it soon. It goes like this:
"Owwwwwwwwww. Ow. Ow. Ow. Owwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww. Fuck that hurts. Ow. Ow. Ow. Owwwwwwwww. I must be crazy. Ow. Ow. Ow."
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Vocational Therapy
I’m writing this blog entry some 35,000 feet above God’s green earth, somewhere between California and Arizona, partaking of the company jet’s lovely peanuts and refreshments – free, yay! Since I have about an hour before we’re on the ground, I thought I’d take the opportunity to retell a story that Nurse Betty told me over text today.
I’ve been in the fantastically brown and hot Phoenix for the last two days. While I’ve been gone, Nurse Betty has been taking care of my dear, sweet Princess. She’s pretty wonderful like that and has gladly taken care of my Princess each time I go out of town for work.
Princess calls her "Grandma" - albeit lovingly and somewhat sarcastically, and it isn't because she’s like another mother, only older. Try something a little more sinister. Sit in a circle, boys and girls. The Single Girl is going to tell you a story.
At one point Princess needed some help dealing with some of her feelings about her dad, so I took her to a therapist. We’ll call her therapist "Cookoo for Coco Puffs", because although her medical specialty was Psychology, Cookoo for Coco Puffs was herself somewhat off the metaphorical reservation.
Case in point: we travelled to Napa for Princess’ bimonthly visit, and Nurse Betty came with us, just so all three of us could take our monthly pilgrimage to the Buckhorn Grill. Mmmm....Roadhouse Buck, oh how I've missed your salty, crunchy, bbq goodness. I could get a donut on the way there, too! Nurse Betty and I were sitting with Princess out in the waiting room when out walks Cookoo for Coco Puffs, crazy hair and all - think Albert Einstein - to greet Princess and take her back for the session. Cookoo for Coco Puffs greets us, and I introduce Nurse Betty. On the way back to her office, Cookoo for Coco Puffs asks poor Princess if Nurse Betty IS HER GRANDMA.
No shit.
Let's just clear one thing up. Nurse Betty wasn’t looking bad that day. She hadn’t just pulled a double shift at work, nor was she un-showered or wearing any sort of grandma attire like bifocals, Bend-over pants with elastic band, or even orthopedic grandma shoes. She looked pretty good, actually. She would've had to be about 6 when she had me, so Cookoo must have been off her happy meds that day. Princess really rubbed it in that poor Nurse Betty was mistaken for her Grandma. I had a little piece of that fun, too, given that this meant Nurse Betty would be my mother in this equation.
But, getting back to the story Nurse Betty told me today. Evidently Princess 2 wasn’t happy about going to school this morning and was whining about being forced to go. Nurse Betty tried to explain all the different reasons why she needed to go to school, but Princess 2 wasn’t having any of it.
My darling, sweet, innocent daughter decided to pitch in and help Nurse Betty cajole Princess 2 into getting herself ready for school…by asking Princess 2 one simple question:
“DO YOU WANT TO BE A TRUCK DRIVER?”, she bust out suddenly. “Because I have a family member who is a truck driver. He never went to school, has no teeth and a big tattoo on his belly. Do you want to be like him?”
***Side Note: The toothless, tatted-up truck driver is from her dad’s side. Her dad is not the toothless, tatted-up truck driver. The Single Girl might have made some mistakes in her life, but I never chose THAT to marry.***
Princess 2 was really quiet, as was Nurse Betty, until Nurse Betty couldn’t take it any longer and started laughing so hard she almost peed her pants. However, within the next 5 minutes, Princess 2 was up, brushing her teeth and combing her hair. I guess the image of becoming something so horrible in her mind was enough of a motivation. Yay for vocational therapy!
I’ve been in the fantastically brown and hot Phoenix for the last two days. While I’ve been gone, Nurse Betty has been taking care of my dear, sweet Princess. She’s pretty wonderful like that and has gladly taken care of my Princess each time I go out of town for work.
Princess calls her "Grandma" - albeit lovingly and somewhat sarcastically, and it isn't because she’s like another mother, only older. Try something a little more sinister. Sit in a circle, boys and girls. The Single Girl is going to tell you a story.
At one point Princess needed some help dealing with some of her feelings about her dad, so I took her to a therapist. We’ll call her therapist "Cookoo for Coco Puffs", because although her medical specialty was Psychology, Cookoo for Coco Puffs was herself somewhat off the metaphorical reservation.
Case in point: we travelled to Napa for Princess’ bimonthly visit, and Nurse Betty came with us, just so all three of us could take our monthly pilgrimage to the Buckhorn Grill. Mmmm....Roadhouse Buck, oh how I've missed your salty, crunchy, bbq goodness. I could get a donut on the way there, too! Nurse Betty and I were sitting with Princess out in the waiting room when out walks Cookoo for Coco Puffs, crazy hair and all - think Albert Einstein - to greet Princess and take her back for the session. Cookoo for Coco Puffs greets us, and I introduce Nurse Betty. On the way back to her office, Cookoo for Coco Puffs asks poor Princess if Nurse Betty IS HER GRANDMA.
No shit.
Let's just clear one thing up. Nurse Betty wasn’t looking bad that day. She hadn’t just pulled a double shift at work, nor was she un-showered or wearing any sort of grandma attire like bifocals, Bend-over pants with elastic band, or even orthopedic grandma shoes. She looked pretty good, actually. She would've had to be about 6 when she had me, so Cookoo must have been off her happy meds that day. Princess really rubbed it in that poor Nurse Betty was mistaken for her Grandma. I had a little piece of that fun, too, given that this meant Nurse Betty would be my mother in this equation.
But, getting back to the story Nurse Betty told me today. Evidently Princess 2 wasn’t happy about going to school this morning and was whining about being forced to go. Nurse Betty tried to explain all the different reasons why she needed to go to school, but Princess 2 wasn’t having any of it.
My darling, sweet, innocent daughter decided to pitch in and help Nurse Betty cajole Princess 2 into getting herself ready for school…by asking Princess 2 one simple question:
“DO YOU WANT TO BE A TRUCK DRIVER?”, she bust out suddenly. “Because I have a family member who is a truck driver. He never went to school, has no teeth and a big tattoo on his belly. Do you want to be like him?”
***Side Note: The toothless, tatted-up truck driver is from her dad’s side. Her dad is not the toothless, tatted-up truck driver. The Single Girl might have made some mistakes in her life, but I never chose THAT to marry.***
Princess 2 was really quiet, as was Nurse Betty, until Nurse Betty couldn’t take it any longer and started laughing so hard she almost peed her pants. However, within the next 5 minutes, Princess 2 was up, brushing her teeth and combing her hair. I guess the image of becoming something so horrible in her mind was enough of a motivation. Yay for vocational therapy!
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