There are certain consumer products that athletes just should not be spokespeople for.
Under Armor? Appropriate.
Nike? Appropriate.
Wrangler Jeans? Appropriate.
Male Ugg Boots? NOT APPROPRIATE. I am talking to you, Tom Brady.
You play football, Tom. You get dirty. You say things like “27.32. Hike.” You wear a jock strap. These are all manly things. You are the epitome of the alpha male, and have been since your entrance into the NFL.
Since your marriage to Giselle, however, you have gotten in touch with your more feminine, metrosexual side.
I didn’t say anything when you told reporters to speak to your [supermodel, ridiculously attractive, wears the pants in the relationship] wife re: your new, slickback hairdo, but it is time to say something now.
Who decided that it was a good idea for you to be a male Ugg Boot spokesperson? I understand that you may enjoy wearing Ugg boots on a cool New England evening, but that is not something that you, as an alpha male, should be admitting.
Why? Because you’re reputation as a whipped male is already in full swing…and this newest PR move will not help.
Uggs= fashion= womanly.
Therefore, being a spokesperson for Uggs makes you womanly by default, regardless of the [no doubt ridiculously huge] size of the check made out to you and the fact that you get free Uggs for life.
Is Eli Manning repping Secret? Um, no.
Is Peyton Manning repping BCBG? No [he is too busy repping every other company that puts a dollar figure in front of him.]
Is Michael Vick repping Juicy Couture? No.
And so, I leave you with this question, Tom: what is next in your career?
Superbowl, or a pending contract with Tampax?
I’m hoping for the latter, just to drive my point home.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Monday, November 22, 2010
Man-Eater?
I am naturally disposed to attracting men of the working class.
At first I thought this small life trend was just a coincidence, but over the past few months I have learned that my attractiveness peaks with men of the working class.
Example #1: The Gas Station Attendant. This gem has been in my life for a little over five years, when he started working at the gas station down the street from my house.
At first I was relatively naïve at the fact that the gas attendant [who we now lovingly refer to as “Boyfriend”] was blatantly hitting on me. I, for one, was extremely pleased that my little no-name gas station had set such high customer service standards. Maybe he was asking me how I was because that is the polite thing to do?
As our relationship progressed to stage one of uncomfortable, which I have entitled the “Stop and stare” phase, Boyfriend would say hello, linger and then scan up and down my body as I was sitting Indian Style in sweatpants, with no make up on [I mean who doesn’t get gas like that.] Step two included his scan, followed by a wedding ring check, followed by a “You have boyfriend? You so pretty” comment to follow [in broken English].
After that, I developed a gas station complex. I was scared and/or too awkward to go to the gas station and have him pump my gas. I started to pump my own gas elsewhere, but the prices at no-name were just so darn good that I couldn’t stay away for long. Besides, I shouldn’t let an awkward attendant force me to pay more for gas elsewhere.
Stage three occurred after my brief hiatus away from no-name, to which I was then a victim to a [obviously rehearsed] speech from “Boyfriend” which included him asking where I had been, and him also requesting that I get $2 of gas every day so that he can see me everyday…oh, and that I make his day every time he sees me.
Right. Gas station complex builds. My solution? Bring along a second party to see if I was simply just flattering myself.
Stage four, entitled “stop and stare even with my mother in the car” was next. This seems self explanatory. Stage five, entitled “do a drive by, then if you don’t see ‘Boyfriend’ you can safely pull in and get gas” seems to be working better.
Example #2: The AAA Car Repairman. After one of Sass’s untimely breakdowns, I realized that I should be overly nice to the AAA repairmen who so often fix my car. My thought process? Maybe they will fix my car for free! Maybe they will put a note on my file explaining how nice I am, causing them to come faster! Maybe I will end up having the same repairman once Sass inevitably breaks again and be able to skip the whole AAA process! Apparently the translation for this situation on the AAA repair man’s part = girl likes me, must ask girl out.
Again, I was overjoyed at how great AAA’s attention to customer service was. The repairman was timely, efficient, and even made me feel better. The text messages to follow later that afternoon asking me out, however, left a much different feeling with me. I describe this feeling as the “oh-my-god, the AAA guy had my number when I was in crisis and incorrectly thought my polite/not ripping his head off actions were actually “hey, I am totally into you, thanks for saving me when I was a damsel in distress.’” While it was flattering, it got extremely creepy when he started re-sending texts that I hadn’t responded to, and then late night texting me. Woof.
Example #3: The Sullivan Tire Chaffier. Same day. Same car problem. Same attempt at trying to get to work. Two hours later, I found myself talking to my mechanic-turned-chauffer re: his weekends being a Sunday-Monday schedule. My initial [and what I thought was very normal] reaction to his schedule? That is awesome, you can stay up late watching all of the Sunday night football games! Apparently that is not the normal reaction, gauged by his “I’ve never heard a hotter sentence come out of a woman’s mouth before” statement, followed by his immediate questioning regarding my weekend, specifically Sunday night football plans, and if they might per chance intertwine with his. Right.
Example #4: The Cashier at the Charlestown Johnnies. In an effort to defer attention from the fact that I have yet to remove the make-up from under my eyes from going out the night before and that I was embarrassingly hungover, I decided to strike up a conversation with my cashier, with [equally hungover] roommate in tow. After grabbing my bags, thanking him and walking away, my roommate informed me that said cashier had repetitevly winked at me in an attempt to get a reaction. Clearly I was too focused on not throwing up in the grocery store to notice. If its any consolation, if I were a junior in high school, I would definitely have hoped that he would ask me to prom. Sigh.
Example #5: The Electrician. Meet the newest member of my fan club. This weekend we were semi-powerless, so when Jose [the repairman] was unable to fix the problem, he called his manager. “Manager” [who spoke fluent English and was semi attractive looking] arrived, and my roommates offered him a drink. Just as he refused, all of our power went out, due to NSTAR cutting power to the entire neighborhood. We were now all helpless standing in our dark kitchen. Nice was when he offered for us to call his personal cell if NSTAR didn’t fix the problem. Creepy was when he texted me two hours later asking if we had power and what I was doing.
Stay tuned for when I take out the garbage, run into the mailman, and become a regular at our local coffee shop!
At first I thought this small life trend was just a coincidence, but over the past few months I have learned that my attractiveness peaks with men of the working class.
Example #1: The Gas Station Attendant. This gem has been in my life for a little over five years, when he started working at the gas station down the street from my house.
At first I was relatively naïve at the fact that the gas attendant [who we now lovingly refer to as “Boyfriend”] was blatantly hitting on me. I, for one, was extremely pleased that my little no-name gas station had set such high customer service standards. Maybe he was asking me how I was because that is the polite thing to do?
As our relationship progressed to stage one of uncomfortable, which I have entitled the “Stop and stare” phase, Boyfriend would say hello, linger and then scan up and down my body as I was sitting Indian Style in sweatpants, with no make up on [I mean who doesn’t get gas like that.] Step two included his scan, followed by a wedding ring check, followed by a “You have boyfriend? You so pretty” comment to follow [in broken English].
After that, I developed a gas station complex. I was scared and/or too awkward to go to the gas station and have him pump my gas. I started to pump my own gas elsewhere, but the prices at no-name were just so darn good that I couldn’t stay away for long. Besides, I shouldn’t let an awkward attendant force me to pay more for gas elsewhere.
Stage three occurred after my brief hiatus away from no-name, to which I was then a victim to a [obviously rehearsed] speech from “Boyfriend” which included him asking where I had been, and him also requesting that I get $2 of gas every day so that he can see me everyday…oh, and that I make his day every time he sees me.
Right. Gas station complex builds. My solution? Bring along a second party to see if I was simply just flattering myself.
Stage four, entitled “stop and stare even with my mother in the car” was next. This seems self explanatory. Stage five, entitled “do a drive by, then if you don’t see ‘Boyfriend’ you can safely pull in and get gas” seems to be working better.
Example #2: The AAA Car Repairman. After one of Sass’s untimely breakdowns, I realized that I should be overly nice to the AAA repairmen who so often fix my car. My thought process? Maybe they will fix my car for free! Maybe they will put a note on my file explaining how nice I am, causing them to come faster! Maybe I will end up having the same repairman once Sass inevitably breaks again and be able to skip the whole AAA process! Apparently the translation for this situation on the AAA repair man’s part = girl likes me, must ask girl out.
Again, I was overjoyed at how great AAA’s attention to customer service was. The repairman was timely, efficient, and even made me feel better. The text messages to follow later that afternoon asking me out, however, left a much different feeling with me. I describe this feeling as the “oh-my-god, the AAA guy had my number when I was in crisis and incorrectly thought my polite/not ripping his head off actions were actually “hey, I am totally into you, thanks for saving me when I was a damsel in distress.’” While it was flattering, it got extremely creepy when he started re-sending texts that I hadn’t responded to, and then late night texting me. Woof.
Example #3: The Sullivan Tire Chaffier. Same day. Same car problem. Same attempt at trying to get to work. Two hours later, I found myself talking to my mechanic-turned-chauffer re: his weekends being a Sunday-Monday schedule. My initial [and what I thought was very normal] reaction to his schedule? That is awesome, you can stay up late watching all of the Sunday night football games! Apparently that is not the normal reaction, gauged by his “I’ve never heard a hotter sentence come out of a woman’s mouth before” statement, followed by his immediate questioning regarding my weekend, specifically Sunday night football plans, and if they might per chance intertwine with his. Right.
Example #4: The Cashier at the Charlestown Johnnies. In an effort to defer attention from the fact that I have yet to remove the make-up from under my eyes from going out the night before and that I was embarrassingly hungover, I decided to strike up a conversation with my cashier, with [equally hungover] roommate in tow. After grabbing my bags, thanking him and walking away, my roommate informed me that said cashier had repetitevly winked at me in an attempt to get a reaction. Clearly I was too focused on not throwing up in the grocery store to notice. If its any consolation, if I were a junior in high school, I would definitely have hoped that he would ask me to prom. Sigh.
Example #5: The Electrician. Meet the newest member of my fan club. This weekend we were semi-powerless, so when Jose [the repairman] was unable to fix the problem, he called his manager. “Manager” [who spoke fluent English and was semi attractive looking] arrived, and my roommates offered him a drink. Just as he refused, all of our power went out, due to NSTAR cutting power to the entire neighborhood. We were now all helpless standing in our dark kitchen. Nice was when he offered for us to call his personal cell if NSTAR didn’t fix the problem. Creepy was when he texted me two hours later asking if we had power and what I was doing.
Stay tuned for when I take out the garbage, run into the mailman, and become a regular at our local coffee shop!
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Them vs Me- the London Edition
Kate Middleton vs. me
Kate lives in a posh area of London.
Kristin lived on the outskirts of London. One hour commute each way.
Kate no doubt has a private car service to chauffeur her to and from the destinations of her choice.
Kristin battles the late bus, and/or pays for an [overpriced, takes the long way because I’m an American, almost kills us in the process] taxi.
Kate has a fully functioning, fully lit, fully private bathroom for her use.
Kristin first has a bathroom with no lock [walking in on me while showering can only “accidently” happen so many times, host brothers], and then switched to a bathroom which was not only hot-water-less, but also light-less, and shower-less. I mean, who doesn’t enjoy cold baths in the dark?
Kate enjoys the couture and high fashion of London.
Kristin thinks the Top Shop is overpriced.
Kate has a private entrance into Buckingham Palace and private guards.
Kristin needs to battle with commonfolk to get a glimpse at the soldiers hired to protect her.
Kate has never travelled on the tube.
Kristin has never travelled without being on the tube
Kate most definitely didn’t marry Prince William when she played “lets pretend we date Prince William and Prince Harry” as a child with her best friend.
Kristin did. And even believed it would come to fruition. [Have I ever mentioned that I had a vast imagination as a child?]
When Kate wears fancy hats, she looks regal.
When Kristin wears fancy hats, she looks ridiculous.
Kate is engaged to a prince.
Kristin still is not.
Sometimes life is not fair. Now, I will just live vicariously through her, as I did Diana.
Kate lives in a posh area of London.
Kristin lived on the outskirts of London. One hour commute each way.
Kate no doubt has a private car service to chauffeur her to and from the destinations of her choice.
Kristin battles the late bus, and/or pays for an [overpriced, takes the long way because I’m an American, almost kills us in the process] taxi.
Kate has a fully functioning, fully lit, fully private bathroom for her use.
Kristin first has a bathroom with no lock [walking in on me while showering can only “accidently” happen so many times, host brothers], and then switched to a bathroom which was not only hot-water-less, but also light-less, and shower-less. I mean, who doesn’t enjoy cold baths in the dark?
Kate enjoys the couture and high fashion of London.
Kristin thinks the Top Shop is overpriced.
Kate has a private entrance into Buckingham Palace and private guards.
Kristin needs to battle with commonfolk to get a glimpse at the soldiers hired to protect her.
Kate has never travelled on the tube.
Kristin has never travelled without being on the tube
Kate most definitely didn’t marry Prince William when she played “lets pretend we date Prince William and Prince Harry” as a child with her best friend.
Kristin did. And even believed it would come to fruition. [Have I ever mentioned that I had a vast imagination as a child?]
When Kate wears fancy hats, she looks regal.
When Kristin wears fancy hats, she looks ridiculous.
Kate is engaged to a prince.
Kristin still is not.
Sometimes life is not fair. Now, I will just live vicariously through her, as I did Diana.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Do The Wave?
As I was driving to work, I noticed that there were many a people waving at me.
Is my blinker on?
Do they know me?
Do I look particularly attractive on this fine Friday morning?
The answer to all of the above questions was no, [although I do look pretty cute.]
Regardless, I started waving back anyway. Maybe there was some national wave day that I hadn’t heard about. Regardless I committed to participating…that is until I realized what was going on.
This morning I was driving in front of a wrangler.
For those of you not in the know, wrangler drivers are members of an exclusive club. The secret handshake to said club is a small lift with the hand that is holding the wheel and a light nod as you pass each other. Said secret shake says: “I am bro enough to drive a wrangler, you are bro enough to drive a wrangler. Lets be bro together and celebrate how legit we are because we both drive wranglers.”
How do I know about this club? Well, many of my evenings and afternoons were spent in the passenger seat of a certain wrangler throughout my high school career. I very quickly learned the don’ts of the wrangler.
DO NOT WAVE FRANTICALLY.
DO NOT ACT EXCITED.
DO NOT WAVE IF YOU ARE NOT IN A WRANGLER.
DO NOT WAVE IF YOU ARE NOT THE DRIVER.
DO NOT HONK.
I used to feel so legit after Caleb would wave at a fellow wrangler. I felt like we were included in something bigger. I was, if just for that moment, a part of something really cool.
Suddenly, my own [light blue, very cute, classic] Jeep Cherokee didn’t seem so special. Why wasn’t I allowed to do the wave? I mean I do drive a Jeep. I am just as legit. Why is it that wrangler drivers are the only ones allowed to wave at each other? Who was the kook who decided to make this rule?!
These are the feelings that immediately flooded my brain this morning as I meandered into work, feeling slightly defeated. I was that girl. The one waving to a person not knowing that they were waving to the person behind me. Happy Friday to me.
My personal feel-better-about-myself conclusion? Wrangler drivers need to get validated in order to feel legit, I simply know I am legit, legit enough to wave at randos. Nuff said.
One final question that I am not even going to attempt to answer: um, why are there so many wranglers in my 5 minute commute to work?
Is my blinker on?
Do they know me?
Do I look particularly attractive on this fine Friday morning?
The answer to all of the above questions was no, [although I do look pretty cute.]
Regardless, I started waving back anyway. Maybe there was some national wave day that I hadn’t heard about. Regardless I committed to participating…that is until I realized what was going on.
This morning I was driving in front of a wrangler.
For those of you not in the know, wrangler drivers are members of an exclusive club. The secret handshake to said club is a small lift with the hand that is holding the wheel and a light nod as you pass each other. Said secret shake says: “I am bro enough to drive a wrangler, you are bro enough to drive a wrangler. Lets be bro together and celebrate how legit we are because we both drive wranglers.”
How do I know about this club? Well, many of my evenings and afternoons were spent in the passenger seat of a certain wrangler throughout my high school career. I very quickly learned the don’ts of the wrangler.
DO NOT WAVE FRANTICALLY.
DO NOT ACT EXCITED.
DO NOT WAVE IF YOU ARE NOT IN A WRANGLER.
DO NOT WAVE IF YOU ARE NOT THE DRIVER.
DO NOT HONK.
I used to feel so legit after Caleb would wave at a fellow wrangler. I felt like we were included in something bigger. I was, if just for that moment, a part of something really cool.
Suddenly, my own [light blue, very cute, classic] Jeep Cherokee didn’t seem so special. Why wasn’t I allowed to do the wave? I mean I do drive a Jeep. I am just as legit. Why is it that wrangler drivers are the only ones allowed to wave at each other? Who was the kook who decided to make this rule?!
These are the feelings that immediately flooded my brain this morning as I meandered into work, feeling slightly defeated. I was that girl. The one waving to a person not knowing that they were waving to the person behind me. Happy Friday to me.
My personal feel-better-about-myself conclusion? Wrangler drivers need to get validated in order to feel legit, I simply know I am legit, legit enough to wave at randos. Nuff said.
One final question that I am not even going to attempt to answer: um, why are there so many wranglers in my 5 minute commute to work?
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
There Is Nothing Restful About the "Rest"room
I conquered my fear of awkward bathroom encounters early on when working in my new office. Two years later, not only am I able to go to the bathroom alone, but I can also participate in bathroom conversation without it being completely and totally awkward.
All this progress will soon be undone.
Why, you may ask?
New office neighbors.
Here are some quick office stats of people to bathroom ratios:
Prior to office construction:
Amount of women on my office floor: 20
Amount of women’s bathrooms: 1.
Total women’s stalls: 4
Women to stalls= 5:1
During office construction:
Amount of people on my office floor: 15
Amount of women’s bathrooms: 1.
Total women’s stalls: 4
Women to stalls= 3.75:1
After office construction:
Amount of people on my office floor: 75
Amount of women’s bathrooms: 1.
Total women’s stalls: 4
Women to stalls= 18.75:1
Lets pause and reflect on those numbers for a moment. There will be four times as many women using the same number of bathroom stalls.
First of all, that is absolutely repulsive. I could be sharing a stall with 18.75 women, if not more, when I was sharing with a maximum of five prior to their move in? Insert germaphobic, “do they make personal anti-bacterial toilet spray that I can prior to my every use?” anxiety here.
Secondly, I will never be alone in the bathroom again, meaning stage fright will be in full effect. If you are a girl, you know what I am talking about.
Lastly, this completely undoes all of the work I have done in order to avoid awkward bathroom conversations. Now there will be new people, and lots of them. There is no way to avoid 50 new women prancing around our office floor. Hopefully they will learn office bathroom etiquette as follows: you are new, I am not, this is my stall, please pick another one, okaythanksnicetomeetyou. I am hoping my soon-to-be new neighbors learn this rule relatively quickly so that all will be harmonious in the 3rd floor women’s bathroom.
Another easy solution would be for them to simply use the rest room on the fourth floor, completely alleviating any problems for us diligent workers on the third floor.
Ultimately, I will end up retreating to the vacant second floor, where I can pee, wash my hands, adjust and stare at my blemishes in the mirror without worrying about Nancy, the new administrative assistant, watching me. Here is to me making life even more difficult for myself, even after conquering the initial fear. Sigh.
All this progress will soon be undone.
Why, you may ask?
New office neighbors.
Here are some quick office stats of people to bathroom ratios:
Prior to office construction:
Amount of women on my office floor: 20
Amount of women’s bathrooms: 1.
Total women’s stalls: 4
Women to stalls= 5:1
During office construction:
Amount of people on my office floor: 15
Amount of women’s bathrooms: 1.
Total women’s stalls: 4
Women to stalls= 3.75:1
After office construction:
Amount of people on my office floor: 75
Amount of women’s bathrooms: 1.
Total women’s stalls: 4
Women to stalls= 18.75:1
Lets pause and reflect on those numbers for a moment. There will be four times as many women using the same number of bathroom stalls.
First of all, that is absolutely repulsive. I could be sharing a stall with 18.75 women, if not more, when I was sharing with a maximum of five prior to their move in? Insert germaphobic, “do they make personal anti-bacterial toilet spray that I can prior to my every use?” anxiety here.
Secondly, I will never be alone in the bathroom again, meaning stage fright will be in full effect. If you are a girl, you know what I am talking about.
Lastly, this completely undoes all of the work I have done in order to avoid awkward bathroom conversations. Now there will be new people, and lots of them. There is no way to avoid 50 new women prancing around our office floor. Hopefully they will learn office bathroom etiquette as follows: you are new, I am not, this is my stall, please pick another one, okaythanksnicetomeetyou. I am hoping my soon-to-be new neighbors learn this rule relatively quickly so that all will be harmonious in the 3rd floor women’s bathroom.
Another easy solution would be for them to simply use the rest room on the fourth floor, completely alleviating any problems for us diligent workers on the third floor.
Ultimately, I will end up retreating to the vacant second floor, where I can pee, wash my hands, adjust and stare at my blemishes in the mirror without worrying about Nancy, the new administrative assistant, watching me. Here is to me making life even more difficult for myself, even after conquering the initial fear. Sigh.
Monday, November 8, 2010
S'NO!"W
After yet another incredibly successful night a la karaoke, my girlfriends and I poured out of a Boston bar and found ourselves frolicking in, what we thought was, snow.
We were actually frolicking.
It turns out that it was not snowing but rather still [very much snow mimicking] raining.
After we did a small snow dance in the middle of Faniuel Hall for the bouncers, who had earlier asked us our opinion on male massages, we continued on our merry way onto our next bar [where unbeknownst to us we would meet an overly touchy-feely Irishman, as well as a group of Mormons-gone-wild.]
This all seemed relatively normal to me until this morning when I paused and thought: “Self, you actually rejoiced at what you thought was the first snowfall?!”
Backtrack.
I hate snow. I hate being cold. I hate scraping my windshield. I hate shoveling off my car. I hate being blown with cold air first thing in the morning when the car isn’t warm, but the heat was on high when I got out last. I hate forgetting my gloves and needing to strategically drive with one hand on the wheel and one hand under my butt…then switch. I hate thinking that a puddle is frozen through only to find out that it is, in fact, not. I hate skidding. I hate the feeling of my foot being wet after said puddle. I hate slipping. I hate slipping in front of people. I hate walking in the sludge infused parking lots.
That being said I still rejoiced when I thought it was snowing, even with my list of things that I detest about snow/winter/cold things.
Why?
After thinking about it, I also love certain things about winter. [Now that’s a big confession!]
I love the calmness of snowfall. I love knowing its snowing outside and being able to get into a warm bed. I love the feeling of overpowering warmth I get when coming into my apartment from the freezing cold. I love Ugg Boots. I love electric blankets. I love blizzards and snow days. I love the silent crunch of my tires meeting fresh snow. I love sledding. I love being a ski lodge bunny. I love Christmas. I love the sounds of snow falling on power lines. I love oversized sweatshirts and slippers. I love not having to peel myself out of the seat of my car from being overheated. I love ugly Christmas sweaters. I love football.
These are the things that came to mind when I stepped outside the bar last night, not the list of things that I hated.
So, after all of the complaining I do about winter approaching, I guess there are certain things I am really looking forward to.
Look whos being little miss optimistic now!
We were actually frolicking.
It turns out that it was not snowing but rather still [very much snow mimicking] raining.
After we did a small snow dance in the middle of Faniuel Hall for the bouncers, who had earlier asked us our opinion on male massages, we continued on our merry way onto our next bar [where unbeknownst to us we would meet an overly touchy-feely Irishman, as well as a group of Mormons-gone-wild.]
This all seemed relatively normal to me until this morning when I paused and thought: “Self, you actually rejoiced at what you thought was the first snowfall?!”
Backtrack.
I hate snow. I hate being cold. I hate scraping my windshield. I hate shoveling off my car. I hate being blown with cold air first thing in the morning when the car isn’t warm, but the heat was on high when I got out last. I hate forgetting my gloves and needing to strategically drive with one hand on the wheel and one hand under my butt…then switch. I hate thinking that a puddle is frozen through only to find out that it is, in fact, not. I hate skidding. I hate the feeling of my foot being wet after said puddle. I hate slipping. I hate slipping in front of people. I hate walking in the sludge infused parking lots.
That being said I still rejoiced when I thought it was snowing, even with my list of things that I detest about snow/winter/cold things.
Why?
After thinking about it, I also love certain things about winter. [Now that’s a big confession!]
I love the calmness of snowfall. I love knowing its snowing outside and being able to get into a warm bed. I love the feeling of overpowering warmth I get when coming into my apartment from the freezing cold. I love Ugg Boots. I love electric blankets. I love blizzards and snow days. I love the silent crunch of my tires meeting fresh snow. I love sledding. I love being a ski lodge bunny. I love Christmas. I love the sounds of snow falling on power lines. I love oversized sweatshirts and slippers. I love not having to peel myself out of the seat of my car from being overheated. I love ugly Christmas sweaters. I love football.
These are the things that came to mind when I stepped outside the bar last night, not the list of things that I hated.
So, after all of the complaining I do about winter approaching, I guess there are certain things I am really looking forward to.
Look whos being little miss optimistic now!
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
"Hallo-whine" - Mary Elizabeth Wood
I’ve realized that lately I have been blogging in lists, and while I acknowledge that I should stop listing so frequently, I’ve decided that today is not the day to start.
Plus, I have a very important analysis to share that can only be adequately shared through lists.
After my Halloween self reflection, I’ve learned several not-so-normal, but no-so-surprising things about myself.
Scary Truth #1: no matter how ugly/not creative/rude/any other unfavorable characteristic a trick-or-treater has, I will always open the door and tell each and every one of them how cute and creative their costume is. Further, if I don’t know what they are, I will coax them into telling me what they are without them knowing that I have no idea. It is a gift.
Scary Truth #2: If there are children with whom I have pre-existing unfavorable feelings toward, I will still be nice to them, but snicker behind their back about their unimaginative scream costume once they leave for my own personal satisfaction.
Scary Truth #3: I instantly melt over cute children.
Scary Truth #4: I am turning into my mother:
Exhibit 1: I inherited my “over willingness to help children” gene from Diane, who tried to escort children down our stairs by telling them to hold her hand. Had she not done it, I most likely would have.
Exhibit 2: I think my mother and I get more excited about the doorbell ringing than the trick-or-treaters do.
Exhibit 3: We have made a costume/cuteness scale that really only makes sense to us.
Scary Truth #5: My family is without a doubt one of those families.
Scary Truth #6: I am a 21 year old partier, a 35 year old homemaker, and an 80 year old knitter trapped in a 20-something body. So what if I happen to be very skilled in making homemade costumes and/or props? It means that I am talented and economical, not practicing to be a mother! One day someone will find my craft/creative skills to be an untouchable talent, and I will be writing cards for Hallmark and designing Halloween costumes for iParty.
Scary Truth #7: My favorite Sundays include football, costumes, treak-or-treaters, family dinners, a good knitting project, a glass of Pinot Noir, and wicked good slippers. Further explains Scary Truth #6.
Scary Truth #8: My favorite candies and Milk Duds and Paydays. I am the only American who enjoys them, which is great. More candy for me.
Scary Truth #9: No matter what I dress as for Halloween, I will always have costume envy.
Scary Truth #10: 362 days until Halloween 2011.
Plus, I have a very important analysis to share that can only be adequately shared through lists.
After my Halloween self reflection, I’ve learned several not-so-normal, but no-so-surprising things about myself.
Scary Truth #1: no matter how ugly/not creative/rude/any other unfavorable characteristic a trick-or-treater has, I will always open the door and tell each and every one of them how cute and creative their costume is. Further, if I don’t know what they are, I will coax them into telling me what they are without them knowing that I have no idea. It is a gift.
Scary Truth #2: If there are children with whom I have pre-existing unfavorable feelings toward, I will still be nice to them, but snicker behind their back about their unimaginative scream costume once they leave for my own personal satisfaction.
Scary Truth #3: I instantly melt over cute children.
Scary Truth #4: I am turning into my mother:
Exhibit 1: I inherited my “over willingness to help children” gene from Diane, who tried to escort children down our stairs by telling them to hold her hand. Had she not done it, I most likely would have.
Exhibit 2: I think my mother and I get more excited about the doorbell ringing than the trick-or-treaters do.
Exhibit 3: We have made a costume/cuteness scale that really only makes sense to us.
Scary Truth #5: My family is without a doubt one of those families.
Scary Truth #6: I am a 21 year old partier, a 35 year old homemaker, and an 80 year old knitter trapped in a 20-something body. So what if I happen to be very skilled in making homemade costumes and/or props? It means that I am talented and economical, not practicing to be a mother! One day someone will find my craft/creative skills to be an untouchable talent, and I will be writing cards for Hallmark and designing Halloween costumes for iParty.
Scary Truth #7: My favorite Sundays include football, costumes, treak-or-treaters, family dinners, a good knitting project, a glass of Pinot Noir, and wicked good slippers. Further explains Scary Truth #6.
Scary Truth #8: My favorite candies and Milk Duds and Paydays. I am the only American who enjoys them, which is great. More candy for me.
Scary Truth #9: No matter what I dress as for Halloween, I will always have costume envy.
Scary Truth #10: 362 days until Halloween 2011.
Monday, November 1, 2010
You've Got To Fight For Your Right to...
There is one thing that you must do tomorrow prior to going to bed.
The single most important thing that you will do tomorrow is: vote.
Recently, there has been a [un]cool social movement where young people are no longer voting. Why? Because they “aren’t partial to one candidate or the other” or “don’t want to feed into the lesser of two evil candidates.”
To all you who won’t vote for those reasons, or for others, here is why you should vote and why you should tell all your friends to vote too.
America is a democracy, and in order for a democracy to properly function, everyone must vote. As a citizen of the United States it is your civic duty to support the electoral process and reinforce your regional and national government.
Your vote counts. Election day is the one day a year where your young vote is equal to that of any other American: young or old, rich or poor, famous or not. Your vote is equal to Barack Obama’s vote. Your vote is equal to Madonna’s vote. They are making their votes count, and so should you.
Florida in 2000. Don’t you think the citizens of Florida now understand the value of their vote? Value yours like they do!
People have fought and continue to fight for your right to vote. Thank and honor the soldiers, past and present, who gave up their lives and families to fight for your liberty and freedom. Thank them by voting, because we need to uphold the government at home while they are fighting for it abroad.
If you don’t vote for your rights, don’t expect others to vote on them for you. No one votes with our age group in mind besides us. Everyone votes for their own benefit and if we don’t represent our generation, we will be left with a giant mess to clean up. You should be educated about the issues that will inevitably be affecting your future and vote for what you believe in!
You cannot complain if you don’t vote. If you didn’t care enough to vote [for or] against Obama, than you really shouldn’t care enough now to complain [or praise] his current achievements [or lack there of]. Simply put, if you didn’t vote, you have no right to whine about it, because you did nothing to affect the outcome. And no, saying that you didn’t vote doesn’t prove that you are better than each of the candidates, but merely means that you are too ignorant to learn about and value the issues at hand. Being ignorant < having a different opinion.
Voting sets a good example. Know younger teens? Show them its cool to be educated by voting!
If you don’t vote, you should avoid celebrating holidays that celebrate our independence, like Fourth of July and Thanksgiving. There is direct correlation between these holidays and your right to vote. If you don’t think its important to vote, but you enjoy fireworks and turkey, then you are a giant hypocrite, and no one likes those.
Vote to counter someone else’s vote or to spite the political ads that attack the characters of candidates. Think its annoying to watch and/or listen to candidates constantly bashing each other, rather than addressing the issues? Educate yourself and vote. Want to cancel out the vote of your overly obnoxious democratic friend? Vote, because your vote is worth just as much as theirs!
Bottom line? You should vote because you can, and that should be reason enough.
The single most important thing that you will do tomorrow is: vote.
Recently, there has been a [un]cool social movement where young people are no longer voting. Why? Because they “aren’t partial to one candidate or the other” or “don’t want to feed into the lesser of two evil candidates.”
To all you who won’t vote for those reasons, or for others, here is why you should vote and why you should tell all your friends to vote too.
America is a democracy, and in order for a democracy to properly function, everyone must vote. As a citizen of the United States it is your civic duty to support the electoral process and reinforce your regional and national government.
Your vote counts. Election day is the one day a year where your young vote is equal to that of any other American: young or old, rich or poor, famous or not. Your vote is equal to Barack Obama’s vote. Your vote is equal to Madonna’s vote. They are making their votes count, and so should you.
Florida in 2000. Don’t you think the citizens of Florida now understand the value of their vote? Value yours like they do!
People have fought and continue to fight for your right to vote. Thank and honor the soldiers, past and present, who gave up their lives and families to fight for your liberty and freedom. Thank them by voting, because we need to uphold the government at home while they are fighting for it abroad.
If you don’t vote for your rights, don’t expect others to vote on them for you. No one votes with our age group in mind besides us. Everyone votes for their own benefit and if we don’t represent our generation, we will be left with a giant mess to clean up. You should be educated about the issues that will inevitably be affecting your future and vote for what you believe in!
You cannot complain if you don’t vote. If you didn’t care enough to vote [for or] against Obama, than you really shouldn’t care enough now to complain [or praise] his current achievements [or lack there of]. Simply put, if you didn’t vote, you have no right to whine about it, because you did nothing to affect the outcome. And no, saying that you didn’t vote doesn’t prove that you are better than each of the candidates, but merely means that you are too ignorant to learn about and value the issues at hand. Being ignorant < having a different opinion.
Voting sets a good example. Know younger teens? Show them its cool to be educated by voting!
If you don’t vote, you should avoid celebrating holidays that celebrate our independence, like Fourth of July and Thanksgiving. There is direct correlation between these holidays and your right to vote. If you don’t think its important to vote, but you enjoy fireworks and turkey, then you are a giant hypocrite, and no one likes those.
Vote to counter someone else’s vote or to spite the political ads that attack the characters of candidates. Think its annoying to watch and/or listen to candidates constantly bashing each other, rather than addressing the issues? Educate yourself and vote. Want to cancel out the vote of your overly obnoxious democratic friend? Vote, because your vote is worth just as much as theirs!
Bottom line? You should vote because you can, and that should be reason enough.
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