Tuesday, January 30, 2007

They're Currently Reporting 4" of Snow at the Airport . . . Which is Stupid, 'Cause I Don't Know Anyone That Lives At the Airport

To All Meteorologists:

(Particularly those at The Weather Channel, The National Weather Service and you, Troy Bridges, of the Fox 16 News Team)

I’m intensely disliking you at the moment. The dislike is bordering on hate, but I try not to hate anyone. It doesn’t always work, but that’s beside the point.

So, I’m heartily disliking you. Mainly because I think a 3 year old with an open window and a decent sense of smell could do a better job than you. Hell, George Carlin’s “The Hippy Dippy Weather Man” did better than you.

In the past two months, you’ve predicted snow and ice no less than 13 times. I know, because I keep track of these things. The promise of white fluffiness and a day off are too great for me NOT to cling to the hope you so callously dole out.

No less than 13 times, I’ve fallen into bed praying to wake to the winter wonderland you’ve assured me I will have.
No less than 13 times, I’ve woken, rushed to the window and found . . . not even a heavy frost.
At least twice you’ve predicted over 3” of snow and I’ve wandered, dazed and confused, in a 50 degree heat wave.

This is unacceptable. It’s unconscionable. And what’s worst is that it’s out and out disheartening.

Despite the soul sickness I’ve felt on all of these occasions, I’ve decided to give you one more chance. Everyone deserves an opportunity to redeem themselves, even meteorologists. So here goes:

IF the snows you’re predicting for Wednesday and Thursday DO occur, I will not hate you. I will not despise you. I will even go so far as to sing your praises through my open sunroof (thus allowing the snow to fall directly upon me).

However, if these snows do not happen, I will hate you beyond all reason and never watch you again. And by never, I mean I will boycott you for two days until another cold front comes through and my prayers of snow outweigh my petulance.

I could threaten to revoke your barometers, hygrometers, rain gauges, radars, satellites and rawinsondes. But this would be an empty threat, and you'd know it. I prefer to only threaten things I can deliver.

Thank you for your concern and immediate attention to this critical matter.

Hoping Beyond Reason and Good Sense

Sunday, January 28, 2007

If He Were the Size of Jeff Goldblum, I Could Get Him, I Swear

I have other things to post . . . but I think some levity is called for, so . . .

A random post about flies. And how SOMEHOW just ONE always manages to be somewhere in your house. And how you can have a 1,300 square foot house, but wherever you are - the fly is. He's not content to fly around the other 1,295 square feet of unoccupied space. No, no. He wants to be buzzing around your face, crawling on your leg, landing on your hand, always moving just quickly enough that you can't smack him. But the ALMOST smack of him is not a deterrent. He just lands right back on you 12 seconds later.

He comes at you when you least expect it. When you’re at your happiest and most content. Generally, he attacks when you’re finished with work for the day and just sitting quietly by yourself, writing a blog entry or relishing in being able to do nothing and not feel guilty about it. They especially love to annoy you when you're attempting to sleep. Those peaceful little afternoon naps. That's when they move in for the money shots. Directly on your cheek, your forehead, your chin. They get brave and think "Oh! A face! There could be some food crumbs there!" And they buzz in for the kill.

Unfortunately, their blasted multi-faceted eyes serve as an amazing warning system. And instead of turning the Fly into an icky spot that must be removed with copious amounts of soap and water, you end up with a sore cheek and some finger prints because you were SO determined to kill his little annoying butt this time that you put your weight into the hit - not caring that you were going to injure yourself, because it was worth it to see the fly's demise. But the fly, yet again, is the victor. And you’re left with a red cheek, a sore palm and feelings of inadequacy because you couldn’t even kill a tiny fly.

Little bastards.

Wednesday, January 24, 2007

Fear is Only As Deep as the Mind Allows and Mine's Deeper Than the Ocean

In First Grade, we made a "Who Am I book". It was nothing, really. A conglomeration of crayoned and glued copy paper held together by punched holes laced with rainbow fading yarn. The first page was supposed to hold either a picture of us as a baby or a drawn and colored representation of it. Knowing, even then, that I was no great artist, I carefully pasted a picture of myself as an infant cradled in my mother's arms in the hospital. Our first official picture together.

The second page was titled "Where I Came From". We were supposed to give the name of the town we were born in, then name and describe the people who were our parents. As with ourselves, we were supposed to have pictures of, or draw, part of the town and both our parents. I drew purple and grey mountains - having been born in Denver - and then painstakingly arranged pictures of my mother and father caddy-cornered from one another on the page.

We were to give personal details about them (such as when they were born) and then private details that explained why our parents were the best parents. I'm ashamed to admit that the paragraph about my mom was almost three times as long as my dad's. Even at that young age, it was obvious I connected more with my mom. But I desperately loved them both.

There was an adopted girl in our class. Her name was Melody. Melody's parents had tried for ten unsuccessful years to conceive a child of their own. When that failed, they went through the long, painful process of adoption. By the time they were 43, a beautiful baby girl had taken residence in their homes and hearts. They were ecstatic, but the older Melody got, the more she realized her parents were different from the others.

In our class of 6 year olds, most of the parents were ages 25 to 30. Her parents didn't look like the other parents. And they certainly didn't act like them.

My parents were different, too. Being 36, they were certainly older than the other children's parents, but it was much less noticeable. They had aged well and looked as young as the others. They stayed current in music and clothing and always knew what was cool to a 6 year old.

But they WERE different. And it was about to be called to my attention.

Melody's adoptive mother died two days after we completed the "Where I Came From" sheet. She had a massive heart attack. Melody's father did not remove her from class. He thought the routine of it would provide a calming influence on her now tumultuous home life and that being surrounded by 6-yr old friends instead of 50-yr old mourners would help her adjust.

Mrs. Tolleson sat Melody next to me and told us to help each other finish the projects. Already good friends, we became inseparable. Playing on the see-saw or the conjoined swing at recess and laying our mats next to each other during nap. For three days, we were peas in a pod.

Until the completion of the project.

On Friday, we were each supposed to get in front of the class and tell about "Where We Came From". We all told where we were born, how old we were, who our parents were and how old they were. Mrs. Tolleson began at the back of the room and moved up. Melody and I were set to speak last.

When it came to Melody's turn, she wouldn't get up from her seat, so Mrs. Tolleson came to our desks and said, "Here, we'll let Meghan go first. That way you know you can do it. You can do anything your best friend can do."

I stood in front of the class and proudly talked about Denver, my parents and our moves to other states. At the end of my rather lengthy soliloquy, Mrs. Tolleson reminded me gently, "You didn't tell us how old you are or how old your parents are."

"I'm 6!" I exclaimed. "And momma is 36 and daddy is 37."

"Your parents are OOOOLLLLDDDD!!!" Yelled David Williams from the back of the class and the other children laughed. But not Melody.

I took my seat beside her and she looked sadly at me before saying, "Your momma's old like mine. She's gonna die, too."

I never spoke to Melody again. My 6 yr old mind reasoned that if I never heard it, never thought about it, it couldn't be true.

But that didn't stop me from crying myself to sleep every night for a week. And still today having nightmares of my mother, my best friend, dying.


That is my greatest fear. Losing my mom.

And last week, my father lost his.

Monday, January 22, 2007

I'm Not Crazy; I'm Just a Bit "Touched in the Head"

My Christmas Tree is still up.

Covered in Snowbabies and burgundy balls, the 7’, pre-lit monstrosity is still standing and making my relatively spacious living room seem small.
Ally insists it’s “cozy”, I insist it’s “cramped”.
But regardless of the adjectives, the tree will remain – at least a bit longer.

Just call me the Holiday Miss Havisham.
Be grateful that I didn’t stop the clocks in my house to reflect the time it was erected and adopt a daughter to teach my Christmas obsessed ways to.

I can not bring myself to take it down.
I have good intentions. I honestly do.
I pulled out the Rubbermaid containers holding each Snowbaby’s individual box and began to identify their corresponding ornaments on the tree.
I removed the first ornament and began to put it in the box . . .
But then something compelled me to hang it back on the tree.
And fluff some of the branches.
Oh . . . and put on one of the Christmas albums I received as a surprise gift.

Yeah, I know, I’ve lost it.
Call the men with their butterfly nets and send them to outfit me in a straight jacket, preferably black - - it is my signature color.

I deserve to be locked away. If for no other reason than I’m becoming one of those people I make fun of.
You know the ones that still have their Christmas lights hanging sadly from their eaves in March and you drive by and think “Could you be more lazy? Get out there and take that stuff down, man!”

I do, at least, close my blinds before I plug in the lights thus ensuring my neighbors can’t see that I’ve become some deranged Christmas addict/lunatic.
I keep the stereo at a moderate volume to disguise the sounds of caroling.
And I did finally remove the berry garlands from my console and dining room tables.
As well as the sit around decorations. But the tree and the music, I’m not as willing to give up.

I’ve given myself until the next major commercial holiday to take it down.

Do me a favor and check on me at Valentine’s. If the tree is still up, I will seek psychiatric care.

Thursday, January 11, 2007

The Football Files: Halftime Appearances by Will Smith

I want to preface this by saying: “I HATE THE FLORIDA GATORS!” (and not just because they beat us in basketball Tuesday night)

I don’t think you can be in the SouthEastern Conference and NOT hate the Gators. Unless, of course, you are a Gator, at which point, it’s a toss-up. I’m willing to bet that 2 out of 5 Gators, hate the Gators. Just sayin.However, I am NOT shamed to admit that I did pull for the Gators last night. I had to. I didn’t want to. I just had to. When you’re in a conference that has a team in a bowl game, you MUST cheer for that team. It’s a law. Because if that team wins, it makes your conference that much stronger. I still hate the Gators. With a passion. But I’m proud of them for the national championship game. PLUS, that makes Arkansas’s losses this year look cherry:

Our four losses include:

National Champs – The Florida Gators

#3 Ranked team in the nation – The LSU Tigers (LS-WHO? LS-WHO? Oh, and whatcha gonna do with Jamarcus fat-butt Russell gone, huh???)

#4 Ranked team in the nation – The USC I-hope-you-choke-Damien-Williams-You-Spoiled-Mama’s-Boy-Transfer Trojans

#7 Ranked team in the nation – The Wisconsin (if you really send me a furry hat, Rolli, you’re dead meat) Badgers whose ONLY loss was to Michigan State.

I’ll take that. I’ll also take being the only 4-loss team in the top 15. I think that proves that Arkansas can party with the big boys. Seriously, though, who else even had to PLAY those teams? For those guys out there that say the SEC isn’t the toughest conference in the nation - - What the Buddha EVER! Get your butts down here and play some REAL football.

Woo. . . I need a time out . . . I think I morphed into a testosterone filled lunatic for a second. My bad. It tends to happen when I’m discussing football. Alright. Moving on.

After my defeat of death last night, I decided to go for a run to burn off my nervous energy. When I returned from the run I had a textmail from my brother dearest: “Hey, order a Supreme and a Pepporoni pizza from Pizza Hut and Sarah and I will come watch the game with you.” Blatent bribery, but he knows I love to have someone to talk football with and all my guy friends are married and banned from being in a single girl’s house alone. So I ordered the pizzas and texted him back. His girlfriend (Sarah) ended up not being able to come because of a soriority obligation, so the bubbahead and I spent the first half cheering for a team we hate and making inane observations. Because I adore you guys, I’ll share:

Strung Out

Me: Hang on, I missed part of that. Did they shoestring him or did he just fall down?
Brother: They got him by the shoestring.
Me: Hey, I’ve got a question for you. Which one’s correct: They shoestrung him or they got him by the shoestring?
Brother: I said they got him by the shoestring.
Me: That’s not what I was asking. I meant can you say they shoestrung him, or is that grammatically incorrect?
Brother: Who cares? We’re talking about FOOTBALL.
Me: Good point.

SEC Kickers Have Problems

Announcers (approximated): And here comes Hetland onto the field to kick the field goal. He’s 1 of 10 this season from 30 yards out.

Brother: Wow. He’s worse than Jeremy Davis (Arkansas’s kicker – 2 of 9 at the end of the season, 6 of 13 overall). And that’s saying something.
Me: I’ve got one word for you. TIFFIN! (AL’s field goal kicker who missed all three against AR allowing AR to win the game)
Brother giggling his butt off: Yeah. Tiffin. Good one!

Getting Jiggy Wit’ It . . . or, ummm, Not

Announcers (approximated): And there’s Vernon Gohlston, number 50 for Ohio State. They compare him to Will Smith . . .

Us, not listening to the rest of the announcement. Staring at each other:

Me: Huh?
Brother: He doesn’t look ANYTHING like Will Smith.
Me: I’m with you.
Brother: Maybe he raps?
Me: Maybe his girlfriend looks like Jada Pinkett.

Announcers: The Ohio State legendary defensive end who . . .

Me: Oh. We’re stupid.
Brother: Yeah. We are.
Me: But we knew that about Will Smith. I mean he plays for New Orleans. Doesn’t he?
Brother: Quit trying to cover. We knew it, but we’re still stupid.
Me: Yeah. We are. Don’t tell anybody.

And yet, here I am telling you nice folks.
Hope you enjoyed a glimpse into the utter idiocy that permeates my life.

Monday, January 08, 2007

The Football Files: Jerome Bettis and His Bus

I almost died tonight. Again.
I realized, rather lately, that I was completely out of a very necessary prescription. Therefore, I loaded up in my SUV and headed to the nearest Walgreens, grabbed my prescription, blared a little Poe and headed home. Now . . . if only that were the end of this pointless ramble.

I reached a four way stop, patiently waited my turn then accelerated through the intersection. Only to slam on the brakes (stupidly) and begin hyperventilating when some A-hole in an even bigger (who knew THAT was possible) SUV stopped, LITERALLY one stinking inch from my driver’s side door. I was the deer in the headlights. A moment of silent awe, please.

But, it wasn’t enough for Jerko to almost kill me. No, no. He had to get out of his vehicle and feign irateness!! He started screaming at poor, defenseless, innocent ME. Waving his arms, hollering in his Ebonics laced English and making a general bastard of himself. Well, I’d had it. Today wasn’t the best day for me either, buddy, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you start screaming at me for YOUR inability to drive! Are you out of your everlovin' mind?!?!?!

So (stupidly, again), I crawl over my console and out my passenger door, walk around the front of the vehicle and start yelling back at his ignorant ass. Waving my arms just as spastically and getting within an inch of his face.

Now, this guy bore a strong resemblance to Jerome Bettis and was, in essence, driving a bus: the Chevy Subarban XL. I’m noticeably smaller and in a slightly smaller (Toyota Sequoia) vehicle. He could beat me up and then run over my SUV in a heartbeat, but I was so pissed at this point that it didn’t matter.

I was just about to commit a massive faux pas by uttering something about his heritage when the occupants of the vehicles at the other two stop signs got out and another rather large guy took my side: “I don’t know what you’re acting like a jackass about, it was her right of way!” Which, automatically, reverted me to my third grade self . . . I’m standing behind this stranger yellin’ “Yeah!” every third word he said. I almost stuck my tongue out at Jerome, but decided that was taking it a bit too far, and I was far too classy for such nonsense. You guys believe that, right? That I’m classy? It’s beyond amazing that I haven’t been shot.

In the end, the Good Samaritan finally convinced Jerome to get in his vehicle and back up so I could get into my vehicle without lumbering through the passenger seat and over the console. I was still seething, but happy that there are still a few good men out there who will come to a lady’s rescue (no snickering at the “lady” reference or . . . I don’t know what I’ll do, but it won’t be pretty).

So, this was the BAD stupid thing I did tonight.You’ll get a summary of the HUMOROUS stupid things I did tonight at a later time.


Wednesday, January 03, 2007

U-Haul, Me-Haul, We All-Haul

Penned on Friday, December 15th from the third level of Hell known as family obligation.

Oh. My. God.

My back feels like an army of T-ball kids have spent hours whacking at my kidneys with old-school Louisville sluggers. My legs are all rubbery. My head is being assaulted with a jackhammer. And my arms may never be able to rise above the level of my shoulders again. Umm . . . how am I going to shampoo and rinse, let alone dry and style? Anyway.

I had forgotten that it was possible to hurt this badly without:

· Completing a four hour training session with Billy Blanks at the gym, you know, like we all do
· Having really, terrific, amazing sex that lasts for hours
· Having really, horrible, terrible, jack-rabbit sex that lasts for seconds but seems like hours
· Being run over by a semi-truck and then run over again by the ambulance that was supposed to be coming to save you

Though, it is possible that I’m just old. And things that used to bend and bounce now crack and break. I’m ready to face the fact that my “nubile, lithe body” days are behind me. But dear Lord, if I feel this badly now, I don’t even want to contemplate the morning after. Oh. Oh dear. Just typing that hurt.

And with all this pain comes questions. Questions like: Why is it that when YOU move; your friends suddenly lose their cell phones, your family forgets you’re related and your significant other has a death in the family or a sudden work emergency? But when THEY need to move, oh man, you’re expected to be there with bells on, arms open, spine stiffened and knees ready to lift. Not to mention you’re supposed to have your mouth welded shut to prevent the following phrases from emerging:

You paid *CASH MONEY* for this?
What the *HELL* is this?
You’re sure you want this to go *THERE*?

I admit that I’m not the greatest at keeping my trap shut. I wasn’t born with that internal filter that the rest of you have. If it flits across my brain, it typically shoots out of my mouth. Thankfully, phrases 1 and 2 did not exit my oral cavity this evening. However, phrase 3 was quietly questioned (early in the evening), loudly inquired (mid-evening) and finally huffed angrily (the last 10 minutes of the move).

I hate moving. I realize that everyone hates moving, but I really, really, really, really hate moving. Loathe moving. Abhor moving. Despise moving. Getting the picture?

Though, I admittedly hold less disdain for moving other people than myself. Mostly because I have a very large “nosey” bone in my body that loves looking through everything they’ve ever owned. Moving someone is the one time in your life that you have free access to every wedding gift gone horribly awry, black-mail worthy college Spring Break picture, high-school dance commemorative t-shirt and Kindergarten handprint cement doorstop. No secret can be hidden, no lie will go unearthed. Their whole lives are spread before you. It’s Christmas come early.

Tonight, however, I was even more tolerant because the move was for my favorite cousin and his new wife – whom I have come to adore MUCH. But Cousin had the same difficulty we all do when we move. His friends and family vanished like virgins on prom night. Only his mother, myself and my brother remained true and faithful:

We’re here Cousin, we love you, we would do anything for you and don’t think for one nano-second that we won’t use this move as leverage for anything we ever want from you from this moment until the end of time.

By the way: I'll be calling next week for that 52", wall mountable, plasma TV that I so graciously held on this wall - no, wait - that wall, no, hang on, maybe it would be better over the mantle, oh oh or how about that wall? No, let’s just put it back the first place we had it. That’s where it looked the best.

I wonder if I’ll be nominated for sainthood for all I go through for my family . . .