Casper Marry Background Law

That’s what I used to think Van Morrison was saying in “Brown Eyed Girl.” Turns out he was saying “Cast my memory back there, lord.” I like mine better.

And no matter what he’s saying, I think that song is stupid.

Oh, I was still dancing and singing along when it came over the muzak at Whole Foods last night, but I still think it’s stupid.

Why? Because 75% of people in the world have brown eyes! So what’s so special about this “brown-eyed girl?” Nothing! Yet whenever the song comes on, some brown-eyed female will say, “Oh, that song’s about me!” Yeah, you and 70 billion other people.

Whenever the song comes on I tell Frank about my issue. I always say, “He might as well say ‘my girl who breathes oxygen.’ ”

We then usually try to come up with other topics Van could sing about:

“My pizza-loving girl”
“My girl who wears blue jeans”
“My three-meal-a-day girl”
“My shoulder-length-haired girl”
“My girl with eyebrows” (now I would be left out of that one)
“My deodorant-using girl”
“My girl who likes to go to the mall”

I could go on and on but I always favor the oxygen one. Frank found a flaw in that one though: EVERYBODY breathes oxygen…but a lot of people have brown eyes. So it has to be something that a lot of people have but not necessarily everybody. He then came up with the best one of all:

“My girl whose social security number ends in an odd number”

I love it! And it goes so well with the song too:

Laughing and a-running, hey, hey, Skipping and a-jumping

In the misty morning fog with

Our, our hearts a-thumping

And you, my girl whose social security number ends in an odd number
You, my girl whose social security number ends in an odd number

Even though I think our version is better, I guess Mr. Morrison did make a good business decision. I mean, had he written a song called “my ambidextrous girl,” not as many people would be able to relate. Plus, who wants to get it on behind the stadium with that girl?

I think we're actually singing "Living on a Prayer" but we would do the same for B.E.G.

More Name Games

You know how I feel about people misunderstanding my name. I currently have two people I run into on a regular basis who don’t have it right. One girl always calls me Elise and the other, a guy, calls me Elsie. It’s too late to stop it now.

But the other day I heard a good one for Frank. I was making dinner reservations and I said, “Frank” and the girl asked, “Maria?”

Yes, Maria.

On this same topic, I was going to tell you about how people think Thea’s name is Pam but apparently I’ve already told you about that. Here it is again in case you missed it about a year ago:

My friend Thea (Tay-uh) is in a similar predicament as you can imagine. She gets "Thee-uh" all the time which I admit is annoying but also understandable. What's not understandable is the response she gets when she introduces herself: "Nice to meet you, Pam." Pam?? When Thea first told me this I thought she was crazy...or deaf. But then I noticed when I would talk about her people thought I was saying Pam too!


Oh, and one more question: Do I look like a big yet stylish storage box to you? Then why do people think my name is Elfa?

When I have to spell my name on the phone and I say “E-L-S-A,” people often think the “S” is an “F.” I get that. I get that S sounds like F. But what if someone spelled out Melissa? Even if I thought someone said “M-E-L-I-F-F-A” I would stop for a second and think, “Hmmm…did she say S or F? Which one makes more sense?”

And in my case, “Why would someone be named Elfa?”

Maybe people think I’m the founder of that storage company. In that case, the container store can start sending me some money.

Just make the check out to Elfa and Maria Simcik.

The Roommate Rationale

This ain’t no political blog but I gotta mention something I saw on CNN last night:

There was this crazy, militant Osama-follower talking about how evil Westerners were and how we deserve anything that happens to us. Why? Because we had supposedly done all these terrible things to “his” people. (He was actually just a British dude who had adopted these extremist views as an adult.)

As we were watching I came to a realization and said it out loud: “I know what’s going on here: This is a case of the roommate rationale to the highest degree!”

What is the roommate rationale? Well it’s only one of Writinggal’s favorite, most important theories:

I first witnessed it freshman year of college when I went to visit a friend at a dorm near mine. She had just gone shopping and she put the bags all over her pot-luck roommate’s bed. I asked, “Is she gonna get mad because she can’t sit on her bed?”

“She better not,” my friend said. “She uses my computer all the time without asking.”

Oh, I guess that makes sense.

But here’s what ends up happening; roommates rationalize all their behavior by reminding themselves of something the other person did:

“She made a lot of noise getting ready yesterday morning so it’s okay if I come in late and wake her up.”

“Why should I have to ask her if it’s okay if I get three cats? Her boyfriend is always here.”

“She borrowed my dress without asking. I’m gonna borrow her boyfriend.”

But see, they never tell the other person about their rationlizations so, to the rooomate, it just seems like she's doing these rude things. That is why I blame the RR for the “psycho roommate” phenomenon. In college we heard this phrase a lot and our jaws dropped in horror at stories like, “She stole all my underwear!” Now that’s weird but come on, you didn’t do ANYTHING to provoke her? Even something as small as not replacing the toilet paper roll?

I think there’s some chicken and the egg involved here too but I can’t take credit for that theory.

But you could see how entire wars could be fought over the RR. Although it usually only happens to girls. This is because girls don’t say what’s bothering them. If it were guy roommates then one of them would have said from the beginning: “Hey, dude. Quit using my computer,” and saved everybody a whole lot of anguish.

And what became of the roommates who inspired my theory? Shopping bag girl ended up moving out on computer-borrowing girl--just up and left one weekend while the other girl was away.

Well, at least they both got some good “psycho roommate” stories out of the experience.

Reuniting with my non-psycho college roomies (I'm pretty sure nobody stole anybody's underwear but I'll check.)

Cul de Sac Carrie Confesses

You know how I feel about Subway and their conspiracy to make America fat with their confusing mayonnaise bottles?

Well, this morning I learned that Cul de Sac Carrie is in cahoots with them. And just like that skinny, beltless suspect in the JonBenet Ramsey murder, she has confessed to the crime.

Here are the details:

Last week when Frank was out of town, Carrie and her husband felt sorry for me and had me over for dinner. I’m not too proud to accept a pity meal; it was really good! For dessert we had banana pudding.

Ah. A moment of silence, please, for this amazing BP.

After I had one piece Carrie asked if I’d like another (no-brainer) and then asked if I wanted small, medium or large. I said, “Medium!” and she gave me a large. We then washed it down with Kahlua and milk. My point? I KNEW what I was consuming and I didn’t even ask things like, “Is this skim milk?” or “Is the pudding the sugar free kind?” I didn’t care.

But then yesterday CC said that she had a bunch of leftover ingredients and if she made it again would Frank and I like some? Duh.

So she brought it over last night in these cute little martini glasses (a presentation idea she admits to stealing from me). Although later when Frank ate his he said, “This is MUCH better than your parfaits!”

I had to agree and I also added, “I know it’s a ton of whip cream but Carrie said it was the light kind!” We then simultaneously scraped every last bit of whip cream off of our martini glasses. I was thinking to myself, how bad could a few bananas, some sugar free pudding and light whip cream be?

Then this morning on our walk Carrie confessed. I guess I had suspected all along. It was just too thick and creamy to be light. She said, “I have a confession to make.” I screamed, “The whip cream wasn’t light, was it? WAS IT?” She admitted that it wasn’t light, that she had inadvertently bought the wrong kind. She even said, “I’m like Subway junior!”

But the good news? Cul de Sac Carrie ate the fattening whip cream too. So I’ll forgo my urge to take her to Subway and force her to eat their mayonnaise. Plus, it was quite nice of her to make us that BP. I think she feels bad about the whole thing and you know what that means? I’ve got another pity meal coming my way!

Are you a sogger or a cruncher?

There are two kinds of people in this world (besides those who like Neil Diamond and those who don’t):

Those who like their cereal soggy and those who like it crunchy.

If you’re not sure which category you fall into, please review the following descriptions:

Soggers (that’s me):
We pour the cereal and then we fill our bowl to the brim with milk. The cereal floats around in the milk. We then wait until it gets even soggier before we eat it. At the end, we drink the leftover milk right out of the bowl.

Crunchers (that’s Frank):
You pour the cereal and then pour the tiniest bit of milk. You eat your cereal right away so that the bottom part that’s touching the milk doesn’t get soggy. You dump any excess milk in the sink.

These preferences go far beyond cereal though:

Soggers:
Personality points: patient, friendly
Personality probs: Passive, couch potato qualities
Nationality that most represents the soggers: French
Celebrity soggers: Nick Lachey, Jack Black, Britney Spears, Janeane Garofalo, Ben Stein, Joe Isuzu
Pro Neil Diamond? Very much

Crunchers:
Personality points: reliable, efficient
Personality probs: Finicky, impatient
Nationality that most represents the crunchers: Japanese
Celebrity crunchers: J. Lo, Madonna, John Cusack, Sarah Jessica Parker, Jeremy Piven, the guy who played Gunther on Friends
Pro Neil Diamond? No way


Now that you’ve figured out which one you are, here’s the most important question: which one is Neil Diamond? Oddly enough, I think he’s a cruncher, even though he’s loved by the soggers. Now that ought a give you something to ponder at the breakfast table.

Breaking Child Labor Laws

I’m all for kids not working in sweat shops but there are some places where they should work.

Example? Safety patrol.

When I was in elementary school the fifth and sixth graders ran that operation. As I passed by them on the bus, I wondered how they kept it all straight. When do you tell cars to go? When do you tell people to go? What are the different hand signals? Aren’t you worried about getting run over? And where and how can I get my hands on one of those cool orange sashes?

You see I couldn’t be in the safety patrol. Only “walkers” and “riders” could do it. That meant you had to live in the neighborhood where the school was. I lived a short bus ride away so I got the safety shaft.

Here in Dallas we live right by an elementary school so we see walkers and riders every day. And starting yesterday they were back. And you know who else was back in business? The 72-year-old crossing guards. Huh?

That’s right. No kids. In fact, they’re the opposite of kids. Don’t get me wrong. I like Carl. (Carl the Crossing Guard is what I’ve named him. We’ve never spoken; our relationship just involves a lot of waving and if the top on my Bug is down, the occasional, “Great weather we’re having, huh?”)

Carl’s post is closest to my house but there’s another dude—an older guy—on the other side. The other day I told Frank that school would be starting soon and we’d probably see them again. I said, “I wonder if they’ll switch sides this year.” And Frank said, “You mean there are two of them?” He only knew Carl. So yesterday as I drove by, my fear was confirmed. They had switched sides. I had the other, older guy! And get this: when I waved, he didn’t wave back! This is gonna be one long school year.

When I told Frank about the switcharoo he began sharing his own safety patrol saga. He was thrilled when he was chosen for the prestigious guard in fifth grade but then one day, a group of junior high kids came by and stole his flag. They started to run around, waving it and mocking Frank. Finally a car drove up and then they stopped. Frank said that the adults in the car asked him if he was okay. He still looked pretty shaken up by the whole thing.

I told him it’s probably because of him that kids aren’t in charge of safety patrol anymore. Maybe it should be called “Frank’s Law.” Well I think that law stinks. I don’t want to put Carl out of a job (does he get paid, ya think?) but the kids should really take back control.

Here is my message to the kids: Get out of the sweat shops and back onto the streets!

Cookinggal Takes on Coupons

Everyone knows we Simciks likes to save a buck but up until a couple of weeks ago, I had never clipped a coupon!

Was I too good for the coupon?
Did I not know where to find coupons?
Did I not own a pair of scissors?
Did I not know where to store and organize all the coupons?

All of the above. Well, except for the scissors part. I own a pair but they’re always upstairs when I’m downstairs and vice versa.

If I came upon a coupon I would put it in a drawer in the kitchen. Then when I would open the drawer to try and find something else, I would get frustrated that there were coupons floating around. I would check the expiration date and HOPE it had passed so I could throw it away.

Now that’s no way to use coupons!

Then I saw a story on the Today show about coupons. I don’t remember what they said exactly but it motivated me to go buy a little coupon organizer. Then the next Sunday, I made the trek upstairs, got my scissors and started clipping coupons out of the paper. I even made labels for my organizer: Breakfast, Lunch, Dinner, Snacks, Health & Beauty, Household items and Restaurants.

I couldn’t wait to go to the store and use my new tools. I was so giddy about it I told Cul de Sac Carrie. She said I should also check the grocery store ads that come in the mail.

“What’s the deal with those things, by the way?” I asked. “Do you have to clip out the specials or what? I just throw them away.”

She told me that you can plan your groceries around the ad. She picked up one and said, “Look. Here are red, seedless grapes for $.99 a pound. That’s a great deal.”

Ah! I pay $4.99 a pound!!

She showed me more specials in this miraculous grocery store ad. I quickly revised my list and headed off to the store.

I didn’t end up using any of my coupons but I did use the ad. The only thing was, a lot of times it said “10 for $10” and I didn’t want ten. But in some cases, like with yogurt, I got ten anyway. Oh, and it said “Two cantaloupes for $1.” I didn’t want two big old cantaloupes but what are you gonna do? The ad says you have to get two.

I told CC about this and she laughed and said, “You don’t HAVE to get ten! They’ll still give you the same price if you get one or two!”

Oops.

Now I know Frank wants to know how much money I saved using the ad. All I know is that I spent $63 and we ate for two weeks. Sort of. I did start running out of food towards the end. And once I ran to the store just to get milk and I spent $20.

But today I’m going back in, this time with an ad and my coupons! If it says “Ten for $10” I may get ten or I may get just four, who knows? I’m feeling crazy!

By the way, does anyone need nine packages of sliced cheese?

Praising the 80's

Are these people…

a). Posing for a picture in 1984?
b). Extremely religious?
c). Dressed for a costume party?

I have to tell ya, I’m not sure what the answer is. I know it’s not C but it really could be A or B.

Which brings me to a question Frank and I often ask one another:

Why do ultra-conservative-religious people dress like the 80’s?

Take Nicki on Big Love, for example.




That hairdo is not only dated, it’s complicated. This is why I’m perplexed:

If someone is super-religious and therefore against all things that have to do with vanity, I could understand if they chose not to wear make-up, if they didn’t cut their hair or if they wore very conservative clothing.

But I don’t understand why they would dress like the 80’s. That takes a lot of work: an extra layer or two of make-up, several pairs of leg-warmers and the hairspray—my God, the hairspray!

Frank says it’s because they’re just behind the times. If that’s the case somebody should tell them. They’d be rejoicing in the streets if they knew that straight hair was in and that they no longer needed to stress about what would become of their bangs should it rain.

I know how we can figure out if Frank is right. We’ll just keep an eye on ‘em for the next couple of decades: Will they stay in the 80’s or will they migrate into the 90’s and then today? I say they stay put—they like the big hair too much.

But if it’s the year 2026 and I see someone in a “Team Aniston” t-shirt, well then we’ll know that Frank was right. Alleluia.

Ugliest Girl Update

We interrupt this regularly scheduled Writinggal Blog for a special report:

No, I’m not going to explain to you which liquids can’t be taken on a plane, this is better (and far more important).

I was originally going to write about another topic but I think I’ll save it for tomorrow. While doing an image search on Google for this other topic, this picture popped up and I KNEW it must be fate:

That’s my high school band! And yes, I was a member the year this picture was taken. While I’m not in the picture, do you know who is?? Brad Jones!

I’ve been wanting to show you Brad Jones forever. Why? Let’s recap:

In junior high Brad Jones told my friend Kathy that I was the ugliest girl he’d ever seen. And while a simple look-see at my junior high yearbook could confirm his theory, I’ve never gotten over it. And he didn’t show up to the ten-year reunion so I didn’t get a chance to let him have it.

Now this is not an invitation to bad-mouth B.J. in the comments section. But based on this pic, he wasn’t really in any position to criticize. I’m just saying.

But then again, even Brad Jones had a girl hanging all over him! What’s up with that?

What's With Walgreens? Part II

It’s been almost a year since I unleashed my wrath on Walgreens. I know I vowed not to go there anymore but I caved…Did you know you could email them pictures and they’ll print them out for like $.19? I love it.

Also, I started using their pharmacist as my general doctor. I’ll act like I’m there to buy some OTC drug and then I’ll casually ask, “So do you think these drops will help my ear?” And then he’ll say, “What’s wrong with your ear?” Bam. I’ve got a free consultation. Plus, I know from my pharmacist sister-in-law that they own those ear-light thingies AND stethoscopes! Why waste a $20 co-pay?

So anyway, I ran in there last night to get a few things (including a giant gallon size of Listerine for like, nothing) and to ask my doctor (I mean the pharmacist) why Neosporin gives me a rash. I got in line to pay and of course, the make-up counter girl tries to steal us away to her counter. Why would I walk all the way over there when I’m positioned here, right by the door?

I stayed in the regular line and then Jessica checked me out. She made me uneasy but I couldn’t figure out why. Then she asked me, “Would you like two Pay Days? They’re only two for $1!” Just as I was saying, “No, thanks,” I thought to myself, she REALLY wants me to buy those Pay Days. Does she make commission on them? Then she added (pathetically), “Are you sure? They’re really good.” Okay, now I KNOW you’re working on commission, Jessica. What’s the deal? (Again, didn’t say this out loud.)

She fessed up anyway: “It’s just that if I don’t sell 15 of these by the time I leave, my boss will yell at me.”

“Yikes,” I said (still not offering to buy any).

“I’ve only sold eight,” she said.

“Well, that’s pretty good!” I told her.

“No,” she said. “I was supposed to sell 15 yesterday but I only sold seven. So today I had to sell the difference of what I didn’t sell yesterday plus 15 more.”

“Man,” I said. “They’re ruthless here at Walgreens.”

Jessica looked startled and quickly said, “Oh, I love working here. It’s a great job!”

Then she turned to the next lady in line and asked, “Would YOU like two Pay Days? They’re only two for $1! They’re really good!”

I know what you’re thinking. I should have helped poor Jessica out and bought the damn Pay Days. But don’t you see? That would only encourage the suits at Walgreens to keep up these strange selling tactics.

And by the way, even if they are going to force their employees to push things, shouldn’t they give them a little more training in how to deal with customers? You don’t TELL the customers that you’re going to get in trouble. That’s the second time in my life I’ve had a Walgreens employee spill their guts to me about their fear of their boss. Isn’t that odd?

Or is that all in the Walgreens Grand Plan?

I’m not sure. But I do know that my ear is acting up again so I’ll probably go over there to see my doctor soon. I’ll ask him what he thinks.

Late-Night Look-alikes

I know how Tarja Halonen, the President of Finland, feels. People say she looks like Conan O’Brien.

How can I relate?

I have been told I resemble late night talk show hosts as well.

First, it was Jay Leno. This was because of my under bite I had growing up for which I had surgery to correct. I can’t be certain that anyone actually called me Jay Leno but as I’ve said before, I fear people said it behind my…chin. Also, whenever I explain to people that I had this under bite they say, “Oh, like Jay Leno.”

Yes, that’s right. I looked exactly like Jay Leno.

And until yesterday I didn’t think that having similar features as a rich entertainer meant that I, in any way, could have even the slightest bit of his success.

But then…another comparison…

I was at the Periodontist talking about this gap I have in my lower bottom teeth. Yes, even though I had all this jaw surgery hullaboo thirteen years ago I still have a gap. (Note to the kids: when your orthodontist tells you to wear your retainer every night, DO IT!)

So the Periodontist was talking to me about options for this unwanted space. After he finished listing the not-cheap solutions, he said, “But then again…David Letterman has that gap in his teeth and look where he is. I don’t think he’d be as successful without that.”

Um, so you’re saying I should strive to look like this?

I mean, come on. Can't I get a classic gap-toothed beauty comparison like Lauren Hutton?

How 'bout crazy-crucifixion-crackin' Madge?

No, you had to go with David Letterman.

These two comparisons can’t be coincidences. They can only mean one thing: That I will also one day have my own late-night talk show and make millions of dollars despite my dental failures.

Or maybe I'll just become the President of Finland.

The Great Scarf Scare

On Friday I made mention of little neck scarves so I thought I’d elaborate on that today.

Remember these?

They were popular back in, oh, 1997-1998. I couldn’t get into it. Here’s why:

I HATE things to touch my neck. So there are certain necklaces I can’t wear…certain tops. And you’ll never catch me wearing a turtleneck.

Every time I go to a new hairdresser, I have to explain this problem. (Yikes. Going to a new place today.) They put those capes on me and they hit in the worst spot on my neck. So I either have to put my hand there the whole time or tell the hairdresser to loosen it for me. I went to a really cheap place once (like Fantastic Sam’s or something) and they made me wear toilet paper around my neck. It was like torture!

And speaking of torture, one hairdresser told me I was probably decapitated in a past life.
Okay, that didn’t freak me out.

But back to the scarves: Everyone in the sorority house was wearing them and I always refused. One night we were all going out and I borrowed this lime green shirt from my roommate. We started to leave and Court Report said, “You know what would go great with that? This lime green scarf I have!”

For some reason I agreed. (I guess because she was right; It did look pretty cute.) But I was miserable. All night I tugged on the scarf, tried to loosen it or just kept one finger stuck between the scarf and my neck. Then when we got back to the sorority house and everybody went to bed, I started to remove the scarf. What a relief it would be to get out of this thing, I thought.

But it wouldn’t come off.

I couldn’t untie it! I needed help but everyone was asleep. I ran around the house, looking for lights under doors. I finally found one in the room of these two younger girls. I knocked on the door and when they answered I exclaimed, “Free me from my scarf!”

They began trying to untie it and they couldn’t do it either. “We may have to cut it off,” one girl said. “But Courtney will kill me!” I answered. (The Court Report nickname came later.) So they kept working on it. And since I don’t walk around with a lime green scarf on everyday, you know that I was eventually freed. And they did not have to get out the scissors.

But I never wore a tiny, silk neck scarf again. And that’s one trend I hope doesn’t come back in style. They’re impractical, really. They serve no purpose. It’s not like I need something to hold my neck up.

Now banana clips, on the other hand, those things deserve a comeback.

Are you in the Dime Zone?

Speaking of dimes, have I told you about the dime zone?

I can’t believe I haven’t mentioned this yet. It’s such a mainstay in my Writinggal jargon. When you say that you’re “in the dime zone” it means that good things are happening to you that you didn’t expect. Basically, you’re lucky.

Thea and I started saying it back in 1997. We were in college and one night when we went out, we had all these good things happen to us like we found money on the ground, we got free parking, some place that always had a cover didn’t…stuff like that. Now I’m not sure who said it first but one of us suddenly exclaimed, “You know what? We’re in the dime zone!” The phrase swept the sorority house and we’ve been saying it ever since.

We got it from a Sprint ad. I couldn’t remember exactly how the ad went so I looked it up and here’s a description:

In the first of the spots, a commuter in his car finds a dime. "I'm heading home from work, and suddenly I'm in the dime zone," he says picking up the dime. When he arrives home, the neighbors' noisy dogs stop barking and stay off his lawn. Leaves blowing from a tree skip over his yard and land in another. We cut to the commuter lying on a diving board at his pool. "Best of all, my calls are just 10 cents a minute. Every evening and all weekend."

As you can expect, some people abused the phrase. Like a girl would get into medical school and say, “I’m in the dime zone!” Or someone would get a marriage proposal and announce, “I’m so lucky in love! I must be in the dime zone.”

No, no no. When really big things happen to you—that’s not the dime zone! It has to be small, unexpected things usually involving getting free stuff that you didn’t expect. Example:

“I won $15,000 playing Black Jack in Vegas!” Not the dime zone.

“While eating at Denny’s in Vegas my waitress accidentally brought me two plates of hash browns and didn’t charge me for the second. Then I went outside and even though my meter was expired, someone had fed it for me. When I went to the pool, this great chair in this perfect spot just came available and I got it.” You’re in the dime zone! It really should be a series of little things.

Sometimes we would reverse it. If things were going bad we would say “I’m in international rates.”

And even now, almost ten years later, when long-distance-rates have gone the way of little neck scarves, we still use it. Last week Thea called and said, “I saved money on my text books by buying them used on Amazon…and then my office had free Chipotle for lunch…and then I got free Kelly Clarkson tickets. I’m so in the dime zone!”

I don’t know, Thea. Getting Kelly Clarkson tickets is pretty huge so that may be borderline better than the dime zone. But since they were lawn seats, we’ll let it count.

Feel free to use it in your daily speak. Got a front row parking spot? Dime zone. The last pair of shoes and they happen to be your size? Dime Zone. Bought something on sale and when you got to the register it was even MORE on sale? Double dime zone.

Won the lottery? Nope. Tricked ya.

BUT if you offer to pay for my blog party because you won the lottery, well then we'd all be in the dime zone.

L.C. = Lotsa Crazy

Let’s play a game. I’ll give you a hypothetical situation and you tell me (or just say to yourself) what you would do.

Did I say hypothetical? I meant The Hills. This is something that happened to L.C. on that show last night and I was actually stomping, fuming and yelling at the TV screen. (Hey, there’s not a lot on this summer. Okay, I actually love The Hills. Although we call it “Heidi” at our house. But this situation had nothing to do with Heidi.)

Okay, so here’s the game:

Imagine that you are a cute, rich 20-year-old girl. Instead of getting your basics out of the way at some community college, you live in L.A and attend the Fashion Institute of Design and Merchandising. Oh, and the best part? You have this awesome internship at Teen Vogue. If you do a good job here you can get a cool job in the fashion industry which is your dream.

So freshman year is coming to a close and your boss (the West Coast editor of Teen Vogue) offers you an internship in Paris for the summer. Paris! We could wrap the globe at least once with the number of people who would trade places with you for that chance.

Let me interject and say that you also have this mumbly-mouth, boring, mean, paranoid, insanely-jealous boyfriend named Jason. I guess he’s cute but you guys have nothing in common and nothing to talk about. You either just sit and stare at each other or you fight. In fact, when you had an assignment to work on a male model casting call, you had to lie to him about it because he would get so freakin’ jealous. He’s an idiot.

So anyway, old mumbly-mouth wants you to stick around this summer.

Is there even a choice here?

Well, I should mention that MM DOES have a Malibu beach house for the summer. And let me just back up and ask how is that possible? I know the two of you are from Laguna Beach and your parents are loaded but come on…I looked it up and this place would be at least $60K for the summer.

So anyway, what would you choose? Summer in Paris working for Teen Vogue which could lead you to your dream job later? OR summer with said lame boyfriend at overpriced beach house?

L.C. made the wrong choice.

And at the end of the show they even tried to trick us by having her pack her bags, put on this total Parisian outfit and have this long, dramatic good-bye to Heidi (I guess she does have something to do with this.) And when they said farewell, Heidi even said “Merci.” Sure, that means “thank-you” but it was tricky just the same.

So which did you choose?
or


Either way you lost. You don't get the beach house OR the summer in Paris. Oh, and you're not a cute, rich 20-year-old girl.

Video Killed the Radio Star...and my Appetite

Yesterday I was so caught up in my own celebration (or “Blogday” as Dr. Chamberlain called it) that I totally overlooked another very important milestone—25 years of MTV.

Now I’m only 29-and-a-half but I remember very clearly the first time I ever heard of MTV. I was four or five (okay, it wasn’t THAT clear) and I was running over to the neighbor’s house to tell them that we were getting “cable.” I wasn’t sure what that meant but I knew it was exciting. I also knew that nobody else on the street even had it yet. “The kids” (as we called our three sibling neighbors) were all outside and one of them (Stephanie, I think) asked, “Are you gonna have MTV?”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Duh!” she said. And all the kids (again, just the three of them) looked at me like I had just asked what Atari was. “It’s MUSIC television!” her sister Jessica informed me.

“I don’t know,” I said, “I’ll go check.”

Once the cable guy had hooked up our brown, faux-wood-paneled box, my sister showed me how to use it. Now I couldn’t reach it but I really liked how we could move that white pointer and it shined a light on each number. When she got to channel 14 I knew that THIS was what “the kids” were talking about. MTV—MUSIC TELEVISION.


The video that was playing had a bunch of people wearing body paint. I don’t remember what the song was or who sang it but everybody looked gross to me. I have this vague memory of them getting up from lawn chairs in a ripple effect. “Ew,” I said, and I began to feel nauseous. (A lot of things made me nauseous back then including old paintings but that’s another blog). I also remember seeing the video of “Sweet Dreams” by Eurythmics and getting even more nauseous. (I had flash backs when Martha Stewart used that song on her Apprentice.) That was it. I would never watch MTV again—especially if I was eating.


“Turn the channel! Turn the channel!” I would scream if my sister tried to watch videos while I ate a cheese sandwich. Really, she had me as her hostage since I couldn’t reach the cable box without a chair. But I refused to watch so I missed most of the videos of the 80’s thanks to this handicap of mine. I didn’t like hair bands (even Bon Jovi) because they were grody in my book.

I decided in the 90’s that I could handle watching MTV again. My stomach was stronger and glam rock was pretty much over. But then when I turned on channel 14 (and I could reach it by now) there weren’t any videos anymore.

So when my own “the kids” ask me what it was like being one of the pioneer viewers of MTV all I can say is “there was a lot of body paint and then mommy would feel like she had to puke.” How glam.

Happy Birthday, Blog!

Now let's just get something straight before you start thinking I'm goin' coo-coo bananas with all these one-year/birthday/First Communion celebrations.

On July 25th, 2005 I started freelance writing full time. On August 1st, 2005 I started writing in this blog as a little warm-up to my writing day. See? Two different occasions.

So as my blog's first birthday approached I thought, "What should I get her?" (Come on. Of course she's a girl. She's all pink.)

I asked myself, "What would I want if it was my birthday?"
"A makeover!" I exclaimed. "The kind on one of those reality shows like Ten Years Younger."
But then I said, “Wait a second, Elsa. You look fabulous! Why just the other day you were mistaken for a three-year-old. Sure, your hair’s a little nappy but you’ve got an appointment to get it cut with Tips from Thea for only $15 at a fancy salon. Plus, if you’re going on a reality show, it’s gonna be The Gauntlet.” Then I remembered that I aged out of that. And I don’t think they call it The Gauntlet anymore.

Anyway…back to the blog. I decided that while I was certainly in no need of a makeover, my blog was! So here it is. I’m still working out some of the formatting issues (which I’ll be emailing you about, Jessi) but you get the idea.

I’m hoping that a new template will get me a few more clicks on my ads. When I first signed up Google said that I would get paid once I reached $50. And then when I started getting close to that, they changed it to $100. So how much money have I seen? Wait. Let me dig around in all the check stubs that Google sends me. I think there’s a pile over there…wait…oh, there it is. It’s invisible. I’ve received $0. In fact, after a year of ads on the blog, my total is up to $57.15. At this rate I should get my $100 check by next July. So if you want the ads to go away (which I do), click on them a bunch this week so I can get up to $100. Then I’ll get rid of the ads, take the $100 and throw a huge blog party. Well, a miniscule party but a party nonetheless.

So thanks for reading my blog this year. Hopefully a lot of exciting things will happen in the coming year because I’ve pretty much told you all my stories. And if you’re feeling sentimental, check out the very first Writinggal blog. It’s about how I used to want to be a bus driver. And remember, if you don’t click on my ads, I may have to make that dream come true.

Now the next question is, what am I going to wear for the 23rd anniverary of my First Communion?

Oprah’s in Re-runs and Regis & Kelly are Trying to Trick Me

What a TV disaster. Now I don’t want you to get the impression that I just sit around and watch TV all day but I do allow myself to check in on R&K and Oprah. I Ti-faux R&K at 9am and then when I eat lunch I watch their “host chat” which is about 15 minutes. I fast forward when Regis talks about sports, boring news items or himself. So really whenever Regis talks. Then I may or may not watch the first guest.

Then about 4:30 I get hungry again and that’s when I have my Oprah snack. I watch her on Ti-faux too so I fast forward through the first ten minutes when the crowd cheers for O and then I fast forward through commercials. So that’s about a 40 minute show.

But the summertime has messed up my routine. First of all, I don’t watch Oprah at all because she’s in re-runs. And like I said before, I can’t watch an Oprah re-run even if I’ve never seen it. So now when I eat my snack in the afternoon I have to resort to reading the paper. But I miss you, O! When are you coming back?

And Regis and Kelly, what you’re doing to me is downright despicable. Your show is supposed to be live (it even says so in the name) so you can’t have re-runs. Instead, you just pre-record shows a couple of days prior to the actual day and just plain lie about it! You can’t fool me. Here’s what you do:

Monday—Normal, live Regis and Kelly
Tuesday—Normal, live Regis and Kelly
Wednesday—Normal, live Regis and Kelly BUT after that show they secretly tape Friday’s show. I guess they tell the audience, “Just play along. We’re going to say it’s Friday but it’s really Wednesday.”
Thursday—Kelly has a guest co-host (last week it was creepy Geraldo...ew) while Regis flies off to tape his cheesy talent show.
Friday—The fake show! If you look down at the bottom of the screen when R&K walk out it says in very small print “This show was previously recorded.” Then they come out and say “Hi, everybody. It’s Friday, July 28th…” Well if it really is then why aren’t you talking about the weather outside?

Then, to confuse us even more on Monday they’ll talk about their long weekend. I haven't watched yet today but I know they’ll say things like “On Friday when I was in the Hamptons…” But I thought you were here, talking with that girl from Windfall? Seriously, I don’t know how they keep the lies straight.

"Reege, I think your pants are on fire!"


I like watching the Regis and Kelly fake show about as much as I like watching Oprah re-runs. Now I think I finally know what they mean when they say “The dog days of summer.” And my remedy for getting through them? I need a house in the Hamptons.

Why Bon Jovi Rocks

It’s been a long time since I’ve done a rockin’ blog (think Air Supply back in March) so I thought it was time for another one. But who’s left? I thought. I mean, I’ve already mentioned all of the great bands and solo artists to ever exist. In fact, my elite list reads like a real who’s who of the music industry:

Nelson

Neil Diamond

Nicole Richie's Daddy

Ashlee Simpson

Strictly Business

R.E.M.

Kelly Clarkson



And the original rockers of the “Why someone Rocks” series…Hall & Oates


Then of course there’s Rick Springfield who gets a big old honorable mention for kinda rockin’.

And let’s not forget MCMC—the rockin’ album otherwise known as
“MariahCareyMerryChristmas.”


So back to today…I was thinking about who rocks and, of course, the first band that popped into my head was Bon Jovi. But, I figured, I’ve already talked about them. Or have I?

“To the archives, Writinggal!” I said to myself and then scrolled through over 250 blog titles (or actually just hit “control f.”). And can you believe it? I’ve written ten rockin’ blogs and not ONE featured perhaps the greatest rock band of all time. That’s not right.

So with that I give you, Why Bon Jovi Rocks:

The reason?

Duh.

They just do. They rock when they’re rockin' (Living on a Prayer) and even when they’re not (Living on a Prayer acoustic version). We even played the rockin’ version of that song when Frank and I entered the reception for our wedding. We were so Tommy and Gina (except for the working at a diner and down the docks and stuff).

Other faves?
Wanted: Dead or Alive
You Give Love a Bad Name
Bad Medicine
Runaway
Lay your Hands on Me
I’ll be there for you
Keep the faith

The hits just go on and on…I mean it…Into today. I love the new stuff just as much as the old like “It’s my Life” and “Have a Nice Day.” And I love the song Jon sings with Jennifer Nettles, “Who Says you Can’t go Home?”

In fact, I don’t have one spin routine that doesn’t include a song from the New Jersey boys.

And besides rockin’, they’re totally nice. Jon is always doing stuff in the community (as evident from his appearances on season 67 of the Real World in Philadelphia) and he and the whole band gave $1 million to Oprah’s Angel Network. And even better? They prove that rock star marriages really can last. Jon has been married to Dorothea for over 17 years.

And Richie? Oh, well, he was married for a long time. He gave it a good try.

And the other guys? Well, I don’t really know who they are. But I figure they rock too. Cause if they didn’t, they’d probably have their six-strings in hock.

Ann Curry, get outta there!

And while you’re at it, take Richard Engel with you. Every morning when we turn on the news we see you fools, sitting in these dangerous areas, bombs exploding right behind you, giving us the updates. Is that really necessary? Couldn’t you just sit in front of a green screen and project the images behind you?

Ann, you could still wear your black puffy vest if you wanted to. But, come on, don’t they make those in any other colors?

Don’t get me wrong. I agree it’s more compelling to have you there but that’s only if you’re DOING something. Just sitting there and reporting the news doesn’t give me any more info. than when Natalie Morales reports it from studio 1A in Rockefeller Plaza.

Now, Anderson Cooper, he does it right. He’s right there in the thick of it. He’s actually chatting with Hezbollah dudes! He’s like, “We’re here in Hezbollah territory, you know, where all the bombs go off. Oh, here comes one now. We better get close so we can get a good shot of it.”

Do I want him there? No way. I love A.C! BUT if he’s gonna risk his life; at least he’s getting some good television out of it.

It’s kinda like if you’re gonna get in the pool, you might as well get your hair wet. Or if you’re gonna eat that piece of cake, you might as well have ice cream too. Or if you’re gonna have one baby with K-Fed, you might as well have a litter.

Ann, you’ve got a family back home and Richard’s mom is worried about him! It’s not worth it. Get on the next flight (or cruise ship) home. Before you leave, give my best to Andy.

Oh, and bring me back one of those puffy vests.

Writinggal's First Annual Board of Director's Meeting

Yesterday I celebrated one year of being a full-time writer. Sure, I’ve been writing articles like “Which is sexier? Lips or Hips?” for about five years now but it was a year ago yesterday that I started spending 40 hours a week pondering things like this.

How did I celebrate? Well first I got all of the Board of Directors together and did a presentation. Here we are…

Oh, the Board of Directors is just Frank and me. I’m the Chairman and CEO and Frank is my CFO. I went over highs, lows and neutrals of the last year. We reviewed my income, expenses and my projections. There was a PowerPoint presentation, charts, graphs and plenty of Excel spreadsheets. (Bill Gates should really pay me for all these plugs.)

The last page of the presentation was a “wish list” which I asked my CFO to approve. These are things I need for my office. He approved the following:

-A new dry erase board (I write all my assignments on there and the one I have now is too small.)
-A cute storage bin/basket to store my clips (published articles). “Why does it have to be cute?” my CFO asked. “Because I need to keep it out in my office, not in the closet. So it has to match and look nice," I explained.
-Customized address labels

He did not approve the following:
-A laptop (“Maybe in 2008,” he said.)
-A fax machine (“Then we’d have to get a phone line,” he rationalized.)

We had to table those items until the next meeting.

After the meeting we hit Souper Salad to celebrate! We had coupons. (I know what you’re thinking: “Those spreadsheets must not have added up to much, Wriginggal.” No, that’s just how we are. We’d probably go to Souper Salad with a coupon even if I had ended the meeting with, “So in conclusion I made a million dollars this year.”)

Man, Souper Salad is awesome. I think I’ve only been once, years ago. It was $5.29 each (with our coupons) and we got salad, soup (duh), wraps (with tortillas OR lettuce) pizza, baked potatoes, bread AND ice cream (with sprinkles and chocolate syrup and everything)! And the salads weren’t just lettuce; they had all kinds of pasta salad too. Mmmm…it was so good.

We then came home and toasted to Writinggal with some Vela Love wine (from a shower for Steve and Tricia Vela).

The wine was delicious! We sipped it while watching our Ti-fauxed episodes of Big Love. Then the party got wild with my CFO throwing water bottles.

I’m so glad I don’t have co-workers or I’d be embarrassed to come into the office today.

Bounce for Breakfast?

Since I buy giant boxes of Kashi at Costco I have to find places to put them. Often I store them in this cabinet in the laundry room. There they sit until I’m ready to bring them into the kitchen pantry.

Today I was ready for a new box so I went to my handy storage space in the laundry room and retrieved the enormous box. Just like every morning I poured my cereal, topped it with frozen blueberries and poured Frank’s kiddie cereal (we’re on Frosted Flakes with 1/3 less sugar now after Frank said, “I like the one with the tiger” and made a clawing gesture and a “grrr” noise).

And just like every morning I waited for my Kashi to soak so it could get a little soggy. (This is especially important with a new box because the clusters are very big at the top.) But unlike every morning my Kashi tasted weird. Was it the tiger cereal? (I sprinkled a little on mine.) Was it the blueberries? Was it the milk? I tasted all separately and found no problems.

Was it…dare I even suggest…the Kashi?

I sampled a cluster of Kashi straight from the box and decided that it did, indeed, taste weird. In fact, the whole box smelled like…like…dryer sheets!!

I love the smell on my clothing, on my bathroom counter and even in the shower but I don’t want it on my cereal! I guess the smell of the new Bounce dryer sheets seeped in as that box sat in the laundry room. Reluctantly, I dumped out my bowl of Kashi and poured myself a bowl of the tiger cereal. Frank said, “And it’s such a big box of Kashi! What are you going to do?” I said I would just put it back in the pantry and hope the smell went away.

But now, as I sit here typing my blog, I can still taste the Bounce. I wondered if I should be worried about consuming dryer sheets. I did some research on the internet. Apparently, it’s not a good idea to eat dryer sheets because they contain these harmful toxins. In fact, many chatters say that dryer sheets are bad news in general (even in the dryer). Something about cancer and other diseases.

So three bad things happened this morning:

1. My breakfast tasted gross and I had to throw it out.
2. I found out that my favorite cleaning mechanism may be faulty.
3. I may be developing a deadly disease.
   

But on the bright side, I discovered I liked that tiger cereal too. Yes, I’m making the clawing gesture. Grrr.

Six Months to Go

When my friend KK was approaching her 30th she made a big list of things she wanted to do in her 20’s. I remember one was “drink a bottle of Dom Perignon for no reason” and another was “run a half marathon.” I think the rest had to do with traveling to far-off lands.

Well as of today I have exactly six months until my 30th birthday so my list probably shouldn’t include wild travels (besides, I’ve already been to Waco). Also I’d prefer it if one of the goals wasn’t “go broke” so I probably won’t have anything too extravagant on mine. What does that leave?

Hmmm…I’ve always wanted to do a triathlon. I even started training a couple of years ago. And by “training” I mean that I tried to swim. I bought a special suit, goggles…even a cap. I learned that not only am I a really bad swimmer, I don’t even like it. So there goes that.

I’ve done a marathon and I don’t plan on doing that again but maybe I could do a really long bike race. Maybe Ride for the Roses with Lance? Oh, it looks like they changed it to "Livestrong Challenge.” I could do that. But I’d have to bug people to contribute. Plus, there’s the logistics of getting my bike to Austin…


And I refuse to jump out of an airplane. I don’t even like flying in airplanes…why would I want to jump out?

Okay, let’s forget physical challenges…maybe there are foods I’d like to try.

I’ve done Sushi. I’ve never had caviar…but then again, I’ve got my rule about not going broke. And I’m not eating anything too weird like worms or roaches. I’m turning 30, not going on Fear Factor.

Maybe I SHOULD try out for a reality show. I’ve aged out of Real World, Road Rules and Laguna Beach. I’d do the Apprentice but I don’t really like business. I’d do Martha Stewart’s Apprentice but I can’t bake.

That’s what I should do! I should vow to make a really good batch of brownies from scratch.

Okay, so here’s my list so far:

THINGS (or Thing) TO DO BEFORE I’M 30
Make a good batch of brownies from scratch.

I’ve got six months. I better start practicing. I’ll check back with you on January 24th to let you know how I did. Hey, maybe we can have my brownies with a bottle of Dom Perignon.

KK's buying.

.

Goodbye Wrinkles. Hello Wiggles.

I’m pleased to announce that my wrinkles are disappearing. Apparently all this moisturizing, lotion-using and salmon consumption has had a real positive effect on my skin. How can I be so sure?

For starters, over the past few months people have been accusing me of getting younger and younger. (That’s for enders too. I don’t have anymore evidence beyond that.)

First, there was a lady at the gym. I was chatting with her about something (probably the annoying trainer, who, by the way, I deterred yesterday by listening to Frank's iPod). I guess I mentioned that I was 29 and she said, “I can’t believe that. I thought you were like 22--24 at the most!”

See? There’s five-seven years. Just wiped off my face.

Then, the other day I was at Costco, buying things that must be purchased in bulk (beer, champagne and milk). Since I put my Costco card on top of the beer I was surprised when the checker said, “Do you have your ID?” I pointed to my Costco card and said, “I put it right there.” She said, “No, your ID.” My driver’s license? Why on earth would she need to see that?

How sad. That’s how long it’s been since I’ve been carded. I didn’t even know what she meant.

She obviously thought I was 20 (or maybe younger). There’s nine years. Poof!

My third example took 26 years off my real age:

Frank and I were at the neighborhood pool and we started talking to this man and his adorable daughter, Yasmin. I asked her how old she was and she said, “I’m three. How old are you?” Frank answered for me: “Just add a zero to that.” Being a smart little girl she said, “Oh, you’re three too!” I said, “Yes. Yes, I AM three!”

Then she totally invited me to her birthday party. I told her I would definitely come, provided I could have a corner piece of cake with lots of icing. I also told her my cupcake-stealing story to which she sympathized (and subsequently glared at Frank, my evil, much older husband). We discussed The Wiggles, country music (she’s a big Keith Urban fan) and the fact that we both had on pink bathing suits. Since it was late (and almost our bed times) I told my new gal pal goodbye with the standard bed bugs warning.

Yep. Three is definitely my favorite fake age. I think I’ll stick with it for awhile. But I'll have to invest in A LOT more moisturizer.

Me, hanging with my more mature, five-year-old pal, Maddie.

WG Takes on Big Oil

Now I don’t usually get all into political, social or economical issues here on WG but I gotta bring up one: gas prices. And here’s what I have to say about them: they’re high. But I’ve figured out a way to combat them. Yesterday, I stopped driving.

That’s right. I didn’t leave the confines of my little Dallas neighborhood and I still had a very full day:

I worked: I wrote, researched, made revisions, talked to some Scientologists, called some martial arts experts (my job is very random and all over the place sometimes).

I worked out: Went on an hour-long walk with Cul de Sac Carrie. And if there’s a heat index and a wind chill factor than there’s also a sweat scale. So if an hour-long walk in normal temps burns about 300 calories than an hour-long walk in 100 degree weather should burn about 475 calories. So I burned 475 calories without leaving my neighborhood.

I ate: Frank even came home for lunch and then I ate about twelve other times besides that—all from our kitchen.

Now you might say, “But never leaving your neighborhood must get lonely, Elsa!”

No way. I even socialized: We had our Granbury Girls Pajama Jammy Jam last night where we ate breakfast food and drank champagne in our PJs.

I realize that at some point I will have to get in my car to buy groceries. BUT the Sig. Kroger is very close so I could feasibly ride my bike. (I mean, it’s obviously within walking distance since people push their carts from there.)

But then of course there’s CostCo. No way am I gonna balance giant boxes of Kashi while riding a bike. And restaurants. I may want to go out to eat at a place that’s not walkable or bikeable. Plus, who wants to show up to a restaurant all disheveled from a bike ride? And movies. I can barely make it there on time as it is. What if I had to leave two hours early just because I refuse to drive?

Yep, I think one day of car boycotting was enough for me. I’m still proud of myself. It’s so hippie granola of me. Next thing you know I’ll be living in a tree.

Junior Banana Trick

When my friend Courtney (or “Court Report” as we like to call her) and I were driving back from the baby shower on Saturday we decided to pop into Sonic for their 99 cent junior banana split special. I know; I know. We had cucumber sandwiches at the shower. We had cake (a corner piece with lots of icing for me)! But still, all that talking and house touring made us hungry for something sweet. And we had both been eager to try this dessert. They only offered the full size banana splits back during my days at Sonic.

Flashback:

I remember on my first day when I was on drink duty, things got really hectic and Diane (the career car hop and the only one permitted to wear skates) said, “Hey, new girl, make a banana split!” What? I hadn’t been through the training on this yet! But stupidly I said, “Um, okay.” So I wandered around, looking for ingredients. I found the “boat” and the bananas but I didn’t really know the protocol. I just started dumping ice cream and whip cream and chocolate syrup all over it. It looked good to me!

Diane came rolling over to me, screaming, “What are you doing?? That’s not a banana split! How do you NOT know how to make a banana split the right way?” I screamed back, “Because I just started working here today! All you have to do is TELL me how to make the banana split and then I’ll know. I can’t just magically know how to do it!” (It could be that attitude that got my hours dropped down to three a week.)

Eventually I got good at making the B.S. And quite often, since we were so slow, people would order food and then drive off in frustration so I would eat it! I probably had a B.S. every day that summer. It was a little awkward when they came back though…

Okay, back to present day (or Saturday):

We order our junior banana splits and Court Report even said, “Should we get one for Frank?” I said, “Nah, we can just split mine.” Then I remembered the cupcake incident and opted to invest $.99 in another one. Good thing I did. They did not look like this:

They were absolutely miniature! I mean, if Matel made banana splits to go in the Barbie Dreamhouse, they would would model them after Sonic's. Now I didn’t take a picture of them but luckily this guy did:

He obviously feels the same we did about them.

Oh, and I saw this on the internet while I was looking for pics: If they say, “Would you like to add nuts?” and you say, “yes,” it’s gonna cost you $.10 more. Now that might not sound like much but as Frank would say, “That’s a 10% increase!” But if you’ve got old Diane delivering it to you on roller skates and she takes a tumble, well it just might be worth it.

A Dime for your Thoughts

Did you hear they’re thinking of getting rid of the penny? Apparently it costs more to make the copper coin than it’s worth.

Congress says it’s just as easy to round things up to the nearest nickel. But can you imagine how our kids’ lives will be different without pennies?

Common phrases will change. For instance, we’d have to say, “See a nickel pick it up, all day long you’ll have good luck.” Good luck? A nickel is FIVE cents! You best put that thing in your piggy bank and start investing! Don’t just carry it around for luck. Dance around if you find that much money just lying on the ground!

“A quarter saved is a quarter earned.” That’ll never work. Nobody can save quarters. They’re so useful in vending machines and toll ways and car washes. We have a mayonnaise jar here where I scoop up all Frank’s loose change (he leaves it lying around everywhere) and whenever we need a quarter, I go into that jar. It’s supposed to be some sort of savings for a big vacation one day. So far I think we have about $1.29…in, you guessed it, pennies.

And speaking of future generations, I already had my kids’ allowance planned out and it involved mostly pennies. In fact, I was just gonna give them this mayonnaise jar and say “go to town.” Now they’ll say, “What are these, Mom? Pesos?”

We’re totally screwed come tooth fairy time. I was gonna stick pennies under their pillows. Now don’t tell me people are giving quarters for that now! A quarter for a measly tooth? That’s like half of a Coke.

So even though I’ve been known to almost throw pennies in the garbage can (on moving day when you just don’t have anymore room in the boxes), I would still miss the little guy. And what’s Abe supposed to do? I say he should get the nickel. I’d rather have a bunch of Abes floating around in my mayonnaise jar than Tommy J’s.

Although I’m still not sure what to do with the term penny “pinchers”…nickel natchers? I’ll keep working on it.

My Rock (a-bye) Tour

Lately I’ve been hitting the baby shower circuit. If you invite me to a baby shower, here’s what to expect:

I will wear my baby shower ensemble which includes a black top and white flowing skirt with black flowers. I will sort of curl my hair but with the straightening iron (which baffles Frank). As soon as I get there I expect to pose with the mother-to-be and our mutual friends like this:

And like this:

Yes, these are two different occasions. I know; I look exactly the same.

You can almost always expect the same gift from me:

It’s a basket (or a pail in this case) with a bunch of essentials: baby lotion, baby shampoo, wipes, creams…it seems babies need more beauty products than we do!

I do this for two reasons:

a). I’m very practical and one of my favorite wedding presents was a basket full of cleaning supplies (Thanks, Aunt Sue Routzong!)

b). Because I can’t wrap presents and this doesn’t take a whole lot of wrapping but still looks cute. And hello? You can keep the basket/pail for storing all this stuff.


In return, I expect a stiff drink (I don’t care if it’s 11am; if you want me to get excited about a diaper genie, I’m going to need alcohol.) So far, on my tour of baby showers, nobody’s disappointed in this area. There’s always some champagne-mixed drink. This weekend the choice was between mimosas and pink lemonade. Now the pink lemonade didn’t come with champagne but I didn’t see any problem with mixing a little in there. Good idea, Courtney!

I also expect some good food. Again, everybody has come through on this one. You can count on some good egg casseroles and even cucumber sandwiches! I love me a good cucumber sandwich and you really only see them at showers. And remember, I like cake with LOTS of icing so save me a corner piece.

When I’m done stuffing my face, I like a very thorough tour of the hostess’ house. Don’t skip the garage, the closets or the laundry room. The inside of the fridge is preferable but optional.

Oh, and I’m okay with baby shower games as long as I don’t have to guess how big the mom-to-be is with some toilet paper. Come on, does anything good ever come out of that?

So please keep all of the above in mind when you invite me to your baby shower. I need to go wash my outfit so it’s ready for the next one. And you need to get going on those cucumber sandwiches!

If I were a Rich Girl…Nanananananana

In my profile to the right I say, "It's kinda like the choice between being fat and rich or skinny and poor. These are the types of things I ponder on my blog."

Frank pointed out to me today that I don’t actually ever discuss that on my blog. I don’t? I thought I did. Well, I certainly think about it a lot.

Like today, Frank and I were talking about this new master-planned community that’s going up in McKinney that’s supposed to be all about wellness and healthiness and walking, etc. It’s by our friend, Dr. Cooper (“our friend” because I often interview people at his center for articles plus we toured the place as a possible wedding spot in ’03). Frank said, “Ooh, I bet you’d like to live there.” I said, “Well, apparently everyone would because the houses are pretty expensive!” And there is our first example: If we moved to that neighborhood we would go broke; thus making us poor. However, we could use their walking trails, work out at the state-of-the-art fitness facility and shop at the healthy stores. So that would keep us skinny. See? Skinny and poor.

How ‘bout a fat and rich example?

You have to leave the office for lunch today. You could go to Subway and get one of their healthy subs (watch out for that mayo trick) OR you could go to McDonald’s and eat off their $1 menu. One will cost you $4+, the other, about a buck. If you eat at Subway you’ll be poor and skinny but if you eat at McDonald’s you’ll be rich and fat.

I could go on forever:

Should you buy organic food or regular old processed?
Cookies: fat free or full fat?
Pasta: regular or whole wheat?
Chicken: lean or not-so-lean?

Every time you choose one over the other you’re deciding whether to be skinny and poor or rich and fat.

In my quest to find a way to be skinny AND rich, I have found one example:

Turkey. When you go to buy hamburger meat, choose ground turkey instead. It tastes good. It’s better for you AND it’s cheaper than ground meat! Frank and I have never agreed on a choice at the grocery store until this. We’re trippin’ over these turkey burgers. As we eat them I say, “They’re so good…and healthy!” And Frank says, “I can’t tell the difference between this and ground meat AND it’s cheap!”

Last week at CostCo we bought like eight pounds of the stuff. And I think we’re gonna have to stock up on even more…especially if we move to Dr. Cooper’s skinny/poorville.

HG's Loss, Your Gain

A lot of you have been asking about the status on the writing position I applied for with Hungry-Girl. About a month ago HG had a note in her daily newsletter about needing some help from someone who loves to write and eat. Hello? Add in "watching HGTV" and you've got my dream job.

So I obligatorily sent in my resume, a list of compelling reasons (see above) and a sample essay, written in HG style.

Status? Nada. Haven't heard anything. So I'm not completely giving up; I just feel that since it's been five weeks, I have the right to share my sample "Chew and Tell Review" with my blog readers. I mean, you wanna know what to order when you go to Chick-fil-A, right? And if HG doesn't approve well I'll just say, "Don't have a cow." (Sorry, I just had to slip a cow pun in there. For more of those, keep reading.)

Chew and Tell Review: Chick-fil-A

We love their cute cows, their alternative side items and even though we wish they were open on Sundays, we give Chick-fil-A credit for sticking to their values. But is everything on their menu a great choice? Here are a few tips for eating right when you wanna chicken out:


Say “bye” to the fry:

Hey, we love their Waffle Potato Fries as much as the next hungry chick but at 350 calories and 17 grams of fat, we say, “Let the cows keep ‘em!” Instead, try one of Chick-fil-A’s healthy side items like the fresh fruit cup (50 calories, 0 fat), a side salad (50 calories, 3 grams of fat) or a hearty breast of chicken soup (140 calories, 3.5 grams of fat). Yes, they cost a little more but we say it’s worth it.


Go for Grilled

Since their Chick-fil-A Chargrilled Chicken Sandwich is so tasty and satisfying, who needs the fried “classic” version clocking in at 410 calories and 16 grams of fat? Plus, with the grilled guy (at 270 calories, 3.5 grams of fat), you get tomatoes, lettuce and a wheat bun not to mention a much trimmer waist line.

Wait on the Wrap

When you hear the word “wrap” you automatically think “low-carb,” right? In Chick-fil-A language, that’s just plain wrong. Each of their three wrap choices comes complete with 50+ carbs. And while their 400 calories aren’t necessarily fast-food frightening, we think these dry, tasteless fellas are just not worth it.


Making it in the Morning

Now we would never tell you to skip breakfast altogether but if you’re short on time and find yourself honking your way through the Chick-fil-A drive thru one morning, we want you to be prepared. Your best bet is the Chick-fil-A Chicken minis which should fill you up with 270 calories and 11 grams of fat. Too small? You’re better off adding one more mini which takes you to 360 calories and 15 grams of fat than choosing the Chick-fil-A Chicken Biscuit at 420 calories and 19 grams of fat. Oh, and don’t be fooled by the words “sunflower” and “multigrain” in the Chicken, Egg and Cheese on a Sunflower Multigrain Bagel. That’s just secret code for 500 calories and 20 grams of fat.




Dream it, Don’t Shake it

If you follow our tips and have a nutritious, low-calorie lunch you can probably afford the sweet stuff too. Their Icedream cone is only 160 calories and 4 grams of fat. Just don’t let your sweet tooth get out of control with their new shakes—each one is over 700 calories and 25+ grams of fat. It would take a whole lot of shakin’ to get rid of that.


Do the Math

Like lots of other of our fast food faves, Chick-fil-A offers nutritional information plus a handy meal calculator online. So be sure to log on before you drive thru. http://www.chickfila.com/MenuCalculator.asp

Now that you’re armed with all these Chick-fil-A facts, you can eat there till the cows come home!

So Long, Soft Diet

Yesterday I went to the periodontist to have the last of my gum bandages removed (some had fallen out on their own) and for a check-up. This would signify the end of my soft diet.

The last time I was at his office I was quite loopy from the drugs so I felt a little embarrassed as I walked in yesterday. “Well, hello there, Elsa,” the receptionist said with a giggle. I vaguely remembered saying to her when I first got there two weeks ago, “I need to go the bathroom. Gimmee that toothbrush key!” (The key to their bathroom is on the end of a toothbrush). And then I think when I returned it I said, “Don’t worry. I didn’t brush my teeth with it,” but I may be imagining that.

Then the hygienist came out and greeted me in the same way. I barely remembered her. She said that during the first part of my surgery (which was really just a deep gum cleaning) I kept saying, “I don’t like that…I don’t like that.” As she told the story the receptionist AND insurance lady both laughed and said, “I remember her saying that!”

It’s sad that some minor gum surgery is rivaling my 21st birthday.

The most embarrassing thing was seeing the doctor. I remember when I was in the midst of the surgery, he and his assistant (what’s up, Luther?) were over my head, discussing Grey’s Anatomy. I soooo wanted to be in the conversation and I kept trying to comment. But since all this stuff was in my mouth and I was really out of it, all I could get out was, “MigDeemy!” Translated into English that’s “McDreamy!”

So the doctor would ask Luther, “So isn’t the main girl in love with her boss?”

And I would say, “MigDeemy!”

Then Luther explained how Meredith slept with George but she started crying. The doctor said, “Why did she do that?”

I sputtered, “Beguz see of MigDeemy!” (Translation: “Because she loves McDreamy!”)

“Quit talking, Elsa!” the doctor and Luther said simultaneously.

So seeing the doctor yesterday was a little weird but he didn’t comment on my McDreamy outbursts. And he gave me the green light to eat anything I want. I had started to adopt this policy in the last week anyway. I moved on to chewable soft foods about a week ago but stayed away from crunchy foods like Kashi and chips.

Now I’d like to briefly reflect on my soft diet and point out one highlight and one lowlight:

Highlight:
I invented this fantastic new smoothie: Blended bowl of Kashi
It’s everything you would put in your bowl of Kashi (milk, Kashi) plus a banana. Oh, and I throw in some flax seed as well. Whoever got us that smoothie maker as a wedding gift, we definitely gotten your money’s worth.

Lowlight:
When Frank stole my cupcake.
I bought Frank these awesome cupcakes from Wal-Mart for his birthday but I couldn’t eat any. So when I started eating soft chewable foods I decided that one of those cupcakes would be my first splurge. I can’t tell you how excited I was to bite into this cupcake. It was chocolate with creamy pink icing on the top. Oh, and there were sprinkles. Sprinkles! My only regret was that it wasn’t bigger. I thought, “This cupcake will be gone soon so I better enjoy every bite.” So when Frank asked for a bite I was a little bummed. He’s always so nice about sharing with me that I caved. He bit into it and when he gave it back to me all that was left was this thumb-sized bite of the chocolate part. No icing! No sprinkles! I freaked out. “I can’t believe you ate my whole cupcake! I haven’t eaten in a week! I was so looking forward to that cupcake and its icing! You suck!” I think there may have even been tears. Lucky for him, we had more.

So let this be a lesson to you: If a girl has been on a soft diet for a week and finally gets to bite into something, don’t take it away from her! I’m pretty sure MigDeemy would never do that.

Now They're Dragging Grandpa Down

Last night, just as I was brushing my teeth I heard a sound come from the TV that gave me chills. Mind you, my back was turned. And no, it wasn’t the commercial for Lady in the Water by M. Night Shalamananana. (Although that’s pretty scary.) It was a young girl scolding her grandpa for something he was doing with a sandwich. I can’t remember exactly what she said but it was something like, “Grandpa, why do you make such a big deal about a sandwich?”

For some reason it felt ooky. It felt odd. It felt…like I was watching the Jif commercial where the dad says “plenty of room” to the little girl. I whipped my head around just in time to see a little girl and her grandpa laughing as the announcer said, “Choosy Moms (and Grandpas) choose Jif.”
Ah! Jif strikes again! I hate them. And not just because their commercials drive me batty, but because they’re such wimps. They obviously caved when some customers complained.

First, someone wrote in and said, “I’m a single dad and I have to choose a peanut butter too. What about me?” Their answer? “Plenty of Room:” the worst commercial ever made. Then, obviously, some grandpa wrote in (or maybe even drove up there) and said, “Hey, every time my granddaughter comes to visit I make her PB& J. There’s no mom to choose. There’s no dad to choose. I’m doing the choosin’! What about me?” Their solution? The latest commercial catastrophe.

Jif, I have news for you: Not EVERYONE is your target market. Moms are your target. Trust me. I’ve sat in dozens of meetings regarding the advertising of a very popular bread company. We did research. We did focus groups. We did segmentation studies. And it doesn’t matter that women are now busier than ever with careers and men are assuming some more household duties. We STILL make the primary grocery decisions.

I know why you’re freaking out and giving in to everyone who complains. You’re now owned by Smucker’s. And if people feel alienated by your PB, they’re not gonna buy your jelly either. But before you launch a campaign with the slogan “Choosy moms (and mom’s live-in boyfriend’s cousin) choose Jif,” let me just stop you. Sure, it’s nice to include everybody but sometimes you just need to stay focused. Forget the dads. Forget the grandpas. And definitely forget M. Night Shalamananana!

Hostess in Heaven

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Frank’s Aunt Marilyn is the sweetest person in the world. I would say she’s as sweet as apple pie but I won’t because a). that’s a total cliché and b). apple pie is fattening. It has a dark side. Aunt Marilyn doesn’t even have a dim side.

Example: We went to her house this weekend for an engagement party she and Uncle John were throwing for their daughter and her fiancé. There were about 50 people there and everybody was talking, eating, drinking…typical party stuff. Aunt Marilyn walked in the noisy room, looked around and announced, “This is heaven!” I asked, “Why do you say that?” She said, “All my kids are here, my grandson is here, the rest of my family is here, our friends are here…it doesn’t get any better than this.”

“But we’re trashing your house,” I said. “Look. Somebody just spilled a beer all over your couch. It got on the carpet!”

“Oh, it’s just a house,” she said sweetly.

“But we’re loud and messy and there are toys everywhere and you’re gonna have so much to clean up tomorrow,” I pressed, convinced I could crack her.

“I don’t mind at all,” she said, “Everybody’s here and I’m in heaven.”

See what I mean? I like entertaining as much as the next gal but I’m not sure I’d be so calm if beers were exploding in my living room. I could maybe fake it. But Aunt Marilyn’s not faking it. She’s always genuine. I know what you’re thinking, “But, Elsa, I’m sweet too!” No you’re not. When it comes down to it, you’re still a little bit selfish, aren’t you? I know I am. And even if you’re 90% sweet and 10% selfish, you’ve still got nothin’ on Aunt Marilyn.

We moved the party to the backyard for a little pool time: water volleyball, margaritas, even a piñata. The sun was shining and I really was having a great time, catching up with the cousins and family, watching the water volleyball game get more and more intense.

Then a dark cloud starting hovering overhead. We stayed in the backyard until the cloud burst and the rain came pouring down into our margaritas. Everybody crowded inside the house and it didn’t look like it was going to clear up anytime soon. I looked around for Aunt Marilyn, feeling bad that her party was ruined.

She walked up with a big smile on her face and said to me, “Well, it looks like it rains in heaven!”

Guess Who's Coming to Dinner

Even though I love Kate Hudson, I won’t be seeing that movie “You, Me and Dupree” when it comes out next Friday. Sure, Matt Dillon is a cutie and yes, Owen Wilson is hilarious. But the movie’s theme is one I loathe: the unwanted houseguest.

Now, Kristin Clark, if you’re reading this: this has nothing to do with you coming to visit today. We are excited about your visit. And anyone else who has come to visit (well, most of you)—we enjoy having you as well.

But the unwanted houseguest theme is as old as the Donna Reed Show. And I’m not just saying that to give you some perspective; I really did see it happen on the Donna Reed Show. And Ozzie and Harriet. And the Patty Duke Show. (I used to be really into Nick at Nite.)

And it’s almost always the husband’s old buddy who’s a little bit wild, a little bit rowdy and a lot disgusting. He’s usually played a Chris Farley-esque actor. The wife can’t stand him. Pretty soon the husband can’t stand him either and the friend usually overhears the two of them complaining about him:

Husband: “I know, honey. He bugs me just as much as he bugs you. Do you think I like how he eats breakfast in nothing but his underwear? But he’s my oldest friend…I can’t tell him to leave…”
Wife: “Well you’re gonna have to. It’s him or me! That disgusting piece of…(enter unwanted houseguest)…OH, LARRY, WE DIDN’T MEAN IT!!”
UHG: “That’s okay. I’ll just go sleep in my car…thanks for the pancakes.”

He’s visited the Brady Bunch, The Facts of Life, Family Ties, The Cosby Show. Even Seinfeld wasn’t too good for this tired plot. Remember when Jerry met that guy upstate and said, “If you’re ever in the city…” and the guy took him up on it? Then he ordered a hooker? Jerry felt like he couldn’t even hang out in his own house.

And that’s what I hate most about the unwanted houseguest. I hate that feeling that people can’t go on with their normal lives. Something really bugs me about the fact that they have to change their whole lifestyle to accommodate this person. And then the person inevitably stays longer and it’s just a whole mess. The other night Everybody Loves Raymond had an unwanted houseguest and Frank said, “Oh, unwanted houseguest. Gotta change the channel.”

He’s right. I can’t watch it. And I certainly can’t watch a whole movie about it. It’s disturbing. It’s creepy. It’s cooky. Which reminds me; I think the Addams Family had an unwanted houseguest once. Now that’s just my worst nightmare.

Trainerphobia

I told you about how I like to eavesdrop on personal trainers, remember? Well, apparently one trainer noticed because now he insists on giving me unsolicited advice every time I see him at the gym. It’s getting out of control:

· I’m doing tricep exercises wrong.
· I’m doing lat pull-downs incorrectly.
· I’m a complete mess when it comes to abs
· And the best? I walk funny. (He offers imitations free of charge.)

I HATE it when he corrects me. I know, I know. I should WANT to do everything right but when someone tells you that you do everything wrong, you start to wonder if you could possibly be doing everything wrong or if he just likes to criticize. Or maybe he just likes to show off in front of his clients. Yes, he’s usually working with a client when he does this. Sometimes he even has them demonstrate the right way to do it for me. Oh, and this was the worst: He told one client to show me how to do it wrong and then how to do it right. After one attempt to do crunches as poorly as me she shrieked, “I just can’t do it wrong anymore!” And he laughed and said, “I know. It’s hard after you’ve learned how to do it right to do it wrong.” Ugh. Ugh. Triple Ugh.

Here’s my biggest problem: Even though I loathe seeing him, I always tell him I’m so appreciative of his help. Like I go way overboard on this. I’m like, “Thanks for taking the time to help me. I really appreciate it.” What? No I don’t. I hate it. I hate him. I hate that he’s so patronizing and most of all, I hate it that he reeks of smoke as he’s telling me how to get in shape.

So for a few weeks I avoided that gym location. I actually drove further to another location just so I didn’t have to see him! How pathetic is that?

On Saturday I braved my old location. I had a speech prepared: “Look, I don’t really feel like getting helped today. I just had this gum surgery and I’m trying to take it easy.”

I was doing this leg press machine when he came bouncing over. I gave myself a mini pep talk: “You can do it. Just tell him you don’t want to be helped. You don’t need his help. Remember how he imitated how you walked with your butt sticking out? You hate him. You hate him…”

He poked his spiked head around the machine and just as I started to say, “Look, the thing is,” He asked, “How many sets do you have left?” I was so caught off guard that I stammered, “Um, uh, I guess…two?” He said, “Great,” and walked off.

You know what that means? I’m doing something right! So today I’m bravely going back to that location. I wanted to do arm exercises with free weights but it’s too risky—too out in the open and too much room for error. So I’ll do them at home and then go do the trusty leg presses.

I mean, once you get so good at something it’s hard to do it wrong.

Bouncin' Back

I once wrote an article on the greatness that is dryer sheets. But the pub wanted me to stick to one single use so we settled on “patting your clothes down with a dryer sheet after eating at a Mexican restaurant.” (Thanks, Tips from Thea.)


But while I was researching the article I found all these other uses for dryer sheets (usually relating to freshening up an otherwise unfavorable and/or musty smell): Stick them in your luggage, throw a few in your underwear drawer, slide them under your pillow case, etc.

Then, when I was cleaning our impossible-to-get-clean-unless-I-hire-a-maid-but-Frank-won’t-let-me shower the other day, I remembered something from that research: dryer sheets work better than sponges.

I just so happened to have a bunch of dryer sheets I’m trying to discard. I bought a private label brand at CostCo and they weren’t doing a great job at their primary role: preventing static electricity in clothing. And since I bought them at CostCo, I had about 675. I was throwing three at a time in the dryer, just trying to get rid of ‘em.

Back to the shower: I had tried BAM, bleach, a new sponge…this off-brand dryer sheet was my last hope. Did it work?

Absolutely! It was the best feeling to scrub and see my white shower appear before my bleach-burned eyes. I cleaned the whole bathroom in dryer sheets, much to Frank’s despair (“That’s like $3.50 worth of dryer sheets!”)

This morning I looked at my kitchen sink and recalled a conversation I had with Thea this weekend. She pointed at my permanently stained white sink and asked, “What’s going on here?” “It’s a permanent stain!” I answered, feeling a little defensive. “It’s always been there!”

But today as I looked at it I wondered if my miracle dryer sheets could do the trick. So with a little bit of bleach and two dryer sheets I achieved this:

Now, I don’t have a “before” picture but trust me, this is a lot whiter!

Oh, and now I’ve gotta go to CostCo. I’m officially out of dryer sheets.

Church Chat

It’s one of the oldest religious debates and Frank and I had it yesterday: what to wear to church. Growing up as an Episcopalian, we always dressed up for church. I wore some floral-printed Laura Ashley-esque frock most Sundays.

But in the Catholic Church it seems like anything goes. And that’s especially true at Sunday night mass. You see, it’s the “teen” mass which means guitars, 16-year-olds doing the readings and apparently clothes that you could wear to church and to the beach.

My own attire has gotten more casual as the months have gotten warmer. Yesterday I was wearing a jean skirt and I had this debate in my head before we left:

“A jean skirt to church? Really, Elsa?”
“People wear worse things than that. Last week I saw a girl wearing a jean skirt shorter than this. It was like Paris Hilton style. And the week before that I saw a girl wearing shorts and a tank top…”
“Well then surely my jean skirt is okay to wear. I mean, it is the teen mass after all. And look at Frank. He looks like he’s dressed to go to a 4th of July BBQ after this.”

So I wore the jean skirt and whaddya know? At sermon time the priest said, “It’s not a comfortable thing to talk about…”

“This is gonna be good,” I told Frank. “Something controversial.”

What would it be? Abortion? Gay marriage? Why there aren’t any lady priests?

“…the dress code at mass.”

Ah! I immediately pulled my skirt down to cover my legs more. He went on to say that we’ve just gotten too lax and we should dress up to come to God’s house.

I think he’s right. And I told him so after mass. I said, “You’re right about the dress code. I’m going to try to do better.” He laughed.

Frank couldn’t believe I said it. He does not agree that we should have to dress up for this particular mass. He says, “People should want to dress up for church. And if you force them, that just defeats the purpose. Plus, it’s really hot outside.”

We then had our religious debate: My main argument being that it’s respectful to dress up and it’s only one hour a week. Why can’t people do it? His main argument had something to do with dressing up for Jennifer Aniston. He lost me.

So anyway we had to agree to disagree. Although we don’t know what we’re gonna do about it when we have kids. But I’m pretty sure I have some Laura Ashley dresses they could have. Hey, they’ll be vintage!