The Nekeds

Here in Atlanta I teach spin at a suburban YMCA. I love the YMCA. I think if I ever have a lot of money, it might be my charity of choice. It's a charity, right?

I used to work out at the Y in Austin, too. And while both had friendly people, good classes and seemingly fun summer day camps crawling with kids, the two facilities are very different:

The one in Austin was old with 70’s décor and rusty equipment.
The one in Atlanta is super fancy with TVs on the cardio equipment and a freakin’ water slide at the pool. The Austin one didn’t even have an outdoor pool!

But that’s not the biggest difference. The biggest difference is in the locker rooms. You see, when I go into the locker rooms at the Y here, it’s a typical scene: women are discreetly changing out of their gym attire, showering with the curtains closed and walking around with their bodies covered.

When I used to go into the locker room at the Austin Y, all I saw were body parts. Absolute nudity, like something out of a porn or a European brothel. I’m talking walking around completely naked, blow drying their hair in only their birthday suits and the worst—the lady who SAT on a chair and did her make-up without even wearing underwear.

Oh, and they refused to close the curtains on the shower. In fact, we had a choice to use shower stalls with curtains or showers that were out in the open—which I think were just for rinsing off when you got out of the pool—and all of them chose to lather up for all to see.

What’s wrong with a little nudity, you ask? My reasons are two-fold:

1. It wasn’t just a LITTLE nudity; it was A LOT. I’m not even as naked as they are at my own house!

2. Trust me when I say that most of these people did not need to be nude. I apologize if you were having fantasies of sorority house nudity or Playboy mansion nudity. It’s the exact opposite of that. Especially the lady who put on her make-up in the buff. (Word of caution: don't sit down on any chairs in that locker room.)

After awhile I got used to them and that’s when I started fondly referring to them as “The Nekeds.” Actually, I think Liz made it up. I would come into work and she would say, “How were the nekeds this morning?” And I would say, “They tried to get me to take a shower with them in the open area! I refused!”

I just wish that the nekeds could have put on some panties. Something with full coverage preferably. But they’re the nekeds. Maybe they couldn’t afford panties.

Wow, I guess the YMCA really is a charity.

I'm so pretty, I'm so pretty

We saw the pandas at the zoo this weekend and it brought back memories of my favorite commercial of all time: “The pretty, pretty panda” by Snickers: Now through the miraculous invention of YouTube, you can also enjoy the ad (in case you forgot about it, in which case, I’m not sure I have a lot of respect for you).

And if you don’t think it’s funny, well, I’m not sure we can be friends. Or even fries.

Back in the year 2000, we really wore out this panda routine at my office. In fact, I think we referenced it every day until we replaced it with “WASSUP??”

Several times a day would we sing, “I’m so pretty, I’m so pretty…” and imitate the panda guy’s voice: “I bet they WOULD” was a favorite.

We’d take print ads that we were working on and turn them into panda commercials. We had one that featured Jacques Schlumberger, the wine-maker:

I’d be at my cube and suddenly, Jacques Schlumberger’s picture would appear around the wall, dancing around with a voice saying,
“You know what Jacques Schlumberger has for lunch? He has wine!”

Wait. I think I was the one holding Jacques and doing the voice.

And if it was a special occasion, like a birthday, well, the person of honor would get to be the panda, like this one that I created for Alicia:

“Hey, Alicia, what do you want more than anything else in the world?”
“I’d like to go to lunch!”
“Me too. I bet some co-workers of mine would like to have lunch with you.”
“I bet they WOULD. I’m so pretty, I’m so pretty…watch this: Pretty Pretty Alicia.”
“You know what Alicia has for lunch? She has the turkey combo at Chili’s!”

Okay, now I’m starting to think that we never really did any work around there. And it’s becoming clearer why I was laid off. Oh, well. I bet they’re not having nearly as much fun anymore. WASSSUP??

Field Trip Tales

I totally remember going on a field trip to the zoo in kindergarten. We were all wearing our field trip clothes—tiny shorts and t-shirts (not because we were hoochie mamas but because we were tiny people)—and in our little hands we held the most important field trip accessory, the sack lunch. And for some reason on field trip days, we got to have soda instead of Capri Suns (which I could never open anyway). Sodas, of course, produce a lot of condensation so our savvy moms had cleverly wrapped them in aluminum foil.

FT Rule #1: Don’t put your foil-wrapped soda IN the brown paper lunch bag because it will break it. Then your PB&J (or in my case, plain cheese with the crusts cut off) and your Little Debbie brownie will fall out.

FT Rule #2: Make sure your mom puts your name on your soda…and your brown bag for that matter.

Oh, and another important but not as fun ingredient: The permission slip. The SIGNED permission slip. The reminding would start weeks prior to the FT: “In three weeks we’ll be going to the zoo, class. Make sure your mommy or daddy (back then most of us had both) signs the permission slip we gave you and you bring it back to me, K?” And the day before the FT: “Some of you still haven’t turned in your permission slips for the zoo field trip tomorrow. You need to bring it with you in the morning or you can’t get on the bus.”

Yet, inevitably, the morning would begin with at least one kid not having his PS so the teacher would be scrambling around, trying to call his mom with no luck. The kid would beg through tears but we would end up leaving him to spend the day hanging out with the school nurse or something. I’m not sure what those kids did all day. I just know that we waved at him from the bus and held up our foil-wrapped soda cans as if to say, “Suckah! You have to drink a sorry old Capri Sun! Good luck getting that straw in that tiny pouch!”

I don’t remember field trips in first, second, third or fourth grades but fifth grade was memorable because we went to downtown Houston. I know, it seems lame but to us suburban kids it was a big deal. We were like country mice in the city, gazing at the tall buildings, staring curiously at the homeless people. Not much had changed since kindergarten: we still had our sack lunches, our foil-wrapped soda cans and I recall several kids getting left behind for failure to turn over signed permission slips.

FT rule #3: When kids are older they need TWO foil-wrapped soda cans. Sometimes boys even need two sandwiches. Name on them still required.

Today I sent Frank out the door on a field trip. He’s going to Knoxville, TN for the day and I started thinking that’s a long drive without any snacks. “Do you want to take a banana?” I asked him. When he agreed I started going into total FT mode: slicing up apples, throwing in salty snacks and tossing a soda in the freezer so it would be extra cold. Natch, I wrapped it in foil.

I hope he’s having a nice FT although he won’t get too far. I didn’t even sign his permission slip.

“This is becoming my new favorite channel!”

That’s Frank, talking about Lifetime.

We were watching “Army Wives” which I convinced him to watch last week after I saw the series premier and thought it rocked. I made my case by telling him that the army wives were hot (which they are) and not mentioning that it was on Lifetime, "television for women."

Of course he soon figured it out when we watched the Ti-fauxed series premier (me for the second time) and saw a slew of commercials for other Lifetime shows and movies. We ended up taping all of them.

Then last night we watched the second episode of Army Wives. While Frank was fast forwarding through one set of commercials I said, “Stop! I think I just saw an ad for a show with Julie from Desperate Housewives.” We rewound and sure enough, the movie was Girl, Positive where Julie from DH plays a high school senior who worries she may be infected with HIV. When we saw that Kelly Taylor was also in it, we pushed record right away!

Then later, during a different commercial break my quick eyes spotted another 90210 alum: “Wait! There’s Brandon! There’s Brandon! Stop and record whatever it is!!” The show was called Side order of Life and it also featured a half naked blonde girl. This is when Frank made his infamous announcement:

“This is becoming my new favorite channel!”

This is sort of like when Frank decided he liked Oxygen but much more emasculating. I reminded him that it’s “Lifetime, television for women” and he replied “It’s PH balanced for a woman but strong enough for a man.”

Frank may be strong enough to handle Lifetime but I'm not sure our Ti-faux is. I'm pretty sure we maxed it out when we set a series recording for Cheerleader Nation.

Writinggal doesn’t take crap

The weirdest thing happened to me today. Our toilet was really clogged so I called a plumber. He came out, assessed the damage and said that it would take some time, but he could fix it. Boy was I glad. I told him to get going on the sucking and plunging or whatever it is plumbers do. He said he would do just that.

But that’s not the weird part.

The weird part was that he then told me that he was going to charge me for fixing my toilet. I said, “Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t pay plumbers.”

He looked confused and handed me a price list anyway! He said, “No, you have to pay me if I'm going to take the time to fix your toilet; I'm providing a service."

I have to say I was plain baffled—seeing as I've always had this “no-paying-plumbers” policy and all—but I stayed calm and said, “I realize that you are going to be providing a service but I thought you did it out of a labor of love. I thought you LOVED toilets! Are you telling me you’re just in this for the money?”

At this point he was really mad and actually raised his voice: “Hey, lady. I’m good at what I do and yes, I happen to like it but it’s not a hobby! I need to feed my family and pay the bills.”

I couldn’t stand it anymore. I barked back, “I was going to tell all my friends about you! If you did a good job I was going to tell them that you unclogged my toilet so fast and so thoroughly. I was even going to put a sign out on my yard with your name on it. Just think of all the exposure I was going to give you! Your phone would have been ringing off the hook with all the business I was going to pass your way!”

I mean, can you believe this plumber? I thought that he would unclog my toilet out of a labor of love and for the exposure. I guess I was wrong.

Sounds like a crazy story, huh? Well, it actually didn’t happen like that. What actually happened was that someone didn’t want to pay ME, a freelance writer and this plumber story is a metaphor for that. Some of the actual dialogue is even taken from my conversations with the no-paying-pub (most notably "labor of love" and "exposure").

I could go into a whole “why professional writers don’t work for free” rant but I won’t. In fact, I shouldn’t have to. Writing is a skill just like plumbing. You wouldn’t not pay your plumber, would you? Why would you not pay your writer?

We may not be able to unclog your toilet but if we’re good enough, we CAN get people to read your magazine, your newspaper, your web site. That translates into ad revenue. If you’ve got writers who are willing to write for you for free then you have to expect the quality to be poor. I mean, you get what you pay for, right? Poor writing translates into no ad revenue.

And if you don’t have that well, there’s nothing left to do but flush your publication down the toilet. But don’t do that. You’d have to call a plumber and trust me, they’re not free.

The Dorks Take Atlanta

There are some great perks to living in a foreign (i.e. anything outside of Texas) city: you get to try new restaurants, meet new people and learn a whole new language (here we say “spaghetti bowl” rather than “mix master”).

But the absolute best part is that nobody knows who you are. In Dallas I ran the risk of running into people I knew anywhere I went: the grocery store, the mall, the liquor store. And, by the way, I HATE running into people. I don’t mind seeing people at parties or pre-arranged events where I KNOW I’m going to see them; I just don’t like getting caught off guard—gotta think of something clever to say, gotta think of a way to close the conversation, gotta remember their name.

Frank and I have both realized that since we don’t know anybody, we have no problem being total dorks. Like, the other day, I decided to walk to the dry cleaners. Before I left, though, I thought, “Wait a second. I’ll have to walk home carrying all this dry cleaning. I’ll probably have to hold it over my head because it’s so long.” Now, mind you, I didn’t care that it might be uncomfortable, I only cared about how it would look. I imagined myself walking down the street, holding the hanger high above my head with all the plastic bags draping down over me. Very foolish looking!

But then I thought, “Who cares? I don’t know anyone!” And it was a feeling of joy, of relief…of freedom. Not only did I wander the streets of my new city carrying dry cleaning but just yesterday I rode my bike (wait, it was Frank’s bike, a boy’s bike) to a produce stand and carried the fruit back in my Kinfolk bag. I started struggling as I climbed the hill by our house because the left side of my bike (Frank’s bike) was so heavy with all the fruit. I took out some of it and carried it in my other hand.



So there I was, slowly climbing this hill in my neighborhood with a Kinfolk bag on one side of a boy’s bike and plastic bags of various fruits hanging off the other AND I had my big ol’ helmet on and I thought, “Man, when did I become such a dweeb?” I mean, I was worse than Safety Dave!

Again, my thoughts turned to, “Who cares? I don’t know anyone!”

The only person I know is Frank and he is of equal dorkiness. In Dallas he refused to wear his cell phone on his belt. Now he proudly attaches that thing to his pants every morning. He even has a little case for it. Then yesterday he got a pedometer at work so he added that to his waist accessories. He said, “Now I’m putting so many things on my belt!” And I said, “Yep. You look like a dork,” and he busted out with our mantra, “Who cares? We don’t know anybody!”

So if you’ve tried to tell us about friends of yours in Atlanta that we HAVE to meet, I’m afraid to say, I don’t think it’s gonna happen. We value our anonymity too much. We can be whoever we want to be. Heck, we might even change our names. Besides, who would want to hang out with dorks like us anyway?

“Man, you guys are on fire!” and other things I only say in spin class

When I teach indoor cycling I sort of have my own spin shtick or as Frank calls it “The Elsa show.”


You see, I say things that I would never under any circumstances say anywhere else:

“The more you turn the more you burn!”
“I better not see any bouncing booties!”
“You can do anything for one minute!”
“You guys rock!”
“Push it…press it…come on…dig with those heels!”
“Let’s do the pony tail test…is your pony tail bouncing?”
“Who’s gonna get to the top first?”

And I count down and everything like “5-6-7-8” and “3-2-1” and “Give me 10” and “Give me 20.” It’s like I’m a cross between a drill sergeant and a drill team captain.

The great thing is that ever since I moved to Atlanta I’ve been able to add new sayings to my repertoire since I can rip off other teachers’ shtick from Dallas. Here are a few of my faves:

“I want it one time and one time only, take it to your max!”
“Scrape that poo off your shoe.”
“Keep your seat over that seat.”
“How ya feeling? Hot and sweaty, right?”
“Don’t fall apart on me now!”

Now let me fill you in on a secret about my spin shtick: My favorite line is, “Man, you guys are on fire!” It doesn’t matter if I’ve got 30 people who are professional bikers or three people who are professional nappers. I tell all of them that they are on fire. And I always say it as if I’ve never seen a class so talented, so enthused and so intense.

It’s actually more like, “Man!!” (and then I look around the room with my mouth open in surprise) “You guys are on FIRE tonight!” Oh, and I always add the time of day so they think I really just came up with it:

“Man! You guys are on FIRE this morning!”
“Man! You guys are on FIRE this afternoon!”
“Man! You guys are on FIRE today!” (for the 4:30 classes).

Sometimes I’ll even add, “I’m impressed!!”

Don’t get me wrong, there are times when I really DO think that they’re on fire. But there are also times when I’ve got four people barely moving their legs, talking to their friends or yawning. Still, I tell them they’re on fire and it usually gets them working again…at least for a few minutes.

Now you’re wondering, “Will I ever get to see Writinggal do her spin shtick?” Only if you come to my spin class and you are more than welcome. But if we’re at a party, don’t expect me to say “Is your bootie bouncing?” or “Keep that core tight!” And I definitely will not say “Man, you’re on fire tonight!” Unless of course you are, literally, on fire.

But that would be an approprate time to finally use another great line: "Stop, drop and roll!"

Things Overheard at the Pig Pickin' 2007

Yep, we went again this year and collected plenty of blog-worthy lines. Remember to use your best North Carolina accent:


Grandma: “I can’t hear a word you’re saying! It’s gotten to where I just can’t hear at all anymore....but I figure I’ve heard enough.”

At KFC where we stopped to get “a snacker.”

Grandma: “We like to get these little snackers…you have to try a snacker.”
Elsa: “What if I don’t want a snacker?”
Grandma: “Well, you’re gonna get a snacker!!”
Frank: “I’d like to try the Buffalo snacker.”
Grandma: “No!! You get the regular snacker. You don’t need a fancy buffalo snacker.”
Aunt Mary: “Oh, Lib. Let him get the buffalo snacker. It’s the same price.”
Grandma, to the people in front of us: “What’s taking so long?”
KFC patrons (who have been trying to act like they don’t hear our snacker debacle): “The credit card machine is broken.”
Grandma: “You mean they can’t add two and two? They have to have a calculator! The calculator breaks and nobody can do anything!”
Elsa: “I agree. Look at all that chicken and we can’t have any because the calculator’s broken.”
Grandma: “What? You want chicken? NO! You’re getting a snacker!”

While eating the snackers:
Grandma: “Elsa, what are you doing? You just ripped your sandwich in two! That’s not how you eat a snacker! You have to hold the whole thing in one hand.”
Elsa: “Only my grandma would tell someone how they have to eat a sandwich.”
Grandma: “You mucked it up! That’s what we used to say in my day. You mucked it up!”
Elsa: “We say something similar now.”


Elsa, to Grandma’s neighbor, Pete: “Oh, you got a new dog. What’s its name?”
Pete: “Well, I’m not sure. Let me think about it.”
Elsa: “You don’t know your dog’s name?”
Pete: “No, I know it. Let me think…it’s something like Crystal.”
Elsa: “Maybe it’s on its tag…”
Pete: “No, it doesn’t have a tag…let me think.”
The little yorkie stares at Pete with its head tilted.
Pete points at the dog and yells, “WHAT IS YOUR DAMN NAME?”
We ended up calling Grandma to find out. Her name is Cricket. Grandma will never let Pete hear the end of this. But for the rest of the weekend I would point at people and yell, “WHAT IS YOUR DAMN NAME?”

Elsa: “Grandma, you’ve got company in all your beds tonight. Where will you sleep?”
Grandma: “Oh, I’ll sleep around.”


Aunt Mary: “Frank, you must be really smart.”
Grandma: “He IS smart. And you know what else? He seems to think Elsa’s smart too.”

Grandma: “Did you hear that? HE said that HE was going to make HER breakfast. I’ve never heard of such a thing!”

And the last thing Grandma said to me when she dropped us off at the airport:
“Goodbye…don’t let your boobs slip out.”

Now we’re cooking!

I’m trying to get Frank to eat more vegetables so when I saw an article in a magazine about how you can sneak them into meals—although they probably were referring to outsmarting a child, not a husband—I bit.

The recipe was for Heart Healthy Po' Boys. It basically involved some type of fish and a bag of coleslaw mixture. When I was breading the fish I had Frank help. (I mean, they say you should involve your children, or in this case, husband, in the meal process.) As we dipped the fish in the egg and cornmeal batter, Frank said, “Now it’s like we’re really cooking!”

That's right. We were REALLY cooking. And they turned out so good! I forgot buns so we used tortillas. Check out these bad boys. I mean, po boys:

Of course when Frank went to put his together he pointed to the vegetables and said, "I don't think I'm going to put any of those on mine."

Kids. Whaddya gonna do?

Smelling bath towels makes me nauseous

Today I was doing laundry and for some reason I sniffed the bath towels. Okay, fine. It was because I was wondering how dirty they were. When I sniffed them I had a weird childhood flashback. I thought of vomit. Here’s why:

When I was a young WG I had issues with nausea. I woke up nauseous and everything I looked at made me gag. Of course traditionally barf-inducing things were triggers like dog poo, dead bugs and barf itself. But then there were other things like this poster my parents had hanging up of a Spanish bull rider, the painted ceilings at Moody mansion in Galveston…come to think of it, art in general made me nauseous.

The good side of having an overactive gag reflex is that you get out of gross chores like cleaning the cat’s litter box.

The bad side is that you could potentially throw up in embarrassing places like, let’s say, the school bus stop when you’re 12 years old. Perhaps when someone who calls himself “The Brettster” tells a story about a kid who always has snot running down his nose and that his dad also had snot running down his nose…like maybe something like that could make you puke all over the other kids’ back packs.

Hey, I said “potentially.”

Anyway, I didn’t actually spew chunks that often. It was more the nauseous issue most of the time. But if I did get sick it wasn’t because I was actually ill; I just got grossed out. But just in case it should happen again while I was at school, my mom sent me on my way with a little protection—a bath towel. If I were to feel nauseous again and I couldn’t make it to the bathroom, I was to let it out on the towel. So I would seriously carry that towel around school with me. I remember even walking into the cafeteria with it one day and some kid (probably the Brettster, he was always on my back), saying, “Why are you carrying that towel around?” Oh, and I might add, it’s not like she gave me the best towel. Natch, it was an old ratty towel since chances were I was going to destroy it anyway.

So on those days when I would start to feel nauseous, I would put the towel over my mouth and breathe deeply. It seemed to help.

That’s why whenever I smell bath towels I feel nauseous. And now (as Paul Harvey would say), you know…the rest of the story.

And if that story made you a little bit queasy, you might want to grab a towel.

A Gilmore Goodbye

Lorelai. Rory. I love those Gilmore Girls (or as Frank calls them “The Girls of Gilmore.”) And tonight is the last time I’ll get to hear their rapid-witty-mother-daughter-but-more-like-college-roommates banter. I’m bummed.

Here’s where I need to back up and admit two things:

1. I haven’t exactly been a religious Girls of Gilmore watcher for the last seven seasons. In fact, I think I only watched the odd seasons. Not odd as in weird-odd like Britney-shaving-her-head but odd as in odd numbers as in seasons 1, 3, 5 and 7…and maybe six which is an even number but I don’t think I saw every episode so I’m sticking with I only saw the odd seasons. (That’s my attempt at a Rory rant. You’d have to be a GofG fan to understand.)

2. I didn’t even know this was the last season until a few days ago.

But nonetheless, I love those GofGs. And not just Rory and Lorelai. I love Luke (hot), Logan (interesting character and a pretty good actor who you can also see on Veronica Mars which I’ve actually only seen once but he was on it), Paris (intense), Mr. and Mrs. Gilmore (I learned how to unfold my napkin from Emily.) I’m not crazy about Lane’s storyline but Frank likes it because when she’s around we can usually see Sebastian Bach. Oh, and I like Sookie, Lorelai’s b-fry. And really, I just love their town, Stars Hollow even though it wasn’t until season three that I realized that they didn’t live in a town called “Gilmore.”

And how about that theme song? GofG was one of the last shows that actually played the whole thing. Here’s a little sample (purely based on my odd-season-watching memory so this could be a little off):

If you’re out on the road feeling lonely and so cold
All you have to do is call my name and I’ll be there on the next train…
Where you lead, I will follow
Anywhere that you tell me to
If you need, you need me to be with you
I will follow…

I’m totally singing this right here at WG headquarters. So glad I don’t work with co-workers in a cube environment.

And besides the interesting characters, awesome theme song and clever writing, everyone in the GofG cast is a darn good actor. Okay, Alexis Biedel sort of seems like she’s doing scenes in high school drama class but everyone else is superb. If it were up to me they would all get Emmys. Especially Lauren Graham.

But I can’t get them Emmys nor can I make the GofGs stick around for another season. Tonight’s the end and I plan to have a big party for it. But since I don’t know that many people here and it’s last minute, I’ll probably just watch it. But not with Frank because he doesn’t really like it. So I guess I’ll just Ti-faux it and watch it later. It should be a big occasion.

I think we should end this with a recent Rory-Lorelai exchange:

Lorelai: “It’s totally doorknob.”
Rory: “As in ‘dead as a?’”
Lorelai: “That’s right.”

HGTV ADD

It’s a condition. Some may call it a disorder, even a disease. Not sure if you’ve been stricken with HGTV ADD? Here are the symptoms:

You have a strong desire to improve your home but not a strong desire to actually do anything about it.

On Day One of “Project: re-tile your kitchen” you leave, thinking it’s going to be done for you when you return 24 hours later.

When a problem arises with your home office renovation, you keep looking around for some shirtless stud to solve it.

While watching shows on HGTV, you use your Ti-faux to fast forward through all the work so you can see the before and after shots.

When tackling home improvement projects you find yourself wishing that your life was in speed-cam and that everything you did was in fast-motion video (Except for the part when the sun goes down and comes back up in five seconds—then you’d miss out on sleeping.)


If you’ve got three or more of these, you’re HGTV ADD. You probably thought that by sitting on your couch and watching hours of HGTV, you would become a home improvement guru. Instead, it’s had the opposite effect. Now you equate home projects with lying around in your underwear, remote in one hand, fistful of Oreos in the other. You can’t stand to do the actual work. Because in real life, this work takes more than 22 minutes. Sometimes it takes 22 hours. Or even 22 days. It sucks.

How do I know so much about this disease? I’m not only the founder, I’m also a victim. I watch “Design on a Dime” and I think that I, too, can spend $92 and have a whole new living room. I watch “Design Remix” and think that I, too, will randomly find some discarded fabric under my bed that can be easily turned into curtains. I watch “Trading Spaces” and think that my neighbors could quickly transform my dining room and it wouldn’t be tacky. (Yes, that’s on TLC but I blame them too).

So what’s the remedy? There are two options:

1. Continue watching home improvement shows but adopt the motto “don’t try this at home.”

2. Stop watching home improvement shows. To do this you’ll have to get rid of the channel altogether. You can’t be trusted.

Actually, there’s a third option and I think it’s what I’ll do: continue watching HGTV, send in videos to every single show to convince them to re-do your house, room by room. If you’ve got a sob story, try “Extreme Makeover, Home Edition.”

Since there’s no known cure yet, we'll always have HGTV ADD. But at least we get to watch shirtless studs while we suffer.

T-Day

Some folks call it May Day but I call it T-Day as in “Teeth Freedom Day.” It’s the first day I’ve had nothing on the bottom of my teeth since June 28th, 2006. I wore my retainer last night and this morning after I ate my Kashi I didn’t put it back in my mouth. I just left it on the counter. I didn’t even brush it! It was so liberating!

But to tell you the truth, I feel more naked than free. It’s like I walked out of the house without my purse…or without pants on. (And by the way, in junior high I had this irrational fear that I forgot to wear pants to school. I would look down and tell myself that I was indeed wearing pants but just to be sure I would always ask a friend or a bus seat partner, “Am I wearing pants?” Maybe that’s what happens to the people in the drive-thru lines. Wow. FCM. Full Circle Moment.)

I’m just nervous that my teeth are going to spread apart again. And if they do, it’s Braces Boulevard for Writinggal. But for now, they’re as together as they’re gonna get. Here’s a closer look:

BEFORE:

AFTER:

Yes, there’s still a tiny space but I’m certain that my “you’ve got some spinach in your teeth” comments will go down at least 80%. And what’s going to go up? My grazing ability! I’m gonna sample food at grocery stores, nibble at parties and munch on chips and salsa! Oh, that sounds so good. I think I’ll head out and hit a Mexican restaurant for lunch.

But wait…am I wearing pants?

TGI-Frustration

Whatever happened to predictability? The milkman? The paper boy? Evening TV?

It’s that last one that came up in convo this morning:

I said to Frank, “TGIF!”

As if he didn’t know. I had poured his orange juice in the bikini lady glass. Obviously it was Friday.

But then he posed a serious question: “Remember when they had TGIF on TV?” He then went on to list all the awesome shows that used to run on Friday nights:

Full House
Step by Step
Urkel

I agreed that those programs were spectacular and quite high-brow and I, too, missed them greatly.

So in an effort to cheer him up and not spoil this fab Friday I said, “The Ghost Whisperer is new tonight!”

He smiled for a moment. He was probably thinking about when we say “I might be just like you…except I have much bigger boobs.”


But then he seemed disgruntled again. “I mean, why doesn’t another station do TGIF? Do people not watch TV on Fridays anymore?”

I reminded him that the WB had “Fridays with the Frog” for awhile. You know, where they showed the critics’ darling “What I like about you” with Jennie Garth and Amanda Bynes.

Sigh. Those were the days.

And to go even further back I used to watch the Dukes of Hazzard on Friday nights. Frank preferred G.L.O.W. (Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling). Or was that on Saturday nights?

Either way, it’s clear we’ve never had a full social life. But at least we have J. Love Hewitt…and 20/20…but they’re not the same as the Olsen Twins. Or Uncle Jesse.

(And I seriously would like to know what happened to the milkman. That would be awesome. )

Why did the P.E. Teacher Cross the Road?

It happened again. The folks at the VW dealership think I’m a P.E. teacher. And this VW dealership is about 800 miles away from the last one.

So I took my car in yesterday right after teaching a spin class. I was sweaty, stinky and red-faced. While the service peeps didn’t actually accuse me of being a P.E. teacher, I know what they were thinking: “Oh, look at her. Must have been an especially rough day of dodge ball. And now, here it is, 10am and she’s able to hang out here for three hours.”

But I didn’t hang out there. I walked down this major road to a Starbucks. And once I tired of their free latte samples I crossed the busy road again to go to Wendy’s. Even after consuming several items from their $1 menu I still had 52 minutes to kill. So I wandered back up the busy road and pretended to be interested in buying a VW just so a salesperson would show me around and I could kill time.

My point is that yesterday, I went up and down that street a lot.

Then today my door wouldn’t shut all the way. And my car kinda sounded like a helicopter. And what was that odor? Oh, that was from me, not showering until four hours after spin class.

So I took it back. And this time I had taught a longer spin class so I was even sweatier. And I was wearing my spin shorts—not okay for outside the YMCA. Again, they looked at me with P.E. teacher envy. Hey, I know it’s the coolest job but unfortunately, it’s not mine.

They told me it would be another two hours. As I wandered back down the busy road (during rush hour this time), I considered my options. I was really hungry but the only place open was the Waffle House. Sounded greasy. So I decided that I would walk home (what could it be, four miles?), eat my Kashi and then ride my bike back to the dealership. Then I could eat what I wanted AND I could kill the two hours.

But then I thought, “Do I really want to walk under one of the busiest highways in Atlanta during rush hour?” And then, more importantly, I thought, “How will I get my bike back home? It doesn’t fit in my car.”

To the Waffle House!

The greasy diner actually had an egg white option so I ordered two eggs which came with hashbrowns and two pieces of toast and jelly. This was only about $3.00. The Waffle House rocks! So just as I was getting comfortable in my booth amidst all the truckers and retirees, the VW dudes call. The part I need isn’t in. They can’t work on my car today.

But I already wandered down the busy road and more importantly, I already ordered my Waffle House meal and Portia was just about to bring it over. So I stayed, read the paper and chowed down on my egg whites. You know what’s good? Taking bread, spreading on some catsup, then putting hash browns and egg whites on top. Yum.

So as I wandered back up to the VW dealership (yes, “up.” They have hills here!), I wondered if anybody on the road recognized me from my earlier trip. Or from the day before. Or earlier the day before. That’s when I thought that they must be thinking, “Hey, why is that P.E. teacher wandering down this busy road?” And I started giggling uncontrollably. Right there on the busy road. Wearing my spin shorts. I love pretending to be a P.E. teacher. It’s my favorite game. And I love the Waffle House. But I don’t love the way my car smells.

Oh, and I guess that brings me to the answer to my original question: To get to the Waffle House, duh!

Luckily, I’m not Superstitious

The only thing I’m superstitious about is not being superstitious. So it makes sense that I’m not concerned about having seven years of bad luck after my entire master bathroom mirror came crashing down and shattered.



In fact, being the optimist-glass-half-full kinda person that I am, I’m sort of glad about it.

(Okay, I’m not usually such a bright-sider and I totally hate that whole glass analogy. I mean, what if I wasn’t thirsty? Then the glass being half empty would be a GOOD thing. It’d be like, “I’m glad it’s half empty. That way when I’m dumping it out I won’t be wasting as much water.” Now would that person be a pessimist? No, they’d be an optimistic environmentalist. Now if it was a glass of wine and I said it was half empty, that would make me a pessimist. Or a drunk.)

But this time I’m being super optimistic. Even if the whole fiasco is costing as much as a couple of round trip plane tickets. Or a few pairs of high end jeans. No, I’m happy because two good things came out of the mirror mayhem:

1. Relief. When I first saw that there was glass everywhere I thought we had a break in. In fact, I was sure of it. Yet I still kept walking into the bathroom even though the burglar could very well have been using our toilet or trying on my clothes or using my Chi.

2. A new mirror: We’re getting a cool beveled one! I wanted a framed one like on HGTV but that would have been another plane ticket.

So yesterday the whole thing got cleaned up and now we’re left with a blank wall with gross black glue.

Oh, and I just thought of a third good thing:

3. I think I’ll be less vain after this. I’m just starting to realize how often I look in the mirror. Every time I walk by the bathroom I try to check myself out and all I see is the wall. I can’t even see my reflection when I’m doing my hair. Oh, just thought of a fourth good thing:

4. This should cut down my getting ready time by at least 3-4 minutes.

But, on the other hand, I’ll have funky hair since I can’t see what I’m doing. And disastrous make-up.

Will you look at that? I’m becoming a pessimist. Well, it should only last for about seven years.

More Words of Wisdom from my Dad

“I want to rent a video but I also want some frozen yogurt. I just don’t want to make two stops. If only there was a place that had both.”
--my dad, mocking the short-lived “Video and Yogurt” store in our town.

I was reminded of this particular quote from my dad Friday morning while watching CNN. They had a story about a car that had crashed into a store (which seems to be happening a lot lately). The store sold “Appliances and Tanning.” So you could get a freezer and a burn. Or a burner and a bronze. Or a washer/dryer and a little darker. Or a grill and a glow. I could go on and on.

Sometimes I just want to smack myself for not coming up with these brilliant combinations first.

Burn Baby Burn

Frank used to have these roommates who nicknamed him “Disco.” Whenever Frank would walk into the house the guys would say, “Hey, Disco!” They would even use it in casual conversation, “Hey, Disco…whaddya eatin’?” I thought he must be some incredible dancer but it didn’t take long to figure out that couldn’t possibly be the cause. Frank explained that they thought he looked like this wrestler named Disco Inferno. I guess I wasn’t very intrigued or maybe I’m just grossed out by wrestling or maybe both but all I know is, I never bothered to look him up until yesterday.

So whaddya think? Am I married to a washed-up wrestler or what?

Now you must want to know what inspired me to “get on the Google” as W says and find Mr. Disco. Or Mr. Inferno. Whatever.

Well, the other morning on the news here in Atlanta they had a story that started, “The police made a huge bust in Roswell…” I panicked. WE live in Roswell! Did we buy a house in the ghetto and nobody told us? “…in an upscale neighborhood…” the reporter continued. Turns out it was a high-stakes poker game. Schwoo. If there’s gonna be some crime goin’ on, gimmee the white collar stuff in the “upscale” neighborhood.

Then the next morning they reveal more details. They say the name of the neighborhood. It’s not far from ours! Woo hoo! We must be upscale! I wonder if there are any high stakes poker games in our subdivision. It was $10,000 just to get into this one. Just as I’m about to go tell Frank what I’ve learned, they add, “…one of the leaders of the gambling ring was Glenn Gilberti, also known as the wrestler Disco Inferno…”

Ah! Disco Inferno?? Frank’s look-alike/nickname inspiration is our neighbor? And what’s more, he’s been throwing these elaborate parties in his basement and we haven’t been invited?

He’s probably worried that the younger Disco will usurp his wrestling throne. Or he heard that Frank is too cheap to play poker. Probably more likely. Disco, as soon as you’re free, we’ll have you over to our not-as-upscale home for a little R&R. And we’ll only charge you $5,000.

The Little Things

As a young Writinggal I got excited about all the normal things kids cared about: the last day of school, going on vacation, the arrival of my Troll book order. But I remember a few occasions where I was excited about seemingly lame things:

A brown and yellow van: Our neighbors (the ones we called “the kids” even though there were just three of them) had this big, brown and yellow van. In fact, one time it got stolen and Marvin Zindler (Houstonites know what I’m talking about) helped them recover it. Anyway, you’re going to think this is really weird but I remember being at Mother’s Day Out (so I was like, less, than three years old) and my dad came to pick me up. He told me before we went outside, “I’ve got a surprise…” and when we got out there it was the kids’ brown and yellow van. Something had happened to his car so he had to borrow it to pick me up. I can’t explain to you how thrilled I was. I remember this feeling of joy, excitement, pure jubilation that we were going to get to ride in the brown and yellow van. And I kinda think I may have ridden in the front seat without a car seat. But then again, I was only less than three so I can’t be sure. I just know it was freakin’ awesome.


A screen door: Even as a “grown-up,” most of my joy comes from looking forward to things. Once the thing actually happens it’s never as much fun to me. Like vacations. I love to look forward to them and I love getting there and I love immediately being there. But then once we arrive at the hotel or wherever we’re going, I just start thinking, “It’s almost over…” I’m sort of grim like that. This is also why I like Thursday nights so much. But anyway, back to the screen door: I think this was in second grade. I was sitting in Mrs. Davis’ music class, singing something about 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 or the E.T. song and I was kinda bummed just because I was always bummed in Mrs. Davis’ class. I was staring at the clock, willing it to move. Then I remembered that we were getting a screen door installed on our house that afternoon. It wasn’t a total screen door; it was half glass/half screen which is even cooler. When I remembered that, I got super excited. Like I felt like I was going to bounce off the music room walls. I think I was excited because I liked the idea of having the front door open all the time. (Even as a kid I was into natural light.) So after I remembered the screen door installation, I was totally in a good mood and no one could bring me down.

I tried to think of a third weird thing that got me excited as a kid just because things are better in threes. But then I figured that being excited about a yellow and brown van as well as a screen door was enough weirdness for one day.

Oh my darling, Clementine.

I’m not really into fruity candy but I love me some orange slices. Now I’ve found a fruit that tastes like an orange slice but it’s good for you like an orange: the clementine.

Our friend Amish introduced us to them. He told of us of its easy-to-peel functionality, its juicy taste and its addictive qualities. Frank and I each tried one (I think Frank tried three) and we were hooked. “Tastes like an orange slice!” I squealed.

I was already planning on going to the store that day so I added them to my list. When I arrived at Kroger (they have that here too!) I discovered my first of two disappointments:

1. Clementine oranges are expensive! $7.99 for a basket of ‘em. And you had to buy the whole basket. Made me feel bad that we gobbled up so many of Amish’s.

Still, I bought the little suckers and Frank and I ate them with our breakfasts, for snacks and basically, every time we passed by that cute little basket (which I later repurposed as a dish towel holder. Just call me Heloise.)

Now, onto the second disappointment: I know this is dorky but I look up everything on the internet. Like if I pass a house in the neighborhood that’s for sale, I have to look it up to see how much it is. Or if I’m about to go to a restaurant, I have to look up the menu online. So when I fell in love with the clementines, I looked them up too. That’s where I found #2:

2. They’re only in season from about Dec-March. Come to think of it, ours did go dundies fast.


So we had fun with the clementines while they lasted. It’s like that song at the end of Pretty Woman, “It must have been love…but it’s over now.” Except that’s about a hooker and a businessman and this is about a writer and a fruit. Although that hooker did have orange hair.

Put your pants on and have some fries!

The other day Frank and I went to Chick-fil-A. We were planning on eating there and we easily got a parking spot even though it was during lunch hour. It’s not that this Chick-fil-A wasn’t busy. It was. It’s just that everybody was in the drive thru. In fact, if we had gotten in that line, it would have made a full circle around the building. Frank immediately said, “They must not have pants on!”

This is a theory of mine that dates back to 2000 when we used to go to CfA for Two for Tuesdays. I always wondered why anyone would get in the back of the never-ending drive thru line. Sure, it’s easier than getting out of your car but when the line is that long, it’s definitely not faster. I thought, “Certainly they’re not that lazy. They can’t be so sloth-like that they’d prefer to sit in their cars for an extra ten, maybe 15 minutes rather than walk an extra 47 steps round trip and order their food inside.”

So what could be stopping them? What could make someone so desperate to not get out of their car that they would subject themselves to that spiraling drive thru line? There was only one explanation.

They weren’t wearing pants.

They’re sitting there in their cars, some wearing button down shirts, suit jackets and a tie on top but nothing on the bottom. I suspect that they’re wearing shoes or else it would be uncomfortable to press the gas and brake. I can’t be sure if they’re wearing underwear but hopefully, for sanitary reasons, they are. But then again, these are people who don’t wear pants while driving so I guess anything’s possible.

If they would just put their pants on (or even shorts, a skirt or even a skort), they could proudly walk into any fast food establishment. (Well, maybe not if they’re wearing a skort unless it’s 1993.) Think of the time they’ll save. Sure, they’ll have to take a couple of extra minutes to put on their pants and maybe another 30 seconds for the belt but the time they’ll get back will be ten fold. Plus, they’ll take an extra 47 steps that day, multiply that over five times a week times 52 weeks a year, that’s an extra 12,220 steps a year! Just think of all the weight they’ll lose!

Although they are still eating at fast food places so that could come out even. It’s probably just as well; if they lost weight they’d have to get new pants and we all know that’s never gonna happen.

Livin’ Like the Loyds

We don’t have cable in our new house yet. That means no TV. No internet. I’m writing this blog from the local library which is okay except they kick me off after an hour. Luckily, I’m a super fast typer.

Living without these two services has proved challenging. I told Frank, “It’s like we’re camping. No, it’s like we’re the Loyds!” The Loyds don’t have cable TV or the internet although they do have rabbit ears and a karaoke machine.

Once the Loyds came to our house to watch the NBA playoffs. After the Mavs won, sending them to the championship, I said, “You guys should come over again to watch the next game.” John Loyd said, “No, that’ll be on ABC.”


So now we’re living in a new city and if we want to make some new friends, we’re gonna need cable TV, that’s for sure. So what’s the hold up? Well it’s been one calamity after another with the cable company. (aside: I like the word “calamity.” My dad used it the other day and while I usually say “catastrophe” I thought I’d try a new one.)

Calamity #1: Friday, 3/30: Cable guy is running late. Can’t come to our house during scheduled 17-hour window. Waiting at home for him all day ends up being waste of time. Reschedule for ridiculously long window the following day.

Calamity #2: Saturday, 3/31: System is down so cable guy can’t install internet. Cable company calls to reschedule. “No!!” I scream at them. “I need it today! Send him out to at least install the TV.”

Calamity #3: Still Saturday, 3/31: Russian cable guy comes out. Climbs all over the house, can’t find wiring. Finds faulty wiring. I’m not really sure what he found/didn’t find but he kept mumbling to himself, sweating and I think swearing. Says he can’t install cable that day. Tear forms in my eye. Frank’s too.

Calamity #4: In effort to find correct wiring, cable guy cuts his thumb. Definitely swears. Frank screams for a band-aid. I scream back that I have a first aid kit just for these occasions but it’s packed up. We rip into boxes. Finally find band-aids. Too late. Cable guy has bled all over the house, including new carpet. Cable guy leaves after two hours, still bleeding and mumbling something that sounds like, “Gotta get out of this house…”

Tomorrow I’m set up for two more crazy-long windows: one in the morning for someone to fix the wiring and one in the late afternoon for someone to install. Hopefully all goes well without calamities and/or blood shed.

I’m starting to see why the Loyds opt not to mess with all this technology. If I can’t make this happen by tomorrow, I’m giving up and buying a karaoke machine.

Pickin' up some apps

FYBRI (For Your Blog Reading Information): I'm coming to you from Atlanta. I live here now. I don't think this should affect our relationship.
_____________________________________________________________________

When our college graduation was upon us some eight years ago, most of us were sending out resumes (we faxed them back then, sometimes even mailed) and going on interviews (we wore skirt suits with panty hose, shameful).

But one of Frank's friends announced, "Well, I'm about to graduate. I gotta go pick up some applications."

Applications? You don't "pick up applications" after spending four years in college. You don't randomly walk into Taco Cabana and ask, "Y'all hirin'?" When you fill out applications you have to list your high school, even your elementary school. And there's like a whole page for listing your felonies. They ask that you write down how much money you want to make per hour and what shifts you're available to work.

No, the rest of us were above that. We even printed our resumes on speckled-sturdy-stock paper. Mine was a shade of blue. I thought it gave me an extra edge.

Well, today, I lost my edge.

I wanted to see about teaching spin at a gym here. As most of you know, up until two days ago, I taught spin in Dallas. They don't have 24 Hour Fitness here so I had to venture into L.A. Fitness. I felt like a 16-year-old. It was just like when I used to drive around at the beginning of the summer, wandering into restaurants, retail stores and the mall, asking, "Are y'all takin' applications?" That's how I ended up at Sonic.

So I walked in and I'm like, "Hi! I was an instructor in Dallas and I wanted to see about teaching here. Is there someone I can talk to about that?"

The girl behind the front desk made me fill out an application. I did it: the elementary school, high school, random references, the pay per hour, the felony charges, the works.

I did feel somewhat proud when I wrote down my college degree: Bachelor of Science from the University of Texas. Pretty impressive. Surely I'm qualified to teach spin. I confidently handed the girl my application.

She said, "Um...I think you messed up on your address. You wrote that you live in Roswell, Texas."

Oops. I wonder if Sonic is hiring.

Sunny Memories

I'll miss you, yellow kitchen. Thanks for the food, friends and fun. Let's try this as a slideshow!

House Hunters Junkie

You know I love my HGTV. When I called to set up cable in our new house and the cable gal was rattling off packages, I told her, “I just have one question. Does that package include HGTV?”

She said, “It includes ESPN, MSNBC, the Discovery Channel…” and I said, “I don’t care about that, dammit! Tell me if it has the HGTV!!”

I gotta have my House Hunters. You see, I not only watch it, I Tivo it. I watch as many episodes as I can—even the international version. And when I’m not Tivo-ing HH, I act like I’m living it. When we went house hunting in Atlanta (and yes, I did research being on the show but apparently they’ve got plenty of hunters right now), I kept doing commentary like we were on House Hunters:

“The next day Jackie took them to see a smaller but updated townhome in the city…” I would say as our realtor opened the lock box. She’d ask, “Who are you talking to?”

“Oh, I’m Suzanne Whang, host of House Hunters.” Then I would make Frank list the pros and cons of each house with me. We really did have it narrowed down to three. We would have been perfect for the show! Plus, our natural good looks wouldn’t hurt either.

The other day I knew I had hit a House Hunters high (or low). Not only was this particular episode I was watching a re-run, it was one I had already seen and I still watched it. It was this cute couple with this little girl named Nellie. They lived in Virginia and were looking for a new house in a really expensive part of town. Even though I knew which house they picked, I found myself yelling at the screen:

“No!! Not the one with 1.25 baths! You need two full baths! What are you crazy? That room doesn’t even have a closet! I can’t believe you’re paying 700K+ for this! You should have gone with house #2!”

Then yesterday I was watching another episode that I had Tivo’d. Frank came into the living room just as I was saying, “Nice!” in response to an updated kitchen. “Are you talking to the house hunters?” he asked.

“That’s right. Oh, wood paneling. Abort! Abort!” I yelled.


And then, my favorite part: when Suzanne says, “So which one did they choose?” and they review the three houses one last time with that bee-boppy music and clever descriptions:
House #1: Bungalow in the city with high price tag
House #2: Affordable space in the suburbs
House #3: Updated townhome; single car garage

I scream out my choice: “Number 3!! Number 3!” And sometimes I change my mind, “Wait. No, number 2, number 2!!”

The whole experience is exhausting. Sometimes I break a sweat. So why would I need the cable package with ESPN? I’ve got plenty of sports to watch.

Frank with the Glasses

In college Frank introduced me to this friend of his. I think her name was Kara. I don’t remember much about her except that she wore glasses. So from then on, whenever he would mention her, I’d say, “Who?” and he’d say, “You know, Kara…she’s Janna’s friend…you met her in the computer lab…” and I would say, “Oh! Kara with the glasses!”

He thought this was amusing because she didn’t always wear glasses. She just happened to be wearing glasses the day I saw her. He’d say, “She’s not ‘Kara with the glasses.’”

So that became a thing—labeling people for conditions that are only temporary:

“Cindy with the big earrings.”
“Stan with the camouflage t-shirt.”
“Jason with the fanny pack.”
“Erica with the booger.”

If some sort of temporary condition were to strike us, we’d also call it out:

“I’m Frank with the cold sore!”

“I’m Elsa with the giant pimple!”

This weekend Frank got pink eye and he had to wear his glasses from sophomore year in high school. They’re big and bulky and—seeing as the prescription is about fourteen years old—not very effective. When he realized that he would have to wear them out in public (to a bar, no less), he said, “Oh, no! I’m Frank with the glasses!”

And he was. He had to introduce himself to people and that was their first impression. If they ever hear his name again they’ll say, “Who? Frank? Oh, Frank with the glasses!” And really, they’ll more likely say, “Who? Frank? Oh, Frank with the big, dorky glasses!”

When he went to the eye doctor on Sunday (one of those mall eye doctors—they’re open all the time), they told him he’d have to be “Frank with the glasses” for three more days. He couldn’t take it. He broke down and actually purchased new glasses. And since it was a mall eye doc, he got them an hour.

Check him out. I think “Frank with the glasses” is pretty cute.

I just hope he’s not too good for “Elsa with the retainer.”

RSVP Reversal

I may not speak French but I know that répondez s'il vous plait means " get off your ass and tell the person if you’re coming or not." And I’m a stickler about it. I usually respond the day I get the invite which means that I’m at the top of the hostess’ list. I wasn’t ever sure if that afforded me any particular party rights but I knew it made me feel good

But you have to think that the host/hostess probably tells the guest of honor (who is presumably the one you’re friends with) who’s coming. So if the h/h tells the GofH from the get-go “Elsa called…she’s coming” and then every update after that ends with “Oh, and you already know Elsa’s coming. She RSVP’d the first day…” then the GofH starts to get used to the idea that you’re coming.

Last week I tried a different approach, completely unintentionally. I RSVP’d that I would not be attending a baby shower. But at the last minute my circumstances changed and I was able to attend. Instead of telling the GofH that I would be coming, I kept it from her. I only called the hostess the night before and told her. Now this is somewhat poor form because it’s not as if the hostess can order more food at this point or change anything, but still, I thought I should tell her. She probably thought, “What’s another person? How much cake can she eat?” She didn’t know me very well, obviously. (And by the way they only had one of those diaper cakes. It was an awkward scene when I tried to cut into it.)

But because I didn’t tell the GofH I was coming, she was very surprised and thrilled to see me. And since she was pregnant and hormonal, she even cried!

Check it out:

Okay, well she wasn't sobbing but if you look closely, you can see the tears. Yes, my presence brought tears to the GofH's eyes.

Speaking of presents, I didn’t even bring one because I had already sent one online. I just brought a card stating as much.

All in all, it turned out to be a wonderful strategy and I had a nice time despite the diaper cake catastrophe.

I actually have a baby shower to attend this weekend and I’m thinking of pulling the same stunt. Or maybe I’ll find out what kind of cake they’re serving first.

In the Dime Zone with Elvis

If you ever find yourself in Elvis' hometown of Memphis, TN (as we did for a few hours on Saturday night—long story), you have to stay at the Holiday Inn Select near the airport.

For a mere $70 plus tax you can live like the king for the night. It’s perfect if you have to catch a flight out of there early in the morning as we did. However, they won’t let you pay by the hour. (“We’re not that kind of place.”) Oops.

Ask for room 450. It’s the party suite:


It’s got a big king bed…

A banquet table…

And a bar area.

Hello? Can you say dime zone? I thought at first it was the pretty girl discount but since we had been driving through a tornado for six-and-a-half hours and had gone without showers longer than I care to say, that couldn’t be it.

Too bad we were only there for about four hours and we didn’t have any booze. I did, however, tear into a pretty good packet of peanut butter crackers at the banquet table.

Maybe we were living like fat, Vegas Elvis.

Have you seen me?

Name: Big Blue Recycle Bin
Born: 12/16/06
Missing Since: 2/16/07
Height: 4 feet, 2 inches
Race: Blue
Weight: 100 pounds (full of recyclables) or 30 pounds (empty)
Last seen with: Recycle Pick-up Guy

If anybody has any information as to the whereabouts of our dear Big Blue Recycle bin, please contact me. I called 3-1-1 to report it missing but of course, they can’t do anything on a “holiday.” I did speak to someone and I indicated that I suspected it was bin-napped. “Isn’t there an Amber Alert for this sort of thing?” I asked. “No, but how can we be sure SOMEONE ELSE stole it, huh?” the sanitation dept. official said. “We will have to do a thorough investigation to rule out EVERYONE, including you.”

How dare she suggest that I had something to do with this! I am innocent! I had no reason to steal my own recycle bin. It’s probably some recycling pervert. He’s probably wanted in another state like Wyoming. If you’re reading this and you have our bin, just return it, unharmed. It’s just a baby! I need it back. And dammit, I’ve got a lot of cardboard piling up.

Pressing Pause

Frank once said to a girlfriend, “I think of our relationship like a VCR. I’m going to press pause.”

Now even though that was clearly a statement made in the 90’s and a DVD reference would be more applicable now, I’m going to use it.

My blog is like a VCR. I need to press pause.

I’ve had to re-prioritize and oddly enough, it turned out that the work that I get paid for had to come first.

You might say, “But writing a blog doesn’t take any time.” To that I say, “Well, it shouldn’t. But I’m a little slow.”

You might also say, “But writing the blog IS your job! It’s your livelihood!” To that I say, “If this was my livelihood I could never afford that fancy soy milk.”

You might ask, “Will you be gone forever?” To that I say, “Please refer to the VCR reference. I’m not pressing “power” or even “stop.” Just “pause.” I might check in once a week, maybe twice a week. Who knows? Maybe I’ll post on Saturday night. Hey, I said I’m busy with writing, not with a social life.”

You might want to know, “How long will you pause?” To that I say, “Well, you can only pause so long, especially if you have a Beta machine. Eventually the pause button unpauses and goes on with the movie.”

I’m not really sure how that relates to this but I’m guessing maybe a month or so. Again, I may still post, just not every day. And it’s possible you might have to adjust the tracking.

Let them eat cake! (Or at least let me!)

I’m so glad I temporarily forgot my doorbell rule yesterday (that nothing good comes from answering your door). Well, I actually did hide upstairs when I heard it ring but Frank answered and it was the only good reason to ever answer your door: Girl Scout Cookies!


I was relieved that we had only ordered three boxes. I know, that sounds pathetic (since I’m so crazy about them) but ever since the Granbury Girls cookie exchange in November, I’ve been going sweet silly. There was about two weeks of cookies after that, then Christmas with its Friendship cake from Grandma, eggnog, brownies, chocolate cookies…Then it was New Year’s in Durango with the Omaha Steaks cake (which I also had in December). Before I knew it we were in January with Thea’s birthday cake, my birthday cake from Cul de Sac Carrie, another birthday cookie cake from Frank and then of course, the PB Pie Extravaganza of 2007.


After the PBPE of ’07, I told myself I had to back off the sweets. I would just stick to Vitatops for my sugar highs. But then the GS cookies came. Now one of the boxes happened to be a new kind: sugar free brownies. We tried them last night. They’re all right—if you know they’re sugar free.

And now, look what’s coming up: Valentine’s Day. I know Frank will bring home a giant heart-shaped box of chocolates for me and I’ll have to try every one of them. Wait. I think those things are expensive. Scratch that.

But I am hosting a Granbury Girls post Valentine’s Day gathering at my house. It’s called “We HEART Granbury Drive.” Instructions are to wear red and pink, but not together. I wonder if I should instruct them not to bring any sweets. Nah, then they’d have to eat my sugar free Girl Scout brownies and that would just be cruel.

Oh, well. I’ll start my sweet stand-off after Valentine’s Day. I guess I could give them up for Lent. But that would mean no sweets for St. Patrick’s Day, Texas Independence Day and the Ides of March! I can’t do that. In fact, I’m going to have to pick up some more Girl Scout cookies just to get me through those sweet-filled holidays.

Mini Frankosophy

I don’t have time for a full blog today so I’ll just give you something funny Frank thought of last night:

Frank: “You know who’s really happy about Anna Nicole dying?”

Me: “Happy? That’s not very nice. That guy who claims he’s the father of her baby?”

Frank: “No, it has nothing to do with Anna Nicole but her dying makes it better for this person…”

Me: “OH!!! The Diaper-Wearing Astronaut!!”

Permanent Pimpin'

72 Days is…

a). The amount of time you can keep lunch meat in your fridge before it starts to taste like Lysol.

b). How long it takes for my brown roots to start peeping out.

c). The number of days I’ve had this pimple on my face


Answer: C (sorry I would have put it upside down and smaller but I don’t know how to do that.)

On the bright side: it’s not as big as when it first appeared in 2006.
On the dark side: it’s still here.

What is it doing here? What is its purpose? Does it have a message for me? Is it actually a spaceship and aliens are going to emerge from it?

I want to thank everyone for their pimple remedies. I’ve tried them all. And while I don’t doubt that your solutions are successful, I think they are merely what you say they are—pimple solutions.

This, my friends, is no pimple. It laughs at pimples. It bullies pimples. It squashes pimples. This is some other life form that can’t be controlled by Oxy, toothpaste or Visine. No amount of face-washing, cleansing and toning can defeat this beast. It’s too powerful.

So I have no choice but to grow to love it. I’ll have to think of it as my own version of Cameron Diaz’s crooked nose (wait, she fixed that) or Kelly Clarkson’s big bootie (darn, she got skinny) or Pink’s trademark hair color (didn't she go blonde?)

Yes, I’ll just be known as “The girl with the bite on her face.” People will say, “Which one is she?” And someone will say, “You know, that girl who has that huge bump on her face.” And the original person will go, “Oh, right! Now I know who you’re talking about. Why doesn’t she get that fixed?”

Because it’s a part of me. And like the 72-day-old lunch meat in my fridge, it’s here to stay.

Little Orphan Panties

The other day Cul de Sac Carrie and I were doing our power walk when she pointed to the ground and said, “Oh, look. You lost your panties.”

Yes, there was a pair of pink satin panties right there in the street. A thong I believe. And while I’m pretty sure they didn’t belong to me, this wasn’t my first encounter with abandoned panties.

In the sorority house it happened all the time—panties left on the community bathroom floor. Why was that my problem? Because I was the house manager and apparently unclaimed panties fell under my jurisdiction.

After several futile attempts to stop the careless panty behavior (suggesting, pleading, sometimes directly accusing: “I know those briefs with the snowmen on them are yours, Laura!”), I tried a new tactic. I made the panties do the talking. I left a note on the bathroom floor next to a pair of discarded panties:

“Hello. I am dirty, random panties. I was once somebody’s prize possession. Somebody spent a lot of money on me. But then they just left me here on the bathroom floor to collect dust. It’s humiliating. I don’t know why they won’t just come pick me up and put me in the washing machine. Then I’d be as good as new! Would somebody else please claim me? I’ll do your homework for you!"

Love, Random Panties

While my messages attracted attention (much like my popular “pottie ponders” in the stalls), they didn’t prove helpful in placing the panties with their rightful owner. Eventually, I would have to put on gloves and dispose of the panties myself.

I guess after awhile the person who had left her panties in there was just too embarrassed to claim them. I mean, what if she wore them again and we happened to catch her? But this was before the low-rise jeans craze so that couldn’t have been it.

Now if you’re the one who left your panties in the street, I don’t blame you for not picking them up. They’ve been run-over, ruined by dogs and are basically dundies. But what I’ll never understand is how you lost your panties in the first place.

Were you driving to the laundry mat with the top down on your car? Are they evidence in some sort of scandal so you were discarding them? Or did you walk to the Goodwill and buy panties and then drop them on the way home? Wait, they don’t sell panties at Goodwill, do they? Well if they do maybe I could donate all the orphaned panties that I've found. Then I'd get a tax write off and all those poor panties could go to good homes.

Playing Games

I don’t get Deal or No Deal. I mean, I’ve never watched it but I think that all you do is guess how much money is in a suitcase. Am I right? Frank says, “That’s like a show where you hold out your fists and say ‘which hand is it in?’”

Me, I like the more high-brow game shows like Wheel of Fortune. Now that takes brains, quickness and strategy. But those idiots are always buying vowels all over the place. I would never buy a vowel. Big waste of money. I went to a taping once and at the end they were going to draw numbers from the audience so we could actually be contestants. At first I was psyched. I totally rock that game at home. I make fun of people. I get those speedy puzzles before anyone else. But there, in front of Pat and Vanna, I panicked. I was so scared they were going to draw my number that I withdrew, saying that my boyfriend worked for American Airlines, one of the sponsors (which was true but probably not a rule they enforced).

But I’ll never forget this one contestant circa 1998. Here’s what she had to work with:

T_E CL_NT_NS L_VE AT 1600 PENNSYLV_N_ _ _VEN_E


The contestant said, “The Clintons Live at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.” Can you believe that? What an idiot!

Oh, wait. This may not have come across clearly in blog-form:

She didn’t say that they “live” there as in they inhabit the house, she said “live” with a long "I" as in, “The Rolling Stones: Live and in concert!” So it came out as “The Clintons: Live at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue!”

Poor Girl.

In general, though, game shows make me feel icky, much like soap operas. They remind me of lounging around and being generally unproductive, something I only allowed myself to do in college, when my parents were paying for it.

On Mondays when I’m leaving spin class they’re always playing The Price is Right in the “cardio theater.” I don’t know how anybody can work out and watch Bob Barker. To me, seeing him just makes me want to lay around in my pajamas in my dorm room, pondering if I should eat lunch or breakfast since it’s 10:30 and I just woke up (and missed class).

And hearing him say, “Get your pets spayed and neutered” just makes me want to go back to bed.

I’m feeling lazy just talking about it. I really should get into that “guess which hand it’s in” show instead. I would totally rock at that.

PB Pie High

It was a roller coaster of emotions as I devoured this “Peanut Butter Pie” which was similar to a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup but twenty times as big, a hundred times better and with lots of whip cream:

Surprise: Wow, it’s bigger than I thought it would be.
Amazement: Oh. My. Gosh. This tastes so good.
Competitive: Frank is eating too fast. Must speed up.
More surprise: Chocolate AND Peanut Butter? This is no pie. It’s heaven.
Frustration: Frank is totally hogging it. I want more whip cream.
Jubilation: This is absolutely the best dessert I’ve ever had in my life.
Regret: Why did I opt to share it with Frank? I should have gotten my own.
Optimistic: I’m so happy that there’s still half left.
Pessimistic: I’m so sad that there’s only half left.
Jealousy: I think Frank ate more than me.
Panic: I have to hurry and take more bites before Frank eats the whole thing!
Contentment: I think I might be getting pretty full. But it tastes so freakin’ good.
Confusion: Are my pants getting tight?
Panic again: Am I going to be able to get out of this booth?
Reasonable: I need to stop and take a break. Maybe we should save the rest for later.
Spontaneous: No, I have to live for the moment! I must finish this now! Carpe Peanut Butter!
Denial: Is it really gone? Did we finish the whole thing? Maybe there’s some that fell on the floor.
Anger: That Frank. He ate most of what was the best dessert I've ever had.
Regret: Why did I eat the whole thing? I think I ate more than Frank. I’ve never been so full in my life. This is worse than Thanksgiving 2002.


It’s 39 hours later and, as I write about it, I’m kinda wanting it again. Damn that delicious dessert! It's really got a hold on me. I wonder if there’s a program for PB pie addiction at the Wonderland treatment facility. Lindsay, need a roommate?

Soy Joy

I’ve never really been on the soy band wagon. I mean, I believe that it’s good for you but I’ve just never been willing to pay the price for it. The thing is, I love milk and for a sogger like myself to indulge in soy milk, well, it would get pretty expensive.

But then I got this coupon for 8th Continent Soy Milk. When I went to buy it the vanilla flavor caught my eye. When I was little my mom would sometimes put vanilla in our milk and it was pretty awesome.

So anyway I bought it and here are my conclusions:

Vanilla soy milk in my Kashi? A soggin’ good time.
Vanilla soy milk with a Vitatop? Vita-fabulous
Vanilla soy milk in my oatmeal? Oat-standing.
Vanilla soy milk on its own? A little off. I think it’s an acquired taste.

Now, just as with Chap Stick, my new space heater and that stupid MTV show Maui Fever, I’m addicted.

And you know how when you hear something once you hear it all the time? Like I just reviewed this workout video called “The Bollywood Dance Workout” and I was all, “What the heck is Bollywood?” I even wrote that in the article: “What the heck is Bollywood?” And now I hear Bollywood everywhere. Apparently everyone knows what Bollywood is except me. This also happened with that chick from Heroes, Hayden Patterininmini. I saw her once in the Neutrogena commercial and then I started watching the show and now she’s in my US Weekly (which I’ve changed from Jess Weekly to Justin Weekly) and Parade.

But anyway, back to the milk. Hungry Girl’s all into it and so is Bob Greene, Oprah’s Trainer. He tagged it with one of his “Best Life” stickers. If BG says it’s good, I’m all about it.

Frank is afraid of it because it’s sort of a weird off-white color. I think that’s just the vanilla flavor though. You should try it, even if you’re a cruncher. Here’s a coupon you can download.


Plus, it has SOY, people! I don’t know what that means exactly but it's gotta be as good for you as Bollywood.

I Can Hardly Retain Myself

For the last seven months I have had some sort of apparatus on my front lower teeth. First, there was the gum surgery. In its aftermath I was required to wear this “gum band-aid" for several weeks. And this had nothing to do with Hubba Bubba.

Then in September I dressed my teeth with the tiny rubber bands. I’m still finding those things everywhere—in the car, in my purse, at my neighbors’ houses.

Around November I got the retainer. My orthodontist said I had to wear it all the time until January 31st. Then he would decide if I could go to a night-only retainer regimen.
I called January 31st T-Day—Teeth Freedom Day. Okay, I just made that up now but I really was looking forward to it. I mean, this thing is really getting in the way of my grazing.

Well T-Day came with somber news: I have to continue wearing the retainer another THREE MONTHS! That’s until the end of April! I’m talking full-time retainer-wearing.

And to think this Saturday is the 13 year anniversary of the day I got my braces off. And I’m celebrating it as a 30-year-old with a retainer. Nice.

I guess I’ll just have to look forward to April 30th, my next T-Day. I’m gonna have a big party but nobody’s invited. I want all the grazing to myself.