Step Aside Samantha Brown

We freelance writers usually have niches, specialties, beats if you will. They can get pretty specific, too: dollhouses, miniature horses, 15 days of the Korean War.

But no matter what a freelance writer claims her niche is, she will always set it aside for the genre of all genres, the most coveted and sought-after category: travel.

This week I am on such an assignment: in Blowing Rock, NC. I used to envy bubbly Samantha Brown on the Travel Channel, jetting off to South America, Europe and New Zealand. But now that I’ve walked a mile (or twelve) in a travel reporter’s shoes, I see that it’s quite tough:

First of all, I didn’t jet anywhere. I drove. Four hours. Plus forty-five minutes. I can’t just relax. I have to talk to people, interview them, take notes. They try to schmooze me so I’ll write nice things about them. I have to think of interesting questions. Oh, and when I’m not with those people, it’s not like I’ve got friends or family to hang with. I’m on my own: eating, shopping, touring. People are all, “Who’s the lonely girl?” And the walking, my God, the walking! And did I mention I don’t have cell phone service here?

Okay, I just said all that so you wouldn’t get envious with a capital E. Travel writing is the bomb. It’s like a free vacation. No, I take that back. It IS a free vacation. I have a room with a freakin’ bidet. A bidet! It’s like I’m Oprah!

And hanging out by myself? Awesome. You know why? I’m totally fun to hang out with. Why wouldn’t I want to hang out with me? Plus, the best part about me is that I let me do whatever I want! I don’t have to do something just because someone else wants to do it. And if I want to eat fudge in my hotel room while sipping on a miniature bottle of wine, I can. And I am, by far, my favorite shopping partner. I go in a store, look around, don’t buy anything and leave.

In fact, I think I’ve got it better than Sam Brown. She’s got a camera crew with her when she travels. Since my assignment is print (and I’m not the subject of the photos, thank God) I don’t have to worry about looking good for some camera. And I don’t have to share my fudge with some key grip.

Okay, I’ll stop boasting now. Nobody likes a bragger. Especially one who has a Jacuzzi whirlpool tub in her room, even if she can’t figure out how to use it.

The bottom line is that I like travel assignments and I like me. Oh, and I like fudge.

To answer your question, Cul de Sac Carrie

Four things you shouldn't do while wearing a bikini

I could give you a bunch of excuses for my long lapse in blog postings but, since nobody’s pointed it out with emails like, “Writinggal, you haven’t blogged in over a week! I check every hour and still nothing! What do I have to live for now?” I’ll let it slide.

(Oh, but to answer the question from that hypothetical email: The Hills Series Premiere on Monday, August 13th.)

Today’s topic was inspired by Topanga of Boy Meets World fame.

She’s the spokesperson for Nutrisystem. I saw the ad last night and even though I was only half-watching from the kitchen, I’m pretty sure I saw her do a cartwheel down the beach. In her bikini. This brings me to rule #1.

1. Don’t do gymnastics in your bikini.


Rule #2 involves accessories and your bikini. I see a lot of the young starlets sporting heels and bikinis. Although not especially practical, I agree that they look pretty cute. And their legs look long. But they already have long legs. The rest of us, on the other hand, do not have long legs. So just about the worst thing we could do when wearing a bikini is rule #2:

2. Don’t wear sneakers with your bikini.

Have you ever tried on a bathing suit while wearing sneakers? Wait. I’m not really sure how that would happen. But sometimes you’re wearing socks. Even that ruins it! The only time you’ve probably ever worn sneakers is when you went tubing. Ladies, even aqua socks are better than that. Hey, what about jellies?

Rule #3, I’m ashamed to say, comes from personal experience:

3. Don’t do keg stands in your bikini.

Last one: If you work in an office and have any say whatsoever in the company’s social plans, steer them away from water activities. That’s because rule #4 is…

4. Don’t wear a bikini in front of your co-workers.

You would never even wear a spaghetti strap top to the office, much less something that's basically the same as your bra and panties. Now, some may have the argument, “But what if I look hot in my bikini?” That may be even worse. Do you really want Stan from accounting to think of you in a sexual way?

Amendment to rule #4: If, however, you have absolutely no say in work outings and you do end up in a water-worker situation, the best thing you can do is to wear Jams. Or just be very strict about following rules 1-3. Or at least 1 and 3. And 3 probably won’t come up at a work function. So just 1. No gymnastics in a bikini whilst socializing with co-workers. No uneven bars. No balance beam. No floor exercise. No vault. No handsprings. No flip flops. And definitely no cartwheels. I don’t care if Topanga did it and lost 30 pounds. That girl also wore a cape.

Why Christian Rock Secretly Rocks

I was driving the other day and this awesome song came on. It was catchy so I was bee-bopping in my Bug, singing along. “I wonder who this is,” I thought to myself. And then I thought, “I wonder why I’ve never heard it before.” And soon after that, “I wonder what station this is.”

Fast forward to the chorus and I got my answer: “Jesus is the reason…”

Christian rock? Yuck. I quickly changed the station.

But then I felt guilty. Why can’t I listen to Christian rock? I, after all, am a Christian. I even go to the “teen mass” at church because they have a rockin’ band. I totally belt out “Yes, Lord, Yes, Lord, Yes, Yes, Lord” on Sunday nights. And I’m down with that song, “I can only imagine” by MercyMe. That’s sort of like Christian Rock except they play it on the easy listening station. Oh, and back in the day, I used to love me some Amy Grant.

For some reason, though, I feel weird listening to Christian rock on my own time. And even if I sneak a listen or accidentally stumble upon a Jesus tune, I don’t know if I would ever go as far as to set one of my pre-sets to J93.3, “The Station that Helps you Live the Life.”

Frank and I were driving through Alabama the other day and I was scanning the radio stations. “That sounds good,” he said, referring to a heavy-ish rockin’ song. He then started having the same revelation that I had a few days prior: “What song is this?” he asked. “I’ve never heard it before…”

“I haven’t either,” I said, “and since it’s kinda good and we’ve never heard it, I think I know what that means…”

“What?” Frank asked.
“Christian Rock!” I told him.

And sure enough, pretty soon we started hearing the cues: “HE lifts me up…Almighty…Grace…Glory…” They’re subtle, these Christan Rockers.

“But you know what?” I told him. “Christian rock is kinda good.”

“It IS good,” he agreed and we didn’t change the station. Still, when they stopped singing and started preaching, we had to switch to country (our only other choice in Alabama).

I’m not saying I’m gonna go download any MercyMe songs but I may bring my Steven Curtis Chapman CD out of hiding. And I may venture over to J93.3 every now and then.

Frank, on the other hand, might be converting pretty soon. When we got back to Alabama yesterday and got in the car, he turned on the radio and said, “Well, what’ll it be? Country or Christian Rock?”

A matter of Fudd-pinion

Yesterday we had a healthy Simciks v. Loyds debate. Here’s how it went down:
(Keep in mind that we don’t actually speak in unison but I can’t remember exactly which Simcik and which Loyd said what):

Simciks: We think it’s ridiculous for people to get cheeseburgers at Fuddruckers.

Loyds: Why? We love cheeseburgers at Fuddruckers.

Simciks: Don’t get us wrong. We love cheeseburgers. We love Fuddruckers. But we also love their cheese sauce. All you have to do it get a hamburger and then pump the cheese sauce on it.

Loyds: But the cheese sauce is gross.

Simciks: No, it’s awesome.

Loyds: I’m pretty sure it’s gross. We prefer the slice.

Simciks: And you’re willing to pay fifty-cents more for it? You do realize that they charge you fifty cents more, right?

Loyds: Yes, but it’s superior to the sauce.

Simciks: Well, we prefer the sauce.

Loyds: You actually prefer the sauce? Well, I guess if you’d rather have the sauce, that’s fine. But for us, we’ll take the slice.

Simciks: Don’t you like the sauce for dipping your fries?

Loyds: More than we like it on our hamburgers. It’s a texture issue.

Simciks: The only issue we have is that you’re wrong. Cheese out of a pump is freakin’ good.

Loyds: Well, I think that’s a matter of opinion.

We had to call a truce at that point. Our candy milkshakes were ready and we soon began discussing the advantages and disadvantages of Cool Whip.

So what’s your fudd-pinion? Free, awesome cheese sauce that comes endlessly oozing out of a pump or pricey cheese slice? WG wants to know!

The cable guy thinks my name is Cher

I don't know whether that's an insult...

...or a compliment.

But I've been answering to it all morning. It's too late to tell him my real name now. I mean, it's not like I can turn back time.

Liz, you’re not the only one with droopy eyes

I accidentally ended up in a chiropractor’s office today. He told me that I had, among other things:

-Droopy eyes
-A messed up back
-A tight chest
-A crooked jaw
-A sprained ankle

I had no idea I was such a disaster. I felt fine.

I have to say, though, that the sprained ankle was the biggest surprise to me:

WG: “Why do you think I have a sprained ankle? I’m not limping. I didn’t have an accident. And most importantly, my ankle doesn’t hurt.”

CP: “Look at your left foot. What do you see?”

WG: “A bunion.”

CP: “That’s right. That’s caused by a sprained ankle.”

WG: “But I’ve had this bunion since 7th grade.”

CP: “Yep. Probably the result of wearing stilettos…”

WG, to self: Stiletto flip flops?

CP: “Or maybe a sports injury like from playing basketball.”

Basketball, really? Perhaps he didn’t notice that my feet don’t even touch the floor sitting in this chair.

Then we moved on to the tight chest. And apparently he didn’t mean that I was stacked like the Ghost Whisperer.

CP: “Does that hurt?” (as he presses deep into my pectoral muscles)

WG: “Yes.”

CP: “See? I told you they were tight.”

WG: “I think it just hurt because you were pressing on them.”

CP: “No, it hurt because they have gotten really tight from spin class. Does this position look familiar?” (He bends forward with his hands out.)

WG: “No.”

CP: “I’m riding a bike. See how I’m leaning on the handlebars?”

WG: “We don’t lean on the handle bars in spin class. We actually forbid that.”

CP: “Oh. Well, then you know why your chest muscles are so tight? Because of that.” He points at my chest.

WG, to self: My enormous boobs? Is this guy for real? I gotta get out of here.

CP: “When you cross your arms like that, it causes your chest muscles to tighten.”

WG, refusing to uncross my arms: “It’s not like I do this all day.”

Since we didn’t seem to be getting anywhere with the chest area and my left ankle still seemed to be feeling fine, he went for the jaw:

CP: “I see you also have TMJ.”

Like the sprained ankle, this was news to me.

WG: “Really? Why do you say that?”

CP: “I can see it. Your jaw is crooked.”

WG: “Huh. That’s funny. Because I had jaw surgery and my oral surgeon never mentioned that. Nor has my dentist, orthodontist or periodontist.”

CP: “Yep. You’ve got it. Some signs of TMJ are headache…”

WG: “Nope.”

CP: “…grinding your teeth at night…”

WG: “Nah.”

CP: “…clenching your jaw…”

WG: “Not a problem.”

CP: “…droopy eyes.”

Just as I was about to shake my head at that one he says, “Yes. Your left eye is lower than your right.”

WG, getting steamed: “I wasn’t aware of that.”

CP: “Look at yourself in the mirror sometime. You’ll notice that your left eye droops down.”

I happen to look at myself in the mirror all the time, thank you, and my droopy eyes have never bothered me. At least not yet.

After that there was some more lecturing, insulting and an odd lesson where he had me stretch out rubber bands to symbolize leg muscles. Oh, and there were a lot of rhetorical questions that became unrhetorical when he answered them himself:

“Why do we exercise? To prevent osteoporosis.”
“What’s the first sign of a heart attack? Can’t raise the left arm.”


When I realized that he could have this Q&A session without me, I picked up my purse. “Well, that’s a lot of information,” I said. “But I’m in a hurry and I really didn’t expect this to take so long.”

“Come back sometime and I’ll give you a free adjustment,” he said.

“Sure!” I lied. I’m never going back there. I don’t know how I ended up there in the first place.

Plus, I’ve got so much to do! I have to go get some crutches for my sprained ankle; I need to practice not crossing my arms so my chest will untighten; I need to find some sort of apparatus to fix my TMJ and I need to talk to a plastic surgeon about raising up my droopy left eye.
All this and I still have to find time to shoot some hoops.

Neither I, nor my pound cake, is droopy.

No, I'm not going to rob the Kroger

I made this handy map for efficient shopping purposes only. I now plan on using it to make my grocery list. I can categorize my items by aisle and by my calculations, I'll shave off approximately eight minutes to my grocery shopping time.

If I was going to rob the Kroger, though, I would go straight for aisle 11. I call it the random aisle because it's got magazines, picnic supplies, books and lady products.

No, scratch that. I don't wanna be known as the Tampon Robber.

The Prodigal Peanut Butter

I don’t mean to bash the Bible but there is one story that I just don’t get: the freakin’ prodigal son. Here's the CliffsNotes version (by the way, it really is “Cliffs” with an “s” even though everybody says “Cliff Notes.” Thanks, Mrs. Jones, 11th grade English teacher).

Back to the CliffsNotes version of that bad Bible story:

There were two sons, a dad and probably a mom.
They lived on a farm.
One son sucked. He was lazy, never did any work on the farm and mouthed off to his parents. Then, to top it all off, one day he just up and left, taking a bunch of money that I’m pretty sure belonged to his dad.

The other son was good. He had a strong work ethic, helped out a lot on the farm and was basically an all-around good guy.

One day the bad son came home. He had squandered all his dad’s money and needed a place to crash.

The dad was all, “We’re so glad you’re home, son! I totally don’t care that you never helped out, that you took our money and that you’re only back because you spent it all. In fact, we’ve been saving this fatted calf for a special occasion and I think this is it!”

The other son, as you can imagine, was pissed. He was like, “Dad, um, hello? I work hard all the time. I never get no stinkin’ steak dinner!”

That’s where the lesson comes in (which I still don’t get or agree with. Sorry, Bible.) “My son was lost but now he’s found,” the dad says. “Now go slaughter that sucker so we can eat!”

Even though I don’t like the story, it sort of happened to me. With peanut butter. I’ve always loved Peter Pan Whipped Peanut Butter. Sure, you can buy those low fat/low cal peanut butters but they actually have more of all that stuff than the whipped. And the whipped is whipped which means it’s good.

The PPWPB has always been good to me. I love it for a good PB&J, on bananas, and last summer it served me well when I had to drink shakes on my soft diet.

But the other day I found something better. In fact, it’s name even implies it: “Better N Peanut Butter.” It’s got fewer calories and fat than my PPWPB and I actually think the taste is superior. I’m totally addicted. I always get something else out like bread or crackers to spread it on but I end up just eating the BNPB right off the knife. Proof that it’s awesome: I bought it a week ago and it’s almost gone.

I guess the fact that it's called "Better N Peanut Butter" means it's not actual peanut butter. And maybe that should scare me. But this stuff tastes so good I'm not afraid.

Yesterday, when I was scraping the sides of my new BNPB I started thinking that it was really uncool of me to just dis my whipped PB like that. It never did anything wrong. It was actually more affordable.

But it’s been replaced. My Better N Peanut Butter was lost and now it’s found! I would slaughter a fatted calf to celebrate but PB&C sounds gross.

My Cousin Vinny (the mute crook)

Add this to my list of pet peeves: retail workers who don’t communicate. For instance, you’re standing at the prescription counter at Walgreens, waiting to pick up your drugs and the tech behind the counter sees you but is fumbling around with the pills. I know she’s busy. I know she can’t get to me right now. But still, SAY something. I mean, is a little “I’ll be right with you” too much to ask?

Oh, here’s another one, ordering at a fast food place: “I’d like a cheeseburger, small fries and a water.” Then after you place your order you see this sign that says, “Buy a Pepsi and get half off your burger and a free large fry!” So you just paid $3.42 for your burger and small fries when you could have paid $2.68 and gotten a real drink and more fries—if only the retail worker had said, “Um, you know if you get…”

But no, he’s gotta be Mute Marcus.

So this weekend we wander into “Cousin Vinny’s,” a pizza place on Tybee Island, GA.

The next exchange between me (WG) and Mute Marcus (MM) is what will be replayed over and over again in a court of law so pay attention:

WG: Do you have veggie pizza?
MM: Yes.
WG reads the menu, sees that a single slice is $1.75. Assumes slices must be small.
WG: Okay, I’ll just have two slices of veggie pizza.
MM: What do you want on it?
WG: What do you have?
MM points to list on menu.
WG: So I can have as many of these as I want? (Giddiness in voice)
MM: Yes.
WG: Okay, then, I want tomatoes, sun-dried tomatoes, red onions, onions, spinach, extra cheese, olives, green peppers, red peppers, yellow peppers, banana peppers, artichokes and pineapples.


I go sit down at the table and when Frank comes back with the drinks I glance at the receipt--$19.97? How did we spend $20 at a place where one slice of pizza is $1.75? I went back up to MM and say, “Did you think I wanted an entire pizza cause I just wanted two slices.”

MM: No.
WG: Then why is it $20?
MM: Well, with all the toppings you got.
WG: What? I thought I could have as many as I wanted?
MM: You can. For fifty cents each.

WG, fuming: What? They’re fifty cents each? When I said, “Oh, I can have as many as I want?” I think that showed that I was unaware that there would be an additional charge! I mean, I didn’t need all those! I don’t even really like red onions and I actually hate olives. I mean, pineapples? That’s like a total splurge! You really thought I wanted to turn a $3.50 meal into $14.00? Great. Now I guess I have no choice but to eat this $50 pizza!!

MM: Silence. Glazed over. Crickets.

I went back to my table and repeated the whole rant to Frank (as if he couldn’t hear). In between screaming I glared at MM. Frank told me to calm down or MM would spit in my food. “I thought it was some dive pizza place so they didn’t nickel and dime you for toppings,” I reasoned, in between sulks.

When another guy brought out our food he said, “Well, somebody must be hungry!” He then set down in front of me two slices of pizza that were each bigger than the size of my first tricycle:

He then added, “These are both for you? You know, I can go get you a doggy bag!” Um, why didn’t MM mention that the slices are HUGE when I ordered them? In my mind, this is how that original exchange should have gone:


WG: Do you have veggie pizza?
MM: Yes.
WG reads the menu, sees that a single slice is $1.75. Assumes slices must be small.
WG: Okay, I’ll just have two slices of veggie pizza.
MM: Just warning you, they’re pretty big. Here, I’ll show you.
WG: Oh, thanks for showing me. Just one piece, please.
MM: What do you want on it?
WG: What do you have?
MM points to list on menu.
WG: So I can have as many of these as I want? (Giddiness in voice)
MM: Yes, for fifty cents each.
WG: Then I want one piece of plain pizza.


That’s FOURTEEN extra words! That’s all he would have had to say. That is like the same amount of words as this very sentence right here.

Sure, I wouldn’t have spent at much at Cousin Vinny’s but what does MM care? I doubt he’s working on commission. Besides, we would have tipped him well for his honesty. Plus, I wouldn’t have told other patrons who walked into the restaurant: “Don’t eat here! They’ll rob you!”

I realized though that rage must really make you work up an appetite.

I didn’t even need the doggy bag.

I’m gonna washer that man right outta my hair

Thea- Here is an urgent message from Frank: “Tell Thea that if she finds a really great washers set in Italy that she shouldn’t get it for me because I already got one for my birthday.”

Hopefully you’ll read this before it’s too late.

For everyone else, here’ the deal with the washers set:

A few years ago at a UT Football game, Frank discovered the game of washers. Now Frank isn’t exactly the athletic type (although there was that stint in high school water polo and he does some impressive lifting and grunting at the gym) but with washers, he was pretty good.

So what is the game of washers?

Basically a bunch of guys stand around and throw rings into a cup. I know, it’s a little bit WT but that’s okay. Where did it come from? I think the verbiage from the official washers site explains it best:

The history of the game is cloaked in mystery but lends itself to colorful conjecture. "Betcha I can toss this here washer into that oil can over yonder", someone might have wagered years ago. Most certainly humble roots fathered the game as participants used readily-available parts, a hallmark of the game that survives even today.

“Cloaked in mystery?” Nice.

Apparently, though, “readily-available parts” wasn’t good enough for Frank. In 2005 he started making his desire for a washers set (a pit with a cup and a set of washers for throwing) known to all. Thea, either impressed with Frank’s washers skills or his passion for the game, declared that she would help Frank realize his washers dream.

So for his graduation from business school in’05 she gave him a set of UT washers, promising to give him the rest of the game (the pit with the cup) by his birthday at the end of June. And she wasn’t just going to buy it on eBay; she was going to BUILD it. She even showed me the design for the mechanism that would soon live in our backyard.

But, as with my wedding scrapbook, the washers pit became more of a lofty idea—something that took a backseat to other non-washers projects like work, school, a social life.

That didn’t stop Frank from bringing it up about once a month: “Hey, is Thea gonna ever build my washers set?” and “Today would be a great day for a game of washers…hey, what’s Thea doing?” and “Do you think Thea will finish my washers set by Groundhog Day?”

Now that it’s been over two years, I thought he’d forget about it. But he hasn’t. He says that our new backyard in Atlanta is perfect for playing washers. (I’m not sure what that means.)

Safety Dave, hearing about Frank's cause, stepped up--just in time for Frank's 30th birthday.

Yesterday the washers set arrived. While it actually was from eBay and not a Thea-hand-made original, he was still giddy. He can't wait to throw his UT washers into his new pit and impress guests with his washers skills.

So will Thea build the washers set anyway? Will she sell it on eBay or possibly keep it for herself? Who knows? The whole thing is cloaked in mystery.

Now we’ve gone bananas

And you thought we couldn’t get any dorkier:


It was “Half Price Banana Split Thursdays” at Bruster’s Ice Cream so we walked there to partake. But that’s not the dorky part. The dorky part is that in order to get the deal, you have to BYOB: bring your own banana.

Yes, we walked hand in hand down the street, our free hands carrying bananas--the whole .8 mile trip. How do I know the exact mileage? Duh. Frank was wearing his pedometer on his belt.

Fun times with the Gridge

One of the items at the top of my “things I really want but Frank won’t let me have” list is a gridge—a fridge inside the garage. It’s right there after bi-weekly cleaning lady.

What’s so great about a gridge? It’s simple. Gridge = fun.

How did I get that equation? Well, let me ask you, if you had a gridge (and maybe you do…lucky) what would you put in it?

Excess beer and ice cream, right?

What’s more fun than alcohol and dessert? Nothing. Not one thing.

So if you had a house that had so much alcohol and dessert that you would actually need another place to store it all, well, that would be a pretty cool house, huh? It’s a fact: The coolest houses have gridges. The Loyds have a gridge. Grandmas have gridges. And when you’re at grandma’s, you can have all the ice cream you want. And at some grandmas' (mine and Frank’s), you can have all the alcohol you want, too.

And if there’s any room in the freezer after you’ve stuffed it with ice cream sandwiches and Flavor Ices then you can fill it with meat. While meat’s not quite as fun as Blue Bell and Budweiser, it does mean that at your house, you’re always ready to grill. And that’s super fun too.

Now that you’re convinced that gridges are fun, you’re probably wondering why Frank (who is always up for fun) refuses to let us have one.

I’m over here wondering the same thing. I guess his main argument is that gridges are expensive. But that’s the cool thing about gridges; you CAN’T get a side-by-side or stainless steel gridge. It has to be old-school horizontal. In fact, the older and more dated it is, the better.

Then there’s the space issue. I would certainly be willing to get rid of a few things in the garage to make room for the gridge—Frank’s skateboard, those swim noodles and do we really need a lawn mower?

But I think his main objection comes from his childhood. He grew up with a gridge. He doesn’t understand its ambience, its charm, its mystique. To me, a gridge represents vacation, chillin’ out, the weekend.

In fact, it’s just about weekend time now. Everybody go to your gridges! I’ll be over here, getting beer and ice cream out of my kitchen like a sucker. Oh, well. Maybe I can at least hang out in my garage and pretend like I got it out of my gridge. When the neighbors see me, sitting on a lawn chair in my garage, eatin’ ice cream and drinking beer, they’re sure to think, “That girl looks super fun.” But I won't share any Flavor Ices with them.

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.