I love comments and emails about this blog. Sincerely I do. Even the nasty ones! Because that means at least someone is reading me, and I’m not just writing in a vacuum with no one but God monitoring my statements.
But, if there’s one thing I think is obnoxious, it’s people on a grammar high horse. I mean, geez, we all make mistakes. Yes, I know the difference between “their” and “they’re” but sometimes, I inevitably screw it up. And if I’m being honest, the use of quotation marks still confuses me. Does the period always always always go inside the quotes? Uh, I really don’t know. And what’s all that about case? I used to teach it, but frankly, I don’t remember what the hell it’s about. Whoops.
So I thought I’d share an anonymous email I received from “BarneysBestFriend.” He tears me a new one for screwing up multiple things in yesterday’s post. I’ll admit, it’s lame I misspelled stationery (I said “stationary”). But did he have to be so bitchy?
Going forward, I’d just like to say, my grammar isn’t the best. I used to work full time as a writer, but now I’m a mom and a part time columnist whose brain has basically turned to mush. In fact, just today, I heard caught myself saying, “Me help Ollie.” I mean, WTF? I have no excuses, but I just ask that you forgive my errors. And send me a nasty emails if it makes you feel better, but sign your name, because, eww, I hate anonymous stuff. I can take your unmasked hatred of bad grammar! Promise! When you don’t tell me who you are, I just suspect it’s my dad or maybe some elementary school classmate that I bullied and that makes me crazy.
My friendly correspondence with Fred...but really, I do have no excuse for misspelling stationery. At least he didn't include a picture of his penis with the email. That's always the worst kind of criticism. Thanks, Barney Rubble!
When my friend Mary-Alice and I trekked around the world, we ended up being totally broke in Hungary. We had money before and money after, but in Hungary we were paupers. I am guessing our parents bailed us out, but Budapest just brings back memories of a stale crust of bread and a lot of walking.
Looking back, I really don’t know why we were so broke there. Are there no ATMs in Budapest? Did we spend it all on boos and goulash? I have no idea. What I do know is that our lack of money forced us to break the law. Tired as can be, we really wanted to take a cable car down this humungous hill, but we had zero cash. So we made up an elaborate scheme to shimmy under the turnstiles and hop on the car without paying.
As I subtly crawled under the turnstile and Mary-Al did her very best distraction song and dance, the 200 pound stout woman who ran the place looked down just as I was mid crawl. With the furry of Satan’s handmaidens, she started screaming in Hungarian and coming at me with her arms extended. Visions of her squeezing my head till it popped off flashed before my eyes as I backed up on all fours, stood up, and obeyed Mary-Alice’s ingenious command of “RUUUUUUNNNNN!”
We headed down that hill as fast as our impractical travel sandals could take us all while turning our heads to see if the thunderous Hungarian roar was hot on our trail. She was not. We were exhausted and broke, but we were not beaten up or arrested.
Did I learn any life lessons from this? Ehh, sure. Don’t break the law. It is wrong. But I still waited till I had $19 in my bank account to fly home that summer. And I had a blast because of it. As we all know, fun and money are not always linked and sometimes being a broke backpacker with no common sense is the most fun of all.
The charming cable cars of Budapest. Just not meant to be...
One thing I always try to remember when I travel is how much I have been touched by the kindness of strangers. All over the globe I have been kept out of rather icky predicaments because someone I didn’t know in the slightest helped me out of the goodness of their heart. For the most part, as I often was a gal traveling alone, it was a woman who helped me. The most memorable of times being in Hungary.
I had managed to get myself lost in the middle of rural Romania. I was trying to get from Budapest to a tiny, tiny town in Romania right on the Ukrainian border but was failing miserably. I had found a train that crossed from Hungary into Romania but then it seemed to be doing some strange loop. It turned out that it wasn’t looping but splitting and the part of the train that I was on was heading back into Hungary. It was nighttime, I have no idea how to say one thing in Hungarain or Romanian and I was about to lose my mind. So instead of sitting on the floor and crying I walked up and down the train and asked every single person on it if they spoke English or French. “Do you speak English/Parlez-vous français?” I bellowed to every last passenger. Finally, when I was in the last train car and asked the last woman on the train, her answer was, “yes, I am a French teacher.” I nearly kissed her.
When I told her my predicament, she helped me get into town, took a taxi with me, and offered me her apartment to sleep in. When I assured her I could pay for a hotel, she took me to one, made the manager to promise to take care of me and see me to the station tomorrow morning and then refused all the money I tried to throw at her. Basically, she saved my stupid hide and I hope one day I can repay the favor to any wanderer with no common sense, French-speaking, English-speaking or otherwise.
I think I would still be on this train going back and forth between Romania and Hungary if it wasn't for Lilla.
I happen to have a lot of ridiculous sweatshirts. I don’t know why, but I have lots of television show sweatshirts (Greek, Friday Night Lights), sweatshirts from colleges I did not attend, a yachting sweatshirt that I picked up at a shipyard in Amsterdam, more Vassar College hoodies than any alumni should ever own, and a few that are just ugly but I’m attached to for no particular reason.
Out of this mass of cotton and hoods, I have two favorites. One is big and gray and I always have to chew on the hood strings and sleeves when I wear it. It probably is just one big virus at this point, but I still love it. The other is a Leigh High School Panthers bright blue hoodie. Now, I didn’t actually attend Leigh High School and the only person I know who went to the school is Craig.
When Craig and I first started dating, my friend Georgia and I became obsessed with the fact that he was from such a small Nebraskan town (population 442) and went to a high school with all of 80 kids, total. We learned absolutely everything we could about that school without point blank asking Craig about it. We memorized the lunch calendar (January 7th – Soup, Cinnamon Roll, Applesauce, Cheese Stick, Carrots), learned everything about the football team (those Wendt boys are a threat!), and well, fell just under the label of “crazed stalker.”
To commemorate our love for the Panthers, Georgia kindly bought us smurf blue Leigh High School Panther hoodies, direct from Lou’s sporting goods in Fremont, NE, a mere hour away from Leigh. And when the sweatshirts were taking too long to make, Georgia called up Lou’s everyday to demand they be made at a speedier pace. We have our big city time expectations after all. Now, we both have one and agree it’s one of the highest quality (and weirdest to posess) sweatshirts on the market! As Georgia just emailed me: “I bleed Panther blue.”
Georgia made me this little number at work today. This is what we would look like if we were stars of the Leigh panthers.
G Bobs showing off the greatest sweatshirt ever made. Yes, she once washed it, slept in it and told me it looked like a smurf was murdered in her bed, but never mind that! It's like a second skin!
Last year I was in Lima, Peru for the Fourth, which was wonderful but about as American as a cricket match. So I’m thrilled to be here this year, and not only here, but on my way to Kutztown, PA, the land of sheep shearing and Mennonite weddings!
As a kid, I spent many a Fourth at a local park nearby stuffing my self with barbecued meats, painting my entire face red, white and blue and trying to knock adults into a dunk tank. Then of course, as I grew up around DC, we would load into my mom’s Volvo station wagon and head to the National Mall to sit elbow to elbow with tourists and ou and ah at fireworks. It was a bit like a patriotic mosh pit, but I remember thinking the fireworks where the coolest thing that ever hit our skies.
Later in life, I would head down to the Mall with friends to watch the fireworks somewhat intoxicated. I think I may even have waded into the Reflecting Pool Forest Gump style once or twice, but I still thought the fireworks above the Washington Monument were amazing.
This year, I’ll be waving my flag in good old Kutztown which I’m just thrilled about. I never really appreciate how nice our flag is like I do on the Fourth. So thanks to the ghost of Miss Ross and thanks to Kutztown. I’m not there yet, but I already know that this little town will provide me with one of the most memorable Independence Days ever. Happy Fourth!
The babe behind the stars and stripes. Little did she know that her creation would inspire the fashion below…
A nice American flag jogging ensemble! Who wouldn’t want to sweat it out while also being patriotic.
Say happy 4th of July everyday with this striking gown!
The most famous stars and stripes bikini we have seen in a decade - the fake Palin bikini babe shot. It may be photoshoped but she does look very patriotic (and gun crazed).
What a wonderful day. We are still in Naples and though it is 104 degrees, we’re in heaven. Our hotel is on the beach, we went for a really sweaty run in the sand, and we have taken on a “clothing optional” motto in life. We have also discovered a new love for disclosing embarrassing things about ourselves and playing top five ____ about you. Our first idea? Let’s pick the top five jobs you would suck at. Here is what Craig chose for me. 1) Night Watchman (I love to sleep) 2) Logger (I disagree. I think I would make a hell of a logger) 3) Whale Watcher (I never see animals. Like even at the zoo I miss them) 4) Parole officer (Everyone deserves a second chance!) 5) Person who does wake-up calls (I’m always late).
Following the “this is what you’re bad at” game, we decided to confess our embarrassing stories. One of Craig’s just happened to be that his sophomore year of college, he wanted to get a tattoo of a football with wings. Yes, WINGS. It was after he won the national football championship with Nebraska and wanted to remember that moment forever. And then to really class it up, he wanted to put a big red N underneath. Ah, my boyfriend could have a flying football on his arm. Would I still love him? Probably. Let’s be honest, if it was on his face, I would probably still adore him. Ahh, l’amour!
This could have been on Craig's arm. Oh, except the football would have had WINGS.
This week while at my parents house in Erie, it’s been great to not have to lift a finger when it comes to cooking, cleaning, or even taking care of my child. In fact, the other afternoon I saw Ollie taking a steel hammer to the glass in my parents’ French doors and I thought, “Not my problem!” I figure, when Ollie is at Grandma and Gramps’ house — he’s their responsibility!
Of course, I miss Grey who is at home slaving away at work, but I’ll admit, it has been nice to have a little break from all my stay-at-home mom duties. For some reason, the task that gets the most annoying for me, is figuring out what I’m going to make for dinner every night. I usually love cooking and maybe it’s because I’m pregnant, but for the past few months coming up with new recipes has been pure torture. Even slopping together old standby dinners has been hell and there’s only so many Tony’s pizzas one can eat before they spontaneously combust.
That’s why when my friend Laura sent me the link to this website, I thought it was hilarious. These people read my mind! It’s the exact same thing I ask myself every day around 4pm! whatthefuckshouldImakefordinner is simple and concise — and it actually links you to some good recipes. Plus, it overuses the F-bomb, which, like a seventh grader, never gets old for me. So tomorrow night when you’re wondering what the fuck you should make for dinner — you know where to turn!
Today, deadline day (again!) was filled with sooo much girly banter you would think we were working in a house of ill repute or sorority row. I don’t know what it was but all we talked about was clothes, dieting, hair, the splendors of cute boys, Real Housewives of New York, cheerleader reality TV and any other topics that might interest a 12-year-old girl. Probaby because we only had about five minutes conversation time the whole day, so when we were allowed to gab, we had to get in the smuttiest of girl smut.
First Ali mentioned that she had read about some girls who were such crazed dieters that they would only eat naked in front of a mirror. Hmmm…insane. Then we talked about what we were going to wear tomorrow with the vigour of folks who had just discovered the Rosetta Stone. This was a particularly interesting topic because we will be in a car for two hours for our fashion shoot and that just changes the entire game plan. Comfortable yet professional pants? A dress? Let’s discuss. And to top of all the babble, I applied a 100 layers of makeup to my face at my desk to do something other than copy edit for half a day straight. If you’re going to put your pedal to the editing metal, you might as well look nice!
At work, I am rather fortunately in charge of all beauty products that come our way. And being a luxury magazine, we get some pretty good stuff. So why not sample it all at my desk. I stopped myself at the at home sugar and denim waxing kit I was sent last week. Denim? Really? Like I want to rip off my armpit hair with leftover strips of overall. Ah, the joyous wonders of being a g.i.r.l.
This was the way my soul felt today. Fluffy and pink with a small dog in sweater by my side.
I seriously think this blonde mullet wig is magic. Purchased for Grey like six Halloweens ago, the wig has now been relegated to a costume box at my parents house. I came across it yesterday while I was hunting for my old report cards in the attic (because I do random crap like this when I’m home visiting). Touching its plasticky platinum locks immediately brought a smile to my face.
I don’t know what it is about this wig, but anyone who wears it looks obscenely ridiculous. It confuses your gender and makes you act like you’re an escaped mental patient. Donning the $14 dollar hairpiece is the equivalent of drinking ten beers and smoking a fat joint. While wearing it, everything is a game and the world is a happy place full of rainbows and puppy dogs.
It’s amazing.
This may be the most hideous picture of me ever taken. I was hesitant to include it, but as you can see, the wig temporarily transformed me into a deranged man with extremely shiny skin. My brother, just by standing next to me while I'm wearing the wig, is affected by its power.
See what I mean about the gender? When Ian puts on the wig, he suddenly looks pretty as a school girl.
Like I said, wearing the wig is like smoking a giant joint. Or in my dad's case, like taking a hit from a ten foot bong.
Ollie just looks cute in the wig. Like a little girl from Pennsyltucky.
As Grey and I are try to sell our house, I can’t help but think of all the former places I’ve lived. I lie awake at night stressing about unloading this place and I count my former homes like sheep. There’s my parents house in Erie, dorms at Penn State, a waterfront condo in Pacific Beach, the “Underground Youth Hostel” in Sydney, an adorable Cape Cod cottage in Newport…to name a few. Nothing too fancy, but all memorable just the same.
Yet, of all the places I’ve lived, I must say, my first real apartment (meaning the one I paid for without my parents help…. most months at least) was the most unique. It wasn’t the location — it was in Manayunk, a funky little section of Philly where tons of Penn Staters gravitate following graduation. And it wasn’t the cost of rent — $450 bucks per month. What made my house on Hermitage Street so special (for lack of a better word), was that it was a former funeral home. No wonder it was so cheap; dead people used to hang out there!!
The funny thing was, when I moved, I initially had no idea. I just thought it was just a really big old house with tons of parking (perfect for keggers!). I lived there with my TriDelt sorority sister, Amanda and apparently both of us are clueless because we never made the connection that the giant double doors in the front of the house actually let people in to pay their respects or that the chilly laundry room was in fact an old embalming chamber. It wasn’t until one night when we ordered pizza and the delivery boy said, “So, you girls decided to rent the old parlor?” that we finally figured it out. Then it all made sense. The old signpost in the front yard. The circular drive with an actual parking lot in back of the house. The gigantic viewing area. Yep, we realized we were living in a creepy death chamber. So what else was there to do than gather some girlfriends to create a coven of witches for a seance?
Our little paranormal ritual was pretty run of the mill. Lots of wine. A few spells involving locks of hair and ex-boyfriends. Nothing exciting. However, post-seance, I woke up in the middle of the night to find ALL the windows in the house WIDE open. Mind you, these were the giant old school windows that went from floor to ceiling and they each had about 10,000 coats of paint on them. Neither Amanda nor I had ever had much luck cracking more than a couple and all of a sudden, on a dark October night (too close to Halloween for comfort) they were all agape with neither of us having pried them open. It was like something was trying to get out. Or worse — IN. We were totally freaked.
So of course, this is what I like to remember when I start getting stressed about not being able to sell our house. I mean, our place here in Arlington is not haunted. That’s a good thing. And any house that doesn’t have a crematorium, well, that’s alright by me!
Home Sweet Home. Why I didn't immediately think: HAUNTED DEATH CHAMBER when deciding to rent it is beyond me. LOOK at the place! It screams PSYCHO ZOMBIE!
Amanda and I a few years post-funeral home residency at a friend's wedding. Surprisingly, the stress of living with ghosts didn't wreck our friendship.
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