Oola's two cents

YES! So I have stuff to add:
10) Band members are much cuter when they are dancing with you. (Aren't they, cupcake?)
11) One of the sexiest men alive is a drummer. HOT DAMN is all I have to say. If I had stayed much longer at the concert, I would have gone home with his drum stick. But Jessica dragged my ass home.
12) I am no longer afraid of vodka.

Don't know much about history

So I haven't posted in awhile--it's been a long week, actually. But it hasn't been an entirely uninformative week, either. Here are a few of the gems that I have come across during the past week:
1) If you give a dog alcohol, she will throw up.
2) There is no Equal Rights Amendment (this shocking revelation came when three second year law students tried to tell my ethics professor that there was one).
3) There are two types of women in this world: Bond girls and Moneypennys. Bond will always rescue the Bond girl (stick insects with large boobs AND guns), but he will always need Moneypenny for support. And, as a Moneypenny, that's all you can ever hope for unless you invest in a pair of bazookas.
4) Cotton candy is actually a very obscene, vulgar carnival treat, when you think about it.
5) Cell phones can survive after a couple of hours in the fridge.
6) Apparently, no one does "the wash" anymore: the new-fangled term is "the laundry".
7) There are a surprising amount of skunks in the world, in all sorts of varieties, and none of them are as cute as Flower in Bambi.
8) As close as Canada is, it takes a really long time to ship things from there. (Maybe they have to go around the lake?)
9) Once you have stolen a traffic cone, it is really hard to a) put it back or 2) find a place to put it.

I was trying to go for a dime's worth of new-found knowledge, but I can't think of roman numeral X. So we'll just leave it like that. I'm sure Oola will have her two cents to put in tonight after she goes out.

Goin' on down to South Park

Through the magic of modern technology, we have the twins. I'll let you guess which one is which.

Beep-beep

So I am so going to be fired.

After what seems to be a never ending cycle of stressful weeks, I got up to go to work this morning ON TIME. It was like all the saints took time out of their busy pope match game schedules and came together to get my ass out of bed. I showered, I did my hair, makeup, nice casual Friday outfit. I even managed to get to work before I was supposed to be there: 7:45! So Smarty McGee that I am, I decided to rest my eyes for a few moments and kind of collect my thoughts for the day.

An hour and a half later, I hear this honking sound. I'm thinking, what the fuck is that noise, and why won't that person lay off the god damn horn? Seems that person was actually physically laying on the horn, and that person was me. Oh-my-fucking-god-and-christ-and-all-that-is-holy. I had fallen asleep at the wheel of a parked car in the parking lot at work.

Not only was I an hour late to work, but I had a little horn imprint on my head.

Feels just like I'm falling for the first time

So I've always had an issue with falling down. When I was little (like before I had hair little) my mother used to put pillows down all around the apartment because I was constantly falling down on the hard wood floor. I fell out of every device I was put into (how does a child fall out of one of those bouncy chairs? I found a way). When I was in elementary school, I came home at least twice a week with a note from the nurse saying I had fallen down and my mother should look for bumps, bruises, or if I started eating paste through a straw (the frequency of the notes actually had two reasons: a) I did fall down a lot and 2) we weren't allowed to use the bathroom during recess, so I used to tell the recess monitors that I had fallen and I needed to see the nurse and I would hit the restroom on the way to her office--although quite often it was a and 2).

The trips and stumbles continued as I got older. I was constantly falling down on the volleyball court. Sometimes it made for great sports highlight films: it looked like I was trying to go after a shanked ball and I was really sacrificing myself to get it. Of course, this rationale does not work when I would I fall down when the ball was on the other side of the court or we had taken a time out. Things got a little better in high school (I started wearing really flat shoes so I was as close to the ground as I could possibly get). There were a lot of moments with marching band. The worst was probably freshman year. My squad leader was first chair trumpet, so we were always right out in front. We were doing these stupid horn movements and I tripped and fell down and lost my hat because it was too big for my head. So I'm trying to pick up my hat when the entire marching band starts moving forward. I froze as the percussion section came barreling towards me--I remember thinking can they see me around those bass drums, or am I going to be trampled? But I stood up in time and finished the routine, without my hat, which eventually got kicked to the sideline.

Until recently, I thought me and gravity had come to an understanding. But in the last two weeks I have fallen four times. I don't necessarily mind falling in public; it happens. What I hate is when people don't laugh at me. Because, let's face it, it is hilarious when someone takes a tumble out of no where. I much prefer a good giggle to a stone-faced-what-a-freak look.

Maybe I have some sort of inner ear deficiency. Or maybe it is because I have the gracefulness of a near-sighted ostrich.

Maybe I should invest in a helmet.

Ch-ch-changes

So I've decided that I might need to make a few changes in my life (a weekend of Greenday's Boulevard of Broken Dreams will do that to you). But being the person that I am, I needed some sort of sign that I was making the right decision. Right on par for my life, I got two signs:
First sign
So Sunday was a beautiful day, meterologically speaking. The sun was shining through some high cirrus clouds and it was warm. I raised my blinds and opened the window for the first time since the fall. I took a deep breath and sneezed (I love spring, but the growing things with their buds and pollen just kill me). I sat down at my computer with my back to the window. A slight noise behind made me turn around. On the shelf near my window, my house plant, my tiny, undernourished, neglected house plant, was moving. I jumped out of my chair to go look. I checked for a breeze, but there was none. It didn't move again, so I went back to my computer. A couple minutes later I looked back and the plant had moved again: the tiny leaves were inches higher than they were that morning. The leaves were moving toward the sun. And, being the dork that I am, I made a connection: this plant, this NON MOVABLE object, was reaching up toward the sun, the bright spot, the source of life for a house plant. Maybe there is something in life worth fighting for, and the status quo is not acceptable, and I should be reaching for something more.

Second sign
So have you ever noticed that there are certain ways that you have always done things and if you try to do them a different way you get screwed up, even with the simplest tasks? Like if you try to take a different way to work or school you forget where you are going? I have always, always put my pants on with my right leg first, then the left. As I went to put my pants on this morning, I stopped myself and thought, why do I always put the right foot in first? It seems silly. Pants are pants and it shouldn't make a difference. So I removed my right foot from my right pant leg and picked up my left foot. I put my left foot in the left pant leg. Seemed easy enough so far. Apparently, however, I did not put my left foot all the way through the left pant leg, so when I went to put the right foot in the right pant leg I didn't have enough pant to pull up. I lost my balance for a moment (the left foot is not used to being the primary leg in the pants process) and, since every outfit and every shoe I own is on my bedroom floor, I had no place to put my entangled right foot. I tripped over my suitcase still not unpacked from vacation and hit my head, hard, on the side of my dresser. As I lay on the floor reeling, and trying to get my feet out of my pants, I made another connection: maybe the status quo is the status quo for a reason, and when you go around trying to change things that shouldn't be changed, you end up in a pile of clothes on the floor with a bump on the head.

I also decided to wear a skirt.

April 2

So my first vacation in a long time doesn't seem to want to end. Not of my choosing, of course. The very lovely and talented (and did I mention close to bankrupt?) USAirways has decided that I was not going home tonight. In a very annoying turn of events, I am stuck in Charlotte. But I am not the only one. There are literally hundreds of disgruntled holiday-makers stuck with me. Here are just a few of things I heard as other passengers dealt with the cancellation of their flights.

"Okay, change of plans. We're being royally screwed."—woman waiting for 2552 to Pittsburgh (my original flight) on her cell phone.

"This is BULLSHIT!" –priest, upon hearing that the next flight out of Charlotte would be Tuesday and he was going to miss Sunday morning mass in Boston tomorrow.

"Ma’am, if you don’t get out of Charlotte tonight, the next available flight is Friday."—Ticket counter lady.
"::honk::"—Me.

"Attention all passengers in the baggage claim area: if you missed your connecting flight, your luggage is now at its final destination."—Overhead voice (I think she had a starring role in the movie Airplane) (And yes, my luggage somehow got a flight to Pittsburgh when I couldn't.)

"Well, Jesus Christ Jessica, why don't you just go pick out one of the nicer looking bags over there. I'm sure they have some toothbrushes we could use." My mother standing amongst the hundreds of unattended bags in baggage claim that had somehow made it to Charlotte without their owners.

"We have no record of you ever having bags." Baggage claim representative.

"Who the hell runs this airline, the Three Stooges?" very, very old man to gate attendant.

"Attention all passengers, flight 1076 to Pittsburgh will be delayed indefinitely; we can't find the flight crew." Same gate attendant.

March 30

So vacationing with my family is like detox. I haven’t had a cigarette or serious drink in a week. And being with the family is like dealing with all my demons and guilt at once. I really should start renting them out to various 12 step programs.

I just cannot be me without my vices. I think my dad noticed that I was feeling a little deflated, so when he took the family out for dinner, he handed me the wine list. He should know that I don’t need a menu to pick my poison. But of course, this was a family-friendly restaurant, so no liquor, no gin, no olives on a stick. When I asked our waiter, who was dressed as a gay pirate, for a dirty martini, he said "Arrrrgh, lassie, no can do. We do have a fine selection of fruity drinks in a souvenir cup."

I ordered a carafe. For myself.

And I now have a pink plastic cup in the shape of a pirate's head.

March 29

So along with the beach hair, I have another tradition on vacation: I always get burnt. I would think after 23 years of my pale skin protesting in shades of red that I would learn to apply sunscreen correctly. So I made my best effort this morning. I slathered the lotion on my shoulders, my chest, my stomach. I got the industrial-strength version for my cheeks and my nose. I got my sister to rub the lotion on my back. I put some on my legs. And then I sat in the glorious Florida sun for four hours. When I got back to my room, I did a check: head, shoulders knees and….DAMN IT. My little piggies were fried. Like little pink cocktail wienies. The top of my foot looks like the top of Gorbachev's head.

March 28

So there is this interesting phenomenon that occurs when my hair is introduced to warmer climates. As soon as the weather is warm and slightly humid (i.e. dew points above 60), my hair expands like an Easter Peep in the microwave. The family calls it my beach hair, and it literally arrived as soon as I stepped off the plane in Pensacola. My sister (not Oola, she has the same hair and is equally shamed by it) has decided to document the beach hair on film. She is following me around with a camera, taking pictures of the brillo pad on top of my head as it flaps around in the gale force winds. Many years ago, when I was a Brownie, we visited COSI in Columbus. They have a Van de Graff generator, and I tried it out. I had permed hair then, and the little curls separated and arranged themselves on my head like Medusa’s snakes. That’s kind of what my head looks like now, only here it is a permanent condition.

March 25

So the captain has just turned off the no electronic devices sign. It is 7:32 in the morning and I have been up for three hours. Let's just go over a few of the things I have learned in the past 180 minutes:
Security check point people are not the best people to interact with on less than six hours of sleep.
As I approached the check point, a man who obviously was very important in his own mind asked if my bag had been with me the whole time and if anybody had asked me to carry anything on for them. I said Yes. This was meant to answer the first question. The man looked at me (he had been staring off into space before) and said, I'm sorry, did you say Yes? I blinked and said Sorry, I meant No. Apparently this wasn't the right answer, either. "You said No?!?" "I'm sorry, I meant no meaning yes....I mean...ahem, what was the question?" This entire dialogue is a lot funnier between Colonel Mustard and Wadsworth in the movie Clue, but is not particularly amusing when it is proceeded by a pat-down by a burly security lady (who I'm absolutely certain was related to my waxologist).

Seattle's Best coffee is a horrible misnomer that must be rectified immediately.
I think that is pretty self explanatory, and that Federal Aviation Requirements should include a provision about Starbucks.

I hate flying with people who don't regularly fly.
Business men and women know how the system works. With them, flying is a well-oiled machine. Throw spring-break families into the mix and the whole system is shot. You've got strollers, you've got sneezing, crying children, you've got kids dying to turn their little hand-held devices on (yeah, I know, I'm sort of the black kettle whipping out the laptop as soon as the light went off), you've got people standing in the way, looking at their tickets and looking at the gate numbers with the Terri Schiavo look on their faces, and you've got the complete assholes whose carry on bags do not fit into the overhead bins. I know when I go to try and get off the plane this jerk in front of me who looks like he is related to the Bush family is going to get his body bag stuck and they will have to bring the jaws of life on board to get the damn thing out. And I also know that it is filled with goodies to keep his little larve occupied during the whole hour that this pond skipper is up in the air.

Thank the good Lord, USAir serves Diet Coke.

Ain't no sunshine when she's gone...

So I went on vacation! One week in glorious Panama City Beach, Florida, a sinfully delicious nest of spring-breaking frat boys and their playthings, with beads for sale on every corner and more alcohol than the opening sequence of Laverne & Shirley. Of course, I went with my family, and my family stayed nowhere near the pulsing epicenter; oh, no, it was the family-friendly Celadon Resort for us. And of course, family-friendly does not include the internet. So, here are a few musings from the week.