I Am Famous AND Special

So, I’m officially famous. As you may already know, my dog became a local celebrity several months back. Yes, I was a little envious, but now that I’m experiencing my own rise to stardom, I’m finding it easier to deal with with those previous thoughts of jealousy and resentment that I had developed towards my pet.

Last week I was hired (without pay) to be a swimsuit model. How exciting, right?!? Not so much. I was given less than 24 hours notice to drop 15 lbs., hit the tanning bed 4-5 times, visit my girls at In The Pink and round up my swim suit from God knows where I had stashed it post-swim season.

*Sidenote: I was not actually asked to do any of these things – but I’m an avid fan of Top Model (don’t judge me), so I knew what was up. I wasn’t about to kick off my modeling career without proper preparation.

Come Thursday morning, I arrived to my photo shoot with a Starbucks Green Tea Frappucino in hand, a ghostly-pale tone to my skin, a five-o-clock shadow on my legs and a super-hot swimsuit in my bag. Hey, one out of four ain’t bad, right?

I got my hair and makeup done and I put my cute swimsuit on. I was ready to roll.

We started the big picture-taking process and I felt like a superstar. Okay, actually I felt like a complete dork, but it was fun and the photographer was nice, so I was excited. Technical malfunctions (i.e. genetics) spurred a sudden scrambling for various props – life jackets, towels, coats – anything that could be thrown around my neck and used to cover up my…genetics.

The photographer explained that my photos would be used in a Special Olympics campaign and that my genetics would not be so appropriate for such a thing. At this point, two thoughts occurred to me:

1. Once again, my genetics were causing problems for myself and others. Damned genetics.
2. I had been asked to assist in a photo campaign for the Special Olympics. Really?

Rock Paper Scissors is Stupid

There are so many things in life that we are asked to accept just because everybody else does.  By nature, we resist change, and we squirm at the idea of discomfort. I’m lucky enough to work in an industry that authorizes creativity, fosters evolution and forces change.

I caught the end of a super-inspiring movie the other night, Notorious, the life story of Biggie Smalls. I had hoped that the ending would turn out differently than it did, but what can you do? Anyhow, the movie was an overall mess, in my opinion. But it did a good job of reinforcing an overall theme that was upheld by the late and great B.I.G.: “You can’t change the world if you can’t change yourself.”

Statistically, it takes 21 days to form a habit – good or bad. Implementing long-term change will take more than just “a go at it.” It will demand dedication, repetition and enthusiasm. (And in my opinion, that last element trumps all others).

I have no idea where the piece below came from. It’s followed me to three different jobs – it hangs next to my computer. It’s my unorthodox reminder that when it comes to change, anything is fair game – including the timeless game of R.P.S.

It also reminds me that we can easily find ourselves doing illogical things when we stop asking questions. There’s almost always another route. And as the case may be, the alternate route is probably painful, distressing and vulgar – But it’s also probably well worth it in the end.

 

Stripper Shoe Sunday

While in Wichita this past weekend, we ate breakfast at the local Home Town Buffet. I like that place for a variety of reasons. The food is never-ending, the English muffins are grilled and the milk supply is limitless.

The typical Sunday HTB crowd is elderly and/or disabled (not exactly sure what that says about us, but whatever). This mix of people, coupled with the 50’s pop elevator music that plays over the audio system, makes for a fairly calm and uneventful dining experience. Every once in awhile, however, a primo people watching opportunity will walk through the door.

For example, I dubbed this past Sunday “Stripper Shoe Sunday” at HTB.  I saw my first stripper-shoe patron upon seating myself with my first plate of food. She was wearing black patent leather stiletto stripper shoes, with hot-pink heels. She wore skin-tight jeans (at least two sizes too small) and a see-through baby-doll  T-shirt that showed off her brassiere. She sat at a table with 5 small children and a man. Although she did look like she could have been a stripper, she didn’t much walk like a stripper. Maybe I’m being presumptuous, but it seems to me that a stripper (of all people) would know how to walk in stripper shoes. This gal did not. She stomped around the restaurant, filling wee glasses of OJ for the kiddos, and piling up plates of waffles for herself. She was a sight to see.

But then, about ten minutes later, another lady walked in wearing a pair of brown and tan stripper shoes. This lady carried herself in a much more professional manner. I thought to myself, “This chicky may not be a stripper at all – she may indeed be a professional.” Without asking – something I was not willing to do – I just couldn’t be for sure. But I was pretty positive this lady was not on her way to church.

I’ve never been really big on shoes. I know some ladies collect shoes like I collect free pens, but I’m more the type to find a couple pairs I like (usually a black pair and a brown pair), and stick with them until the very end. Loved ones end up having to pry my old, worn out shoes from my hands – or take them from me when I’m not looking and throw them in the trash.

But this HTB Stripper Shoe Sunday event really made me feel like I was missing out on something. These ladies had such fun, sexy shoes. Does that mean that they have fun, sexy lives, too? I’ve never owned a pair of stripper shoes. But if I had a pair, would I be a fun, sexy person? If I had a pair, would I strap them on, head out to the grocery store, and strut around like a proud peacock? Would I get all dolled up on Sunday morning, in my Sunday best, to hit up the local HTB?

This lady wore her stripper shoes to the last trade show I attended. She was working the booth. I saluted this lady for wearing these shoes all day long at a trade show. You go girl.

(Ever get to the bottom of your blog, and then realize that there’s a good chance it makes next to no sense to anybody but yourself? I’m afraid that just might happen here.)

What’s Wrong With His Urinal?

I mentioned this earlier today through one of my Facebook/Twitter rants – but I’d really like to try to understand what in the world posesses a woman to escort her young-man/child into a public ladies room with her.

Twice this week I have exited my restroom stall, only to find a young boy – approximate age 11-13 – washing his hands in the sink in front of me.

I’ve never claimed to be a “kid” person, so maybe I’m just missing something, here.  But isn’t there some sort of cut-off age in which the youngster is allowed to be free, and exist in the land of urinals and testosterone?  I understand that the wee ones require assistance and therefore need to be escorted.  But what age do we stop that sort of thing?  Seven-ish?

All I know is, it feels a little more than awkward to come flying out of a public facilities stall – balancing purse on one arm, jacket on the other, fluffing the hair and yanking the skirt from your nether-regions – only to find pre-pubescent boy standing in front of me with a fearful expression of bewilderment on his face, and a used paper-towel in his hands.

I should think that these young fellows would be pretty excited to graduate to the world of Mens restrooms.  I hear they have different facility options in Mens restrooms than we do – and I know that they have a completely different gender ratio.  I can’t imagine that these poor, near-teen boys think it’s appropriate to hang out in the Ladies room, right?  And what do their friends think?  Or is this some sort of craze?  Is that why I’ve seen a rash of young men in the Ladies restrooms lately?  I just don’t know.

But just in case, I think I’ll print up a little flier – the size of a business card.  I’ll keep copies in my wallet and I’ll dispense them to these crazy moms as I see fit.  My message will read something like this:

“It appears as though your son is experiencing an erection.  Should he not be allowed to go to his own bathroom?”

Maybe she’ll let him go be a grown-up next door in Man’s-Land next time.

I took this picture at The Wynn, Las Vegas – by the way.  There were no 13 year-old boys in that restroom.

Meow.

Thanks to @kylerohde for turning me onto a new site.  I found videos that were hysterical, but best of all, I found a picture of this cat/keyboard shirt, that I’ve pasted below (Link to the source site is attached to picture).

This shirt reminded me of all the hip, slick and cool shirts I used to wear when I was a little girl – back when I couldn’t understand why nobody outside of my family wanted to be my friend.

I like to look at things like this and ponder: “How in the world did somebody come up with such a thing?”

I mean, seriously.  I guess I imagine some cat enthusiast, who happened to be an artist, was sitting around one day and thought to himself, “I think I’ll fuse a few of the most inspirational things I can think of, and I’ll display them all proudly abreast a T-shirt!  I’ll combine my passion for music, with my infatuation for physics and my love for felines.  I’ll come up with some really outstanding pictorial of cats, playing keyboards, in outer space!  And each cat will be wearing a different colored T-shirt – That’s it!  Cat’s on a T-shirt, wearing T-shirts!  It’ll be brilliant.”

I’m saving my money so that I can afford to splurge on this random piece of apparel.  I’m going to buy it and wear it proudly.  Every time I put it on, I’m going to think of the insane creativity behind the piece of art; I plan to derive a great deal of inspiration from this future purchase.  Don’t be surprised if you see me rockin’ it at our next encounter.

If At First You Don’t Succeed, Beg.

We splurged last night and decided to dine at Longhorn Steakhouse.  No bread with butter.  No sweet potato with brown sugar and caramel sauce.  No croutons.  But we did get to eat something other than chicken for a change, and we even had a little ranch dressing atop our leafy greens.  It was so great!

The food is always yummy at Longhorn, and the service is typically pretty top-notch.

“Paul” was the name of the waiter-fella who helped us out last night.  He was a real go-getter.  He broke the ice at our table by letting us know that if we needed to get his attention, we could just feel free to “throw the salt and peppers shakers” at him.  We didn’t take him up on that offer.

Paul brought our waters out right away.  Our salads took a little longer than they should have, though.  We probably waited a good 15 minutes for them – but Paul did unnecessarily top our waters off a couple of times during this period.  “E” for effort, Paul.  When Paul brought our entrees to the table, Rick had to remind him that he had requested a side of sauteed onions.  Paul apologized, and returned with the side item promptly…and he topped our waters off a third time.  We were more than well-hydrated.

All in all, our dinner was very nice.  Paul dropped the ticket, Rick handed over the plastic, Paul re-dropped the ticket with the plastic in tow, and walked away.

But just as Rick pulled the ticket out of the little, black book, Paul was back again!  I thought to myself, “If this boy tries to pour more water into my glass…”  But no, Paul had something to say:

“Hey guys-Just wanted to say sorry for my head is a little spotted right now…I just found out today that my dog that I’ve had since it was 1 which is now 10 might have to have leg surgery, so I’m just not quite in it tonight.  Just wanted to let you know and thank you again for being so understanding.”

Um.  Awkward moment!

When Paul walked away, Rick looked up at me and said, “Is that a last ditch effort to beg for a better tip, or what?”  I just kept trying to shove steamed vegetables into my face to keep myself from laughing aloud.  But then Rick (my dear husband who is going deaf, I swear)  leaned in and said, “What exactly did he say?  Did he say that his dog had to have Lasik surgery?”

At that point, I lost it.

Like to learn more about dogs that require leg surgeries?  Here’s a fun-filled posting about a little dog that had to have a 5th leg removed.  No, I do not believe that Paul is related in any way to this particular dog.

Sharp Edges, Do Not Touch

Rick and I were discussing the pains and pitfalls of our respective careers the other day.

Last week, Rick fell off of an 8 ft. ladder after losing his balance while yanking a pry-bar back and forth above his head.  But his cat-like reflexes allowed him to land on his feet.  He made it home with nothing more than a 12″ diameter bruise on his thigh.  (Don’t ask me how).

A week prior to that, Rick had to go to the doctor after getting a glass shard in his eye.  Upon initial examination, the doctor exclaimed, “What the hell did you put in your eye?!?”  When Rick explained to the Doctor that he thought it was a good idea to flush his eyeball with allergy eye drops that he carried in his lunchbox, the doctor confiscated the empty bottle and informed Rick that he would be contacting the local poison control center.

Last night, Rick held his hand out, palm face-up, and pointed out all of the many gashes, slices, stains, rips and tears.  He said that his hands were sore and callused, but that he had got used to the side effects of being a Glazier by now.

I told him that my hand hurt, too.  I showed him the wound on my ring finger, from where I cut myself very badly with a manila file folder earlier that day.  I explained to Rick that I had actually acquired two paper-related cuts on that same hand within a 24 hour period.  Just thinking about those little, cream-colored devils, sliding across my flesh makes me cringe.

Bottom line is, whether you’re a Marketer or a Glazier, you really ought to wear gloves and goggles at all times.

Debating the Fast Food Industry With The Fast Food Nazi

I choose to eat like a rabbit throughout the work week, and like a teenage boy on the weekend.  That’s just how I roll.

Last night, I had a hankerin’ for a Sonic chili cheese coney.  And since I had a 2-4-1 coupon to compliment my urge, we decided to go for it.

*Side note: Rick hates fast food.  He doesn’t like Taco Bell, he can’t stand Wendy’s, and he loathes McDonald’s – quite frankly, I’m not even sure how we fell in love in the first place.

Anyhow, we pulled up to the Sonice drive-up menu and I said, “I’ve got the 2-4-1 coupon, what else do you want?”

Rick said, “What – you mean you’re going to eat both of the foot long coney’s yourself?”

“No!  I just thought you might like something in addition to your hot dog.  Order whatever you want,” I replied.

He shook his head in semi-frustration and pushed the little, red button.  Rick ordered our dogs and we waited.

Our total was $4.30 with the coupon – I forgot to tell you that we ordered a $1 small fry, too.  Rick started counting out $1’s and asked if I had an extra.  I said, “Isn’t the total $4.30?”

“Yea…but aren’t you gonna give the girl a tip?”

“For what?” I said.

Evidently, this was yet another angle of the fast food world that we disagreed upon.

I told Rick that I had no problem tipping a waiter/waitress 20-25% minimum for services rendered at a restaurant or bar.  The aforementioned scenario requires time, effort, personality, customer service skills and the ability to produce a sincere, albeit fake, sparkling smile at all times.  But I wasn’t so hip on giving some little  car hop a 23% bonus for walking my sack of food the 15 foot distance from her kitchen to my car.

Rick called me “rude.”

I called him “a fast food Nazi.”

We went home, ate our dogs, and said “I love you.”

My Underwear Drawer

Does anybody else feel the need to forever cherish every article of underwear they’ve ever purchased in their life?  Well I do.  It’s the most frustrating damn thing, too.  I’ve split my underwear up into two drawers – one for underwear tops and one for underwear bottoms.  My problem is not that I don’t buy new underwear – It’s not like I go around wearing the rattiest, holiest, most pathetic excuses for underpants known to man.  It’s just that I can’t ever seem to bring myself to actually throw any of the old ones away.

I do the same thing with my sock drawer.  I tell myself, “Yay!  I have new socks – I’ve really needed these because all of my old ones are all bally and thinned out and too gross to wear without shoes.  But I’d better not throw those old ones out because I might need them someday!”

What am I thinking?  Do I suspect that I might someday need to make an emergency tribe of sock puppets, and will therefore need to be able to access all of my old, worn out pairs for the task?  Maybe I figure that since I sleep on the upper level of the house that I might need to one day, again – in an emergency situation – need to tie all of my old socks together to fashion some sort of life-saving rope device that will allow me to scale down the side of my burning house like Spiderwoman.

Whatever the case, I’ve managed to build such a collection of these old undergarments that I no longer have room in my underwear drawers for any of my belongings.  It is by far one of the more ridiculous habits I have.  I believe I will do a Google search to find out if some sort of USA group exists (Underwear Savers Anonymous).  I probably need to hit a meeting or two.

Do you think Dave has the same problem?

Back Up Off My Ears, Man

SPECIAL BULLETIN:  When an individual has a telephone squished to their ear, this is to be taken as a little, red flag that the individual is preoccupied at the moment, and should not be conversated with at that time.  Think of this as the opposite of permission to strike up a conversation.

Furthermore, if this individual makes polite eye contact with you whilst she has a telephone squished to her ear, this is nothing more than a gesture of courtesy.  It should not be taken as an open invitation to begin dialect.

Yes, God did bless the majority of us with two ears.  But contrary to the belief of my next door neighbor, for example,  those ears do not work autonomously and should not be treated as such.