Who Ya Gonna Call? March 30, 2007

Last weekend, I had a babysitter lined up for my birthday party. I made arrangements with her THREE WEEKS BEFOREHAND (which is much sooner than my usual 36 hours). When I called her to confirm, two days before hand, she told me she forgot.

She FORGOT. And that was it.

I must emphasize– SHE FORGOT AND THAT WAS IT.

Okay. Nevermind that she should have technically called the other people and told *them* she forgot, but whatever. It sucked and I was on the suck end of the situation. I still had two days, and assumed I could probably find someone. (Don’t you hate it when people say ASSUME Makes an ASS of U and ME? Don’t you hate it even more when they prove to be right?)

Fourteen phone calls, ahem, rejections, later…

I called my sister in law and asked if my niece could babysit. I felt bad asking her to do it because I wanted her to attend my party. Sis in law said, “Don’t feel bad, I’m not even going to ask her. I’ll just tell her she’s doing it.” Well, naturally, I was glad because it meant I had a sitter but I was guilt-ridden because I didn’t want to be the person who made her mother tell her she *must* do anything because you know how it is when you’re 13.

But back to my original dilemma — WHAT DO YOU DO WHEN YOU SITTER TELLS YOU SHE FORGOT??????????????????

I’d like to say I’ll never call her again, but she’s a good sitter (when she remembers). She’s older, has a car, has CPR certification, blah blah blah. So yeah, I’ll call her again, even though I’m pissed. Because it’s hard finding a sitter. And while I’m at it, at what point in time did babysitting become so damn expensive? When I was younger, it was a good night when I got twenty bucks and pizza out of the deal.

Did you guys ever read the The Babysitters Club book series? I wish there was a group of girls out here I could call for a sitter. Then again, the adventures of a Babysitters Club in The OC might be slightly more sordid that the original Babysitters Club–

Book #1 — Four friends think up a club to offer babysitting! Great idea, Kristy!
OC Style: Four friends think up a club to offer babysitting. Someone has sex with a father or big brother. Someone else gets beaten up.

Book #2 — Someone is prank calling houses and robbing the ones that don’t answer.
OC Style: Prank calls are made. Then people have sex. And someone else gets beaten up.

Book #3 – One of the babysitters has diabetes. But it’s okay.
OC Style: Someone thinks she’s pregnant. But she’s not. And someone else gets in a car accident.

Book #4: The good girl is frustrated by her strict dad.
OC Style: The good girl is frustrated with her strict dad, and DOES NOT have sex. Her father realizes he can trust her and loosens up. No one gets beaten up. (This was one of those VERY SPECIAL EPISODES.)

Hmm. On second thought, I guess I don’t need a babysitter that badly.

Where The Street Has This Name March 30, 2007

Good times. Great oldies.

Little Cities With Big Dreams. Or Nightmares. March 27, 2007

Respect, brah.

Fee, Fie, Foe, Flap, I Smell the Blood of a Tourist Trap.

Exactly.

There… are no words. None. Really.

Oh, wait. There is one: Meatloaf!

Let me sleep on it, baby, baby, let me sleep on it…

The Evolution of Me, In Decades March 26, 2007

At ten, I waited in line to ride Space Mountain. I wore a Minnie Mouse hip pack with enough money in it for lunch and dinner, and possibly a souvenir. I was exhausted at the end of the day and went to sleep.

At twenty, I waited in line for tickets to see Trent Reznor. My wallet was in my pocket so I didn’t have to worry about losing my bag, with enough money in it for beer and other frivolities. I was exhilarated at the end of the night and went on a road trip.

At thirty, I wait in lines for preschool open enrollment days. I have no idea what is in my bag, besides crumbs and a debit card. The Boy’s itching keeps me up most nights and there is rarely a chance to nap during the day. I drink coffee. And beer. Sometimes together.

The Art of Turning 30 March 25, 2007

Today may be my birthday, but last night was the party, and I was far too incapable to post about it last night when I got home. It was at a local art gallery, which made for a fun, mingling-ish atmosphere. My birthday gift was one of the paintings by the artist who owns the gallery. This is it:

Pretty, isn’t it?
(Shane has another beautiful painting, “Solemn,” which you can view here.

My favorite thing about parties is catching up with old friends I haven’t had the chance to talk to in a while since we’re all busy with our own lives. I’d have to say that the quote of the night goes to my friend, N, who works for the DOD. I asked her what she had been up to, and she said, “Well, I don’t know if you’ve been reading the papers, but we just seized four F-14’s.” She’s a badass.

I also received these funny birthday cards:

And this cool card of my favoritest of all cities:

My friend, M, encouraged me to behave as the Princess that I am:

And, to my utmost excitement, a friend of mine painted a portrait of none other than the Notorious F.O.X.:

(For more info on the Notorious F.O.X., click here.)

All in all, I’d have to say, if this is what turning 30 is all about, then baby, I’m on board.

Open Mouth, Insert Foot March 22, 2007

On Sunday, I attended a birthday party for the daughter of my friend, who likes to go all out when she throws a party, lots of food, activities, party favors for everyone. Ariel came to this party and did make-up and dress-up with the little girls. My son refused the makeup but did don the feather boa for a moment or two.

The party took place in my old neighborhood, which is an hour and fifteen minutes away from me. Since I don’t get out there too much, it was nice to catch up with my friends who still live there. One of them, H, I haven’t seen in forever, and as we talked, our conversation turned to spring planting, and the fact that neither of us have a green thumb. We made joke upon joke about how when people give us a plant, they’re essentially giving the plant a death sentence, how our grass never stays alive, etc. When it was time to leave, our hostess uncomfortably said, “Well, here’s your party favor. Thanks for coming.”

“They’re beautiful! Thanks!”

Identification is in the Eye of the Beholder March 20, 2007

Hollywood or Tatooine?

College campus or a prison used by the Spanish Inquisition?

Luray Caverns or Dirk Diggler?

South of the Border or South of BFE?

And for dessert–banana pudding or chocolate cake?


Oh, what the hell, give me one of each.

The High School Angst Post March 18, 2007

Yesterday, I received in the mail a package from my mother containing my old high school yearbooks. What a blast from the past. Someone wrote in my yearbook “We sure had fun in calculus this year.” Yeah. Fun. I read through most of the comments, enjoyed a few heartfelt laughs and a much larger number of cringe-y laughs, and then set the yearbook aside and went to my family’s annual St. Patrick’s Day party. While flipping through one of their coffee table books about Ireland, I came across a page about the city of Limerick, and I thought to myself, you know, I totally should have posted today (being yesterday) in limerick form since it was St. Paddy’s Day. I thought the poems came from Ireland, but I looked it up and as it turns, they didn’t. But anyway… limericks are fun, so I’m doing it now. Besides, Zany Mama did it, and David Hasselhoff and I have already worn out the haiku.

Since I had just been perusing old yearbooks, and all those old high school memories were floating around my Guinness-soaked mind, I found myself thinking waaaaay back to ninth grade, when my English teacher assigned us to write our own limericks and encouraged us to be as ribald as ninth grade Catholic schooling might allow. This is what I came up with (and yes, read aloud to my class):

There once was a girl named Angie France
Who was at her boring high school dance
When her monthly came late
As she danced with her date
And her face turned as red as her pants.

You can learn so much about me-the-high-school-version from this poem. One, in high school I was very concerned with boys—talking to them, going out with them, stressing over etc. Two, I was obsessed with the fear of getting my period in the middle of class or something of that nature because of the embarrassing moments column in YM Magazine, which led me to believe this could happen to anyone at anytime and when it did, a cute guy would be present to witness it.

The Devil

Third, Fourth, Fifth, Sixth… whatever, my list of worries in high school truly doesn’t matter. The point is, high school was a time of obsession for me. Worrying about EVERYTHING. How I looked. Who I liked. What role I got in whatever play. What I got on whatever test. I worried a lot. Too much. And though I had plenty of friends, I rarely dated. Know why? Because as hard as this is to believe, guys don’t like it when you act like you’re shell shocked around them, and they also don’t like it if you call them too many times. In a given hour. If I was comfortable talking to a guy, it was a sure sign I didn’t like him.

I don’t miss high school.

Of course, if I had been dating more, then I probably wouldn’t have been studying as much, and if I hadn’t been studying as much, then I wouldn’t have gotten my scholarship, that got me the hell out of Jville and into New Orleans, and a much more carefree and happy existence.

Still, when I think about high school, I cringe. Not too much, but a fair amount.

If I could go back and do that limerick assignment over, I think I’d read one of these instead:

There’s always the need for high school teens
To worry about how they look in their jeans.
When in truth, no one cares—
They’re all putting on airs.
Who cares if your shirt is the same as Maureen’s?

I can’t recall the football teams
Or who walked on balance beams
The high school days
Are left to the haze
Of the time before I moved on with my dreams.

There once was an insecure girl in school.
(At that age, insecurities are plen-ti-ful).
I wish I could have told her
She should have just been bolder
In rising above all that high school bull.

c/o 1995 Rocks!
KIT!

Rough Roughage and Other Nonsense March 17, 2007

In New Orleans, there is a parade to celebrate St. Paddy’s Day and, among other things, they throw cabbages off the floats. My friend, K, got nailed in the knee once with a cabbage. Blew him right off his feet, though he didn’t break anything. My friend, J, on the other hand (literally), broke her finger trying to catch a cabbage. It’s a little scary sometimes. I don’t know if there is any extra special significance to cabbage and corned beef on St. Patrick’s Day–other than ‘it’s Irish!’–and I’m too lazy to look it up. I only know that given the opportunity, and the correct amount of speed and force, a cabbage can hurt you. Much like a drunken bar fight can. Both of which have higher odds of happening on St. Patrick’s Day.

I don’t recall much about the life of St. Patrick, but I’m pretty sure he was neither a pub brawler nor cabbage hurler. One of the few things I do remember about St. Patrick lore is the story that he illustrated the concept of the Trinity with a clover. Clearly, this means bars should sell beers at three for the price of one on this day? St. Patrick is also rumored to have banished snakes from Ireland, though my understanding is that snakes weren’t there to begin with. With this story, I can see a bit more of a connection to drinking, because I know I’ve seen things that weren’t there when I was drunk. Like, say, a sign above the karaoke stage shining with the words “Do it! Do it!”

Oh well, I’m not here to bag on St. Patrick. I love today. It’s a great day to go out and party. A bad day to be the designated driver. But an important day to have one.

Remember, if you do not heed the words of this commercial:

Then you may find yourself in a situation like this.

Pack your tap shoes.

And in case you are wondering which random Irish Gaelic phrase I am–

Which Random Irish Gaelic Phrase Are You?
Is maith liom bananai Is maith liom bananai - ‘I like bananas.’You’re laid-back and you enjoy the simple things in life. Some might say you’re a little too laid-back. Just what is it you’re smoking, anyway?
Take The Quiz Now!	Quizzes by myYearbook.com

The Departed March 15, 2007

I finally saw The Departed. Wow. That movie was awesome. I’m glad it won the Oscar. While watching this movie, I found myself reminiscing over a departed friend of mine, Al. Al isn’t dearly departed from this earth, but departed from my life. We were friends in college and have lost touch over the years. She was madly in love with Leonardo di Caprio and we were at our closest when that issue of Playgirl magazine came out that had scandalously gotten a hold of Leo pix, and despite his attempts to stop them, published them. Al REALLY wanted to see this. However, she REALLY didn’t want to go into the store and personally buy it. Which is where I came in.

I am the friend you can depend on to buy nudie magazines for you.

And not just buy them, but track them down. Believe it or not, Playgirl is not a magazine easily come by, and this was while I was living in New Orleans, where you’d *think* it would be available everywhere. But no, I had to drive to a number of different places and at each place, say this:

“Hi, I’m looking for the issue of Playgirl with Leonardo di Caprio in it?”

Male employees raised eyebrows at the mention of Playgirl then rolled said eyes at the mention of Leo. Female employees pursed their lips and said, “We don’t carry that,” or in select one case, “Damn! Leo’s in Playgirl? I wish we did carry that!”

A few soda fountain Dr. Peppers later, I found the glorious magazine and brought it home to a salivating Al. The pictures were blurry and lame. Frankly, they were a rip off. Leo shouldn’t have even wasted his time trying to stop them from publishing them. You couldn’t even tell they were pictures of him. The magazine provided endless hours of entertainment, though, with its, ahem, articles. And of course, our friends who came over anytime over the following month, saw the magazine on the coffee table, made the obligatory “that’s disgusting” remark, and then picked it up and flipped through it.

What I learned from that time is one, Playgirl is a rip off. Two, that’s why so many places don’t carry it. Three, just because you’re close enough friends with someone to buy them a Playgirl doesn’t mean you will always be friends. And finally, Leonardo di Caprio is a great actor. Well, okay, I learned that last one way before the Playgirl experience, but I just wanted to state it to make sure we’re all clear on that. I’ve enjoyed every movie he has ever made. Even The Man in the Iron Mask. Even The Beach. Solely because I think he’s a good actor, and not because I think he’s good looking. Although he is an attractive man. But now, I’m getting off track… Um, The Departed was a REALLY good movie.