God Willing and the Creek Don't Rise

The Winds of Change

2009-09-09T16:09:00.004-05:00

Well faithful Avenger followers, we've come to a crossroad in our relationship.

For as most ADD-right-brained bloggers do, I've become a little restless with my mere one outlet of venting and general blabbing at the mouth.

Theretofore, I'll now be writing for an additional blog as well: the official University of Oklahoma blog, Unwind.

My subject matter is dating, relationships, fashion, culture, etc., etc., etc....but I'm sure I'll fall into my usual pattern of poking fun at myself and others instead of actually offering advice of any kind. And trust me, you don't want my advice.

With that being said, God Willing may be updated a bit less often than last school year. I know it's a big scary change, but fear not. I'm still out there in the blog community, blabbing and blabbing away. You just have to come find me...

And I really hope you will.

Much love.

The day I went to Dairy Queen

2009-08-24T14:48:00.008-05:00

If you have siblings, you’re no doubt familiar with the somewhat absurd number of bonding moments people of matching parentage share. It is my belief siblinghood (or in my case, sisterhood) necessitates these moments so that, upon fighting viciously over a pair of shoes and very actually wanting to off one another, said siblings think “awwwh, but there was that one time with that one incident when we really bonded”…and thus become so sentimental that the aforementioned desire to murder in cold blood is postponed for the next YOU USED THE LAST BIT OF SHAMPOO AND NOW MY HAIR IS FOREVER RUINED screaming-match. You think I’m exaggerating. I am not.

And as Sister and I have been known to engage in great and terrible battles rivaling those of H. Potter and He Who Shall Not Be Named (I’ll allow you to ponder who I’m calling Voldermort in this such scenario), it is reasonable to assume we share even more sappy sisterly-bonding moments than the average blood-relatives. Nature is trying to keep us alive whate’er way it can. And for the most part, these incidents of reconnecting are cute and completely harmless.

But as our most recent sibling-bonding-venture proved, that is not always the case.

So last July 4th I holidayed with Sister in her home of Charlottesville, VA. We did many sisterly things during my stay (including drinking dessert wines in 100+ degree heat and thusly seeing one another liquored up for the first time), but the most memorable moment happened at a very unlikely place:

The local Dairy Queen.

Now, Oklahoma’s Dairy Queen population is woefully sparse, so this was my first trip to the Land of the Blizzards and I had no idea what sweet treats were in store for me. We both opted for Thin Mint Blizzards…and in case you are confused, these are actual, real-life GIRL SCOUT COOKIE Thin Mints we’re talking about here.

Perfection.

This dessert-concoction was essentially the best thing ever on the entire planet, and I repeatedly said so to Sister as we enjoyed our Blizzards in tandem. It was so indescribably good in fact that I encouraged her to take a picture…an incident that only further legitimized our DQ time as a bonding moment, as my 1550 SAT/doctoral-candidate sister attempted to take said picture with the camera turned backwards and upside down. Underneath all that fancy edumacation is just an incognito valley girl.

So onward and forth and what not. This year, the DQ Girl Scout Cookie Blizzards are back (Tagalongs this time, which I daresay enticed me even more than Thin Mints), and as Sister and I were convening one time only over the summer for a cousin’s South Carolinian wedding, we knew we had to seize the opportunity to rekindle our DQ Sisterly Bonding Moment by seeking out Blizzard numbers 3 and 4.

So we’re in SC, blustering about from one Bridal ToDo to the next, and suddenly we find ourselves with several hours of time to kill and a car free from parental control. Sister promptly proposes we pursue the nearest Charleston Dairy Queen, and I enthusiastically agree (as it’s nigh 4,000 degrees in South Carolina and we’ve so far spent the day having our faces melt off as they do in Raiders of the Lost Ark.) So we announce our plans to the group of gathered relatives and prepare to set forth on our journey.

As they’re also unceremoniously without agenda, our cousins Erin and Patrick decide to tag along (no pun intended). Sister and I briefly explain why we’re going to DQ while on vacation in a foreign land, and though they’re somewhat amused by the tale it's clear they’re more escaping an afternoon with the Aunt/Uncle Brigade than enthusiastically assisting us in our bonding time. But no matter, we welcome the company and hop into Rachel’s trusty German car.

First, we GPS our destination- a feat not easily completed, as this GPS is new (being that the last one was stolen from within my trusty German car…but no hard feelings *ahem* BASTARDS). So once we’ve finally selected “Dairy Queen: 7.6 miles” we begin our quick jaunt to kill some time and consume some calories.

So we’re driving, and driving…Cousin Erin tries to understand more completely why we’re even doing this in the first place, but the story doesn’t translate well to third-party participants and we revert back to discussing our family’s level of dysfunction as compared to others. Oh bugger off, you do it too.

Then Sister is exiting, as directed by her co-pilot Cousin Patrick (who, coincidentally, really is a pilot), and we’re all excitedly instructed to “help me look for the Dairy Queen, you guys!!” as the GPS has announced “arriving at Dairy Queen”…and yet there is no DQ to be found. Ahh, modern technology.

So we’re looking, and looking…Cousin Patrick directs us to a cluster of fast food joints thinking it our “best bet,” but still the DQ evades us and we’re starting to question whether Sister took the right exit or not. (She fiercely argues that she did, and if any of us want to drive we are more than welcome to do so.)

Then, just as we begin the painstaking task of retracing our steps (assuming the DQ must be hidden behind some pesky bunch of Palmetto Trees), Cousin Erin begins fervently tapping her window and saying, “umm, you guys?”

Our current BUT MAYBE IT WAS JUST OVER THERE AND YOU MISSED IT BY DRIVING TOO FAST line of arguing quiets to a soft hum, and I turn to look at Cousin Erin perched next to me in Rachel’s trusty German backseat. “You guys,” Cousin Erin repeats, and I can tell by her bemused facial expression that I’m not going to like what she has to say.

Then she points out her window, and as we all turn to look in unison she says “That China Gourmet looks an awful lot like a Dairy Queen.”

And indeed it does.

So we laugh, a little irritated perhaps but nonetheless amused that our handy-dandy brand new GPS found us a China Gourmet Formerly Known as Dairy Queen. Sister pulls over her trusty German car, and after several minutes of “ahhh Hell” play-bitching we begin to design Ice Cream Adventure: Plan B. After debating for at least 9 minute as to whether we want to pursue the next closest Dairy Queen (which is now some 12 miles away, according to the POS GPS), we recall another ice cream place just down the road that seems far more desirable a destination in that we know it actually exists. So we rally together behind Plan B, and we’re off.

Tensions are notably higher than when we began our quest, and all four of us are dramatically glued to our windows in a valiant attempt to not drive right past this place and become hopelessly lost (as we’re still mad at the POS GPS and have momentarily given up on it). So we’re peering at the passing shopping centers, ignoring the increasingly bothersome traffic and Sister’s erratic driving (which I can only assume was caused by her intense desire to spot the ice cream parlor first, thus requiring her to drive without ever actually looking at the road). So we’re cruising along, and as I begin to think this whole ice cream thing was a dumbass idea anyway Sister shouts “There! There, there it is!!” and stops abruptly in the middle of traffic. We all shout for joy as she flips on her blinker, and there’s quite a bit of “thank GOD this is almost over” chatter going on as we pull into the parking lot.

And then the chatter stops.

Because the damn ice cream place isn’t open.

Not only is it not open, we realize as we drive past…it’s never been open, and probably won’t be until it’s roof and floor and plumbing and such has been completed. We all voice our distaste for the bastard store-owner who opted to put up a sign prior to opening for business, and then we sit silently for a minute, contemplating the ugly truth that we are once again back at square one.

I’ll tell you that at this point, I decided I’d had enough of this ridiculous pursuit and would just as soon go back to the hotel and play Memory than continue on with the quest. (I kid you not about Memory…our hotel had it in the lobby, and after losing several games of Checkers to Rachel we whipped it out as a much needed ego-boost for me. Memory is the only game I have ever, ever beat Sister at playing…and yet I digress.)

But my cousins and Sister have more enthusiasm than me, and it is therefore decided that we will not give up, DAMMIT. We’re going forth to the next Dairy Queen.

First we swing by the China Gourmet Formerly Known as Dairy Queen, just to be sure we haven’t missed the real DQ hidden behind some tanning salon or what have you. Once this is confirmed, I am instructed to call the next DQ…to verify its existence, don’t you know. So I do, and I feel ridiculously retarded doing so. “Yes hello, so are you- umm, are you actually a Dairy Queen? I mean, are you still a Dairy Queen?” The perturbed DQ lady tells me that yes, they are still a Dairy Queen, and I hang up…only to promptly redial to make sure they have the Blizzards that started this whole Godforsaken trip. And they do. So off we go, again.

It’s important to note (in case you’re one of the 3 Americans who do not have a GPS) that in GPS language, 12 miles can mean a 15 minute jaunt or a 3 hour expedition. I think it estimates distances as the crow flies, and as I am no crow nor can I fly it’s always very disheartening to hear “12 miles” and then arrive at the destination several eons later.

And it’s also important to note that, when you are pursuing something frivolous like a Dairy Queen and therefore do not wish to embark on a day-long voyage, it is an ominous sign when your GPS instructs you to merge onto a six-lane-mass-of-cars-and-bridges-and-chaos type of highway. But that’s exactly what ours did, and seeing as no one could think of a way out at this point we silently obeyed.

So now we’re wedged in traffic, and Cousin Patrick is confusedly glaring at the GPS. “What is this ETA thing about?” He asks, and I explain that it’s our estimated time of arrival. Then he responds that he indeed figured that out (of course he did, you dumbass…he flies PLANES for a living, so he can probably work your GPS), but he doesn’t understand why it says we’ll arrive at the Dairy Queen in approximately 1 hour.

ONE HOUR.

Now I should also mention that though we have an afternoon to kill, we do have to be back in Charleston for Cousin Bobby’s rehearsal dinner in t-minus just a few hours. So now we’re frantic for 2 reasons:

1. Our demon-possessed GPS continues to hurtle us further on a hopeless venture into the Great Beyond
2. Even if we do survive our trek, we might be late to Cousin Bobby’s pre-wedding ToDo and thus be quite literally crucified by our respective parental units

Outlook not good.

But before we can say “to hell with it” and abort the mission, Sister again slams on her breaks…only this time it’s for a good reason. Suddenly and without warning, we are surrounded, SURROUNDED by angry South Carolinian drivers. We have unceremoniously entered a TJOUS (Traffic Jam of Unusual Size) and are unable to budge 3 inches without smooshing into somebody’s bumper, let alone leap across 6 lanes of traffic to the exit we are sloooowly (but surely) passing.

And just as we’re all about to give up on life due to the total lameness of our Epic Fail adventure, Sister goes to step lightly on the gas…

And her trusty German car dies.

Now Sister is good at many things, but staying calm in tense situations is not one of them (just sit next to her at OU/Texas and you’ll know precisely what I mean). So her car goes dead, she hesitates for two seconds of WTF JUST HAPPENED mental processing, and then in the most hysterically dramatic fashion you can conceive of she tosses her skinny arms into the air and slams her hands on the steering wheel.

And Cousin Patrick just loses it.

Now Sister is clasping her head with both hands, repeatedly exclaiming “MY CAR DIED—IT JUST DIED” over and over to no one in particular, and Cousin Patrick is being of no help in the passenger seat as he absolutely cannot stop laughing at Sister’s display of severe and utter uncoolness.

So Cousin Erin joins in with Cousin Patrick, and then so do I, and soon all three of us are laughing so hard we can barely breathe as Sister gestures theatrically to the cars around us that HER CAR IS DEAD AND SHE CAN’T DO A DAMN THING ABOUT IT (and glowers hatefully at us for poking fun of her in her time of greatest need).

Then after turning on her hazards (which is the only thing Sister and I know how to do when our cars don’t work properly), she puts her trusty German car in park and tries the ignition once more.

And hallelujah praise Jesus, the damn thing actually starts.

The rest of our venture proceeded without catastrophe; it wound up taking us far less than an hour to find our Dairy Queen (as GPS’s suck and are completely worthless), and we trotted through north Charleston’s most ghetto-fabulous mini-mall to inhale our Blizzards in the food court (as that is, in fact, where our Dairy Queen was located). Pretty fitting to the rest of the afternoon, if I do say so myself.

And thanks to some more of Sister’s erratic driving, we arrived safely home with time to shower (and decompress) before the rehearsal dinner. So in some small way, our adventure was a success.

But even though we got our Godforsaken Tagalong Blizzards, and even though they were every bit as tasty as I’d dreamed, I daresay we won’t be embarking on another DQ voyage for quite some time.

That is, unless Sister and I get in another fight soon…

So I suppose I’ll see you at Dairy Queen in about a week or so.

Much love.

Self-esteem, huh? Welp, see ya later.

2009-08-05T21:19:00.007-05:00

So at my childcare job (which ends Friday, hallelujah-praise-Jesus), I have a shadow in the form of a leggy, befreckled 8-year-old girl. For the sake of this post, I’ll call her Shelly.

Shelly adores me, apparently. Regardless of where I am or what I’m supposed to be doing (or what she’s supposed to be doing, for that matter), she simply must gasp upon seeing me, exclaim “MISS FRANKIE!!!” and run at me with gangly arms extended to give what I’m beginning to think is a purposefully rib-crushing hug. She loves me so much she wants to squish me, I do believe.

But though Shelly has taken to claiming me the “best teacher EVURR” (a title I do not deserve, as my patience with her age group is always painfully threadbare), she still finds it enjoyable to examine every aspect of my being. Examine it...and criticize it.

I’ve gotten used to this phenomenon since working with kids; apparently there comes a point when the baby-chillens turn on you, and it seems that point is around birthday number 8. And in her defense Shelly has said some nice things to me…she recently told me I was “skinny” and had “really white teeth,” although when I thanked her for it she said “why would you take that as a compliment?” Fail. So for your enjoyment (and because these gems of verbal battery lose some of their vicious sting when repeated), I give you:

My Favorite Kid Quotes, A la Shelly

Shelly: Miss Frankie, why are you going to South Carolina?
Me: To see my cousin get married.
Shelly: How old is your cousin?
Me: Twenty-four.
Shelly: (pause) He’s younger than you?
Me: Yes.
Shelly: (pause) He’s getting married and he’s younger than you?
Me. Yes.
Shelly: (pause) How sad. You must be reeeally jealous!
_______

Shelly: (pointing to my “Gucci” bag) Is that real, Miss Frankie?
Me: Hmm?
Shelly: Is your Gucci purse real?
Me: (stunned that an 8-year-old knows about Gucci) Well, what do you think?
Shelly: (pauses, looks me up and down, pauses) I think you’re way too poor to have a real Gucci purse.
_______

Shelly: Where do you live, Miss Frankie?
Me: Here in Norman.
Shelly: In a house?
Me: Yep.
Shelly: Alone?
Me: Yep.
Shelly: You live in a house alone? And you’re twenty-five?
Me: Yep…
Shelly: Do you have a boyfriend, Miss Frankie?
Me: N-no…
Shelly: So you live in a house, alone, and you’re twenty-five and you don’t have a boyfriend?
Me: Yeah……
Shelly: (patting me on the back) I bet you’re very lonely.

And my personal favorite:

Shelly: Miss Frankie, have you ever been to jail?
Me: No, I have not.
Shelly: Do you want to go to jail?
Me: No, I do not.
Shelly: How come?
Me: Jail is not a place most people want to go, Shelly.
Shelly: But it’d be exciting.
Me: No…
Shelly: Yes it would. You know it would.
Me: No…..
Shelly: So you’re telling me you think that this right here- what you’re doing with your life right now….(dramatic pause, points around the room at countless whining, crying, sniffling baby-chillens)…is more exciting to you than being in jail?

She may be a minion of the Antichrist...but dammit, she has a point.

Much love.

Frankie Avenger (does not) save the day.

2009-07-14T22:26:00.008-05:00

(So as to keep you from thinking me a sociopath for addressing the following with careless light-heartedness, let posterity note that no one was seriously injured in the scenario detailed below.)

Throughout my 25 years I have rarely been recognized for my heroism. I’ve made a reputation for being sarcastic, impatient, brash even…but as far as my memory serves me, I’ve never been thought extraordinarily heroic.

This weekend proved precisely why that is.

So after almost one full year of planning my college roommate and I finally arranged a hang-out. She lives all the way in Wichita- a whopping 2.5 hours away- so it’s understandable that the scheduling took us so long…epic fail. As she came to Nompton in August ‘08 it was my turn to head to Kansas, so following a 10 hour workday I drained 2 Diet Cokes, grabbed my never-completely-unpacked suitcase and hit I-35 for a weekend of reminiscing.

Our mini-holiday was littered with outings fun only to complete losers like Melissa and myself…in college we’d make an evening of visiting the local pet store (for “puppy therapy,” which consisted of cuddling puppies and contemplating ways of buying them without being disowned by our parents), then gorging ourselves on Mexican food or sushi. So our reunion took a similar route; we went to a wildlife park, visited the Wichita humane society, and ate at the local hibachi grill. As I said, we are losers.

But the “highlight” of the trip occurred on our way home from our aforementioned jaunt to the humane society. It’s worth mentioning that on the drive there Melissa skillfully avoided several bags of partially demolished mulch on US-96. There was a bit of swerving and some slight braking, but for the most part it was an anticlimactic incident of road debris. No harm, no foul.

Unfortunately for several other Kansans, one hour later a less chillax driver saw the mulch and reacted quite differently.

So we’re driving home from the grown up version of puppy therapy, me yappin on about my newly discovered gift of child-rearing...it was an engrossing tale no doubt, and I was therefore dismayed to find she was paying me absolutely zero attention. For no reason I could imagine she abruptly began hugging the steering wheel, peering dramatically onto the highway ahead and mumbling something about, “no oh no oh nooo that’s not good.”

So I gaze out on the road, trying to locate the reason for her disrespectful distraction. We’re in the left lane, and in the right lane about 20 feet ahead another car starts braking in the strangest manner. It seems to mimic the “oh sh*t a cop” braking cars do when they realize they’ve been radared, so I chalk up Mel’s behavior to her not wanting to get a ticket. Here I am telling a fascinating story and she tunes me out to fret over a damn radar gun. Cheapskate.

Then, just as I’m about to do the obnoxious thing where you force those suspected of ignoring you to repeat everything you’ve just said, I catch something racing towards me out of the corner of my eye.

And I realize it’s the front-end of a car.

Suddenly two things dominate my thoughts as if etched to the inside of my skull:

1. So this is what a head-on collision looks like

and

2. OH SH*T IMA DIE (this thought quickly materialized into a stream of high-pitched yelling, directed inadvertently into Melissa’s right ear. Am very helpful in stressful situations.)

Miraculously (and I mean that, as the car was barreling directly towards us), Mel managed to brake enough to miss the runaway vehicle just as it smashed into the weirdly-braking car in the right lane. (In retrospect I now understand why it was braking like it was; clearly the driver saw the out-of-control car, had NO EFFING CLUE what to do about it, and was therefore preparing for impact by braking, squeezing his eyes shut and yelling OH SH*T IMA DIE. Of course I’m only speculating here, but I’m pretty sure that’s what I’d do in his stead.)

So we miss the car (which is already alllll kinds of smashed up as it hit a guardrail while flying across the median), and Mel pulls off the road while car parts fly as if propelled by an F-5. She comes to a stop, looks at me and asks “are you okay,” I stammer “HOLY SH*T” and she says “we have to go help.”

To which I respond with my best HAVE YOU LOST YOUR DAMN MIND face.

“What? What?? I can’t—I don’t know—what if we—WE HAVE TO GET OUT OF THE ROAD!!!” I finally succeed at verbalizing a complete thought, so she throws her 4runner into drive and pulls further into the grassy median. Then she turns again to me and says “we have to help,” and I ogle her in complete confusion and fear. I’d hoped by bringing to light our severe vulnerability—by pointing out the impending danger and doom associated with chillin’ on the road after several cars have smashed into one another—she would come to her senses and agree to get the hell outa dodge. I mean, I’m a pretty smart girl and everything, but Mending Bones 101 is not a required class for journalism majors…and hanging around unable to provide medical aid with the possibility of becoming wreckage-victims # 3 and 4 seemed quite unnecessary. But there she sat, insisting her plan to abandon the protective steel frame of the SUV was both rational and severely pertinent.

So she's staring at me, waiting impatiently for my “oi, let’s go save the day!” epiphany...and seconds before I blurt out “OKAY YEAH I HAD CPR TRAINING BUT OHMYWORD MELISSA WHAT DO YOU EXPECT ME TO DO??!” I remember something previously blocked by the distress afflicting my mind.

Melissa is a registered nurse.

Eureka!

At the same moment that I comprehend why she’s so determined to “go help” (because, by Jove, she actually can), Mel loses her patience with me and sighs “okay well I have to help” and hops out of the car.

“Yes, you—you help” I stutter.

“Yeah, okay…and you call 911 with my phone!” She points aimlessly into her car, apparently directing me to her cell but I of course do not catch on. So she turns to go help, I clamber awkwardly into the driver’s seat (I have NO IDEA why I did this, and it earned me a “what the hell are you doing” look from Melissa), and I begin fumbling around the console for her phone.

What seems like centuries later I find it, plaster it to my ear, realize I’ve forgotten to dial and look down at it only to realize IT’S HER EFFING IPOD. Sweet Jesus. After cursing my stupidity I once again begin my search, but as I tear apart the innards of her purse I think of something and stop abruptly.

Mel has an iPhone. I do not possess the mental prowess to operate an iPhone.

So I curse some more, realize I HAVE MY OWN DAMN PHONE and lunge for it (as it’s still in the passenger seat, where I logically should be). I dial 911 and am momentarily confused to see I’m calling “Emergency” (because who do I know by the name “Emergency”? Fail).

Then a forcefully calm voice says “911, what’s your emergency?”

And I say,

“There’s been a wreck….”

And I pause.

Because I don’t have a flippin’ clue where I am.

“What is your location, miss?”

Pause.

“Umm….” And feeling like one of those punkass kids who prank calls 911, I mutter “I don’t actually know.”

Long pause, on the part of the 911 lady. “Okay…”

“Ooo, can you find me with GPS!?” I practically holler, thinking I am Genius and have found the solution.

“Maybe…” she says, but it’s soon clear that as I have a lame-ass, non-smart phone I might as well be in a small black hole engulfed by the Bermuda Triangle. So she asks me if I’m on an interstate, and then we debate whether that’s the same thing as a highway…and then she asks what part of Wichita I’m in, and all I can offer is that it’s by the humane society. Fail, fail, fail.

In the interim I’m filling in details about the accident, in a pathetic attempt to do SOMETHING worthwhile…

“I don’t think anybody’s injured, but airbags did deploy…except in the one car, which I think is too old for airbags.”

The lady latches onto to this line of conversation.

“So what kind of cars were involved?”

My heart sinks a little lower in my stomach, because I know I’m about to Epic Fail the 911 dispatch woman yet again. “Umm, the one that crossed the median is silver…?” (and in my defense it was so crunched up I literally couldn’t tell the make or model), “and the other is tan. NO! Brown. Umm…brownish tan? And old?”

Then, increasingly desperate to save face, I spot a man meandering the grassy median and proceed to chase him down.

“Sir? Sir!” I call. Perhaps this fellow can tell me where in BFE we are! But I keep calling, and he doesn’t respond…at one point he looks directly at me but walks the other way. To quote Stephanie Tanner, how RUDE.

So my self-righteous don’t-you-ignore-ME-buddy mindset kicks into gear, and I haul ass to catch him as he wanders the opposite way down US-96. “Excuse me sir! SIR!!” I literally yell inches from his face, and he finally turns to gaze wearily upon me.

“CAN YOU PLEASE TELL ME WHERE THE HELL WE ARE??”

With an irritating amount of difficulty he tells me our location, which I then relay to the dispatch. I give him a quirt nod and a dismissive “thanks,” then mentally shun him for being a douchetard and hesitating to provide necessary information in a time of crisis.

But as I glare after my newfound Least Favorite Person in Wichita, he wanders back to his car. Which is the vehicle that was broadsided just moments before.

And he was the driver of the vehicle that was broadsided just moments before.

I am a horrible person.

I consider re-chasing him down and apologizing for being an ass, but I figure he’s so much in shock he won’t remember it 5 minutes later…and besides, the 911 lady is once again asking me difficult questions.

“Can you tell me what direction you’re facing?” she says with practiced patience. I choke back the words WELL WHAT DO YOU THINK? and instead mumble something about getting my bearings.

I look left, right, and up, then realize with despair that I have never, ever been able to tell what direction I’m facing. So in my frustration I seek aid…but instead of asking any one of the dozen or so people now gathered on the road, I spot a passing van.

And run after it.

I’m waving my arms, my phone tucked awkwardly under my chin. The driver looks alarmed and confused (as well he should be), but making the naïve assumption that I must have a good reason for chasing him down he slows and rolls down his window.

“WHAT DIRECTION IS THIS??” I blurt out, pointing furiously in the direction of traffic.

“Uhh, east?” he replies with trepidation. He continues on by reciting our exact location, and as I got that info from the last guy I jumped I wave him impatiently onward and shout "East! It's EAST I'm facing east, east!" into the phone.

“Okay…thanks.” says the 911 lady, in a please-calm-down-you’re-hurting-my-ears voice. Then she asks “are you calling from a 911 cell phone” and I get desperately confused…saying that yes, I am on a cell phone and yes, I did call 911, so does that make it a 911 cell phone? Apparently her wires got crossed and she thought I was calling from within the 911 network…and I guess she thought I actually worked for 911...…in which case ohmyword I hope she requested to have me fired.

But as I continue to iron out the 911 cell phone debacle, Melissa suddenly returns and begins ushering me back into the car. “Everybody’s okay,” she says, buckling with care and casting one last glance at the metal massacre in her rearview mirror. “Thanks for calling 911!”

Pause.

Longer Pause.

After cautiously rejoining traffic on the fateful US-96, she looks curiously at me (back in the passenger seat where I belong) and repeats, “hey, thanks for calling 911.”

And in that split second- in the “do or die” moment when I can opt to take the high road and reveal my utter ineptitude at heroism- I do the most obvious and logical thing I can think of.

I lie.

“Oh yeah, no problem. It's the least I could do.”

They say you can die a hero or live a coward...but I choose to be the blithering idiot caught somewhere in between.

Much love.

Why I'm morally opposed to being set-up.

2009-06-30T19:54:00.005-05:00

So I’m sitting at the front desk of the church childcare center, basking in my 1.5 hours of the workday that do not involve snot-nosed busted-lipped crying whining 3-year-olds. I love the baby chillens, I do. But I’m constantly amazed by their sheer and utter grossness. (If you have a strong stomach, be sure to ask me about the day Joey forgot that he’s potty-trained. Yeah, that was epically disgusting.)

But I’m sitting there, and in walks a parent of one of my favorite baby-chillens. She stops to talk and starts chatting about work or weather or some other such nonsense. Then, without word of warning she says, “So Miss Frankie, how old are you?” (The baby-chillens call me Miss Frankie, and thusly so do their parents.)

Immediately I become apprehensive.

If you’re happily married (or at least married in some capacity), you may not understand my aforementioned apprehension. But. I’ve been blissfully single for most of my adult existence, and I’ve therefore learned the DANGER! DANGER! signs that indicate I’m about to be propositioned with someone’s uncle’s cousin’s half-brother thrice removed who is also, GASP, single. And when somebody new to my life starts a sentence with “so” and ends it with “how old are you,” it’s safe to assume the next words out of her mouth will be, “well I just so happen to have this friend…”

So I pause, give myself a brief BE STRONG THIS IS A TRAP mental pep-talk, and say, “I’m 25.”

“Oh really? Miss K thought you were 20. Well I just so happen to have this friend…”

(I KNEW IT.)

“…and he’s a great guy but he only ever dates psychotic girls.”

Long pause. This is when I’m supposed to be complimented by the subtle inference that I’m not psychotic, therefore allowing her to blindside me with her upcoming proposal. Luckily and/or tragically however, I’ve been tricked like this countless times before. You ain’t getting me that easy, lady. I am an experienced evader of set-ups, and implying I’m not a psycho just proves you don’t know me from Adam.

So I say, “Oh yeah? I completely understand…I only ever seem to date psycho guys! That’s why I’m on a dating sabbatical. “ And just in case “sabbatical” isn’t a word familiar to this stay-at-home mom, I add “meaning I’m not dating. At all.”

(After countless awkward conversations where I’d admit to being available, get set-up with the King of the Douchetards, feign illness or unexpected travel, piss off my set-upper and then be deemed “too picky to find love,” I finally developed a strategy for these type of scenarios. Now whene’er I sense the DANGER! DANGER! signs meaning I’m about to be set-up, I act jaded and deeply cynical and say things like “I’m never dating again” and "men are pigs.” Nobody wants to mess with a woman scorned.)

So she looks at me, cocks her head and asks, “bad break-up?”

“Several.”

(I’m intentionally vague in hopes she’ll assume my last dating go-round ended in arson, mandatory anger management classes and/or restraining orders.)

She nods the way people do when they don’t really get what you're saying but would like you to think they do nonetheless. “Well I guess that makes sense then. I was just going to say that my husband’s friend Blane is a great guy, and you’re just such a sweet girl that I thought I’d get y’all together.”

Things get very awkward for a moment as she waits for me to succumb to the pressure and say, “ahh what the hell, my number’s 555…” But though the take-this-as-a-compliment-and-say-you’ll-go-out-with-him silence is deafening, I stick to my guns.

'Yeah...I’m just reeeeeally not dating right now.”

“Hmm. Okay. But he really is a nice guy...he’s got a great job, and he’s really cute!”

And just as my armor of cynicism begins to break under the awkwardness, she decides to elaborate on my potential manfriend, Blane.

“Yeah, Blane’s great…I think he’s good looking-"

(“I think” means “he’s really not but I don’t know how to tell you that and still get you to go out with him.”)

"He’s 35-"

(Umm, did I stutter? I said I’m twenty-five! A 10 year age difference does not a good match make.)

“He has a two-year-old but never sees her-"

(He’s a dad…and he’s a deadbeat dad at that.)

“And he's got a fantastic job. He’s a prison guard!”

..........and that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I’m morally opposed to being set-up.

Much love.

Matthew.

2009-06-09T10:55:00.008-05:00

So I’ve started my new career as a daycare worker, and to everyone’s surprise (but especially mine) I’m really getting the hang of it. If (when) they cry, you hug them and say “So and So, it’s Lydia’s day to be Line Leader.” If (when) they fight, you threaten to make them take another nap. And if (when) they hurt themselves, you tell them how brave they are and always give them a band-aid…band-aids are the kid equivalent to a stiff drink; they make them feel invincible, courageous, and slightly superior to everybody else.

And though I know it’s uncouth to pick favorite baby-chillens, I do so on a daily basis. (What? They’re not my offspring.) Today my favorite is Matthew.

Matthew is not technically one of my kids. I work in the 3 to 4-year-old room, and Mathew is a semi-potty-trained-terrible-2-year-old. However, I also have the pleasure of working Aftercare. This means from 3-6:00 PM every night I have the responsibility of keeping twelve 2 to 10-year-olds alive. It’s harder (and more maddening) than it sounds. Fortunately Matthew is one of my captives, and thus I have a ray of sunshine to break up the “but Travis said we COOOOOULD” whining I receive from the 5th grade girls.

(Incidentally, 5th graders are the teenagers of 2009. DAMN those hormones in our drinking water.)

But despite my newfound adoration of him, Matthew and I actually got off to a very rocky start. He came to me on the playground, white-blonde hair standing on end and a severely distressed look on his dirt-smeared face. “Thaaand inma choooo!” He said to me. Umm…..what? “Thaaaand inma CHOOOOOOO!!” Then he grabbed my leg for balance, pointed to his sandal and yelled “CHOO. CHOOCHOOCHOO!” But I was still massively confused. So I looked at him, used my 25-years of tried and tested logic to analyze his sign language, and finally deduced his wailing to mean that there was sand in his shoe. Ahha! You’d think it’d be easier for a grad student to understand a toddler, but nay. So I hoisted him up into my lap and carefully removed the accused sandal. Then I wiped off his tiny (and filthy) foot, shook the sand out of his shoe, and said “There ya go, sweet boy. All better.” Everything seemed on the up and up; he was smiling and saying words I didn’t understand, and I felt as if I’d done right by him.

Then I went to put the sandal back on.

Immediately his toes curled and he let out a scream almost too high-pitched for human ears to register. I instantly froze; 2’s are not my forte, and I was afraid I’d inadvertently broken this mini-person’s leg or ankle or foot or what have you. Then my worst fears were realized. He looked at me with pure disdain in his eyes, and in the loudest voice he could muster said “DON’T HURT ME AGAIN.”

Well that pretty much made me want to quit life.

And yet I was confused…I couldn’t imagine what I’d done to hurt him, so I tried to shake it off and be the Grown Up. “We have to put you shoe back on, Matthew” I said. And he said “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! NO SHOE!!!! NO HURT ME AGAIN! NOOOOOOOOOOOO!! YOU HUUUUUUUUURT ME NO NO!!!!”

By that time the other teacher on duty was looking at me warily; it was clear she didn’t want to expend the energy to intervene, but she also didn’t want me to kill the poor child (which is precisely what it sounded like I was doing). But thanks to Jesus, after 7 more excruciating minutes of “DON’THURTMEDON’THURTMEDON’THURTME” wails I finally succeed in velcroing the damn sandal back on Matthew’s squirming foot. The cries stopped immediately. He looked at me, glared, and hopped down from my lap to reenter the sandbox…and I spent the rest of the day fighting back the assumption that I’d soon be visited by DHS.

But that next afternoon I learned a valuable lesson about 2-year-olds; despite the fact that they know some words (and use them, loudly), they don’t necessarily understand what they mean.

For when I ventured back into Aftercare and was met again with the challenge of monitoring scary-breakable-2-baby-chillens, I heard the familiar screams of “DON’T HURT ME YOU HURT ME IT HURTS DON’T HURT ME” emanating from deep within Matthew’s being. Poor Miss Christie looked just about as terrified as I had felt the day before; she was tugging gently at Matthew’s hand saying “we need to go potty,” and he was responding by accusing her of child abuse.

And that’s the moment when I first realized I speak Toddler.

Matthew knows that being hurt is bad. Matthew also knows that, when it’s not what he wants to do at that moment, things like putting on one’s shoes or going to the bathroom are also bad.

Hence, anything that makes Matthew unhappy…hurts. And whoever is the culprit of said unhappiness…is hurting him.

AaaaahhhhhhhHA!

Now he and I understand each other almost flawlessly; when I tell him to stop throwing rocks and he tells me “DON’T HURT ME AGAIN,” I raise an eyebrow that means I’m not falling for it this time, and he puts down the rocks with defeat and anger in his eyes. (Kids can give THE BEST “go to Hell” looks.) But beyond his terrible-two’s tantrums, he’s really an adorable kid…he speaks a language all his own and has a laugh like you wouldn’t believe, plus he loves to crawl up to me on all fours and bark with every ounce of his might. He’s playing dog. It’s freaking adorable.

Now that my DHS investigation scare is passed, I feel relatively confident with my abilities to keep small baby-chillens alive…and even happy (except for the 5th grade girls, who hate me with a passion and are conspiring to have me fired. You can’t please everyone…especially when dealing with hormone-crazed spawns of Satan.)

But despite my success with Matthew, I'm sure there will be countless other Epic Fails over the summer when these precious lil Monster Babies and I do not communicate properly. And especially now that I have two (count them, two) childcare jobs, I assure you God Willing will recieve the brunt of my "welp, I pissed off another one" stories. So, keep checking in. Maybe next time I’ll tell you about Kavith, who has never spoken a word of English to me but who likes to sit half-nekked on the bathroom floor and sing jibberish to himself. Imagine the possibilities...the possibilites are endless.

Much love.

Just another reason for me to hate Texas

2009-06-01T21:08:00.006-05:00

Where is it written that one great event must be followed by a horrendous one? WHERE. Is it biblical? Did God say unto Abraham, “thou can have one good harvest, but the following year's will make you wish you’d been a car salesman”? DID HE? I swear to the God of Wonder Beyond Our Galaxy, I always, ALWAYS pay for it later when e’er I have a super-awesome day.

Now I’m not saying I believe in karma. As a rule I don’t ascribe to such cosmic fancies; I don’t think there’s a wizard of right and wrong saying, “op, you did this or that and now your dog is going to die.” I just don’t buy that the world is so logical. For A) such thinking creates a universe of vindictive cynics clinging to the hope that lighting and/or premature balding will strike down their deserved exes, and for B) I have several such deserved exes, and none have yet been afflicted negatively due to their heinous dating behaviors against me. Well…save for the premature balding, but that’s probably just because of all the hormones in our drinking water.

But. The pattern of my life has caused me to admit a certain amount of balance in the human existence; for this much good there seems to be this much bad, and there is truth to the adage that into each life some rain must fall. (And some sunshine will shimmer of course, but we’re realists here; we like to focus on the rain and drizzle and muck.)

So case and point. Last Saturday myself and my comrades loaded up Twiggy’s Jeep, double-checked to make sure I’d brought my toothbrush (as I absolutely love to forget my toothbrush when on vacation), and headed for a weekend of swanky hotels, overpriced entrees, and thrill rides not rivaled anywhere else in the Southernmost part of the Midwest. (Ehh, it’s better than Frontier City.)

That’s right, lads and ladies…we road-tripped it to Six Flags.

And it was FUN. It was so fun in fact that I started feeling apprehensive about it; I wandered about Texas with some of my New Favorite People on Earth, smiling and laughing but always looking over my shoulder for the BOOM that was bound to drop. There comes a point when a person feels too old to have ridiculous amounts of fun without cost, and I reached that point on my 25th birthday. Yes, it is sad.

(But I was RIGHT; there was a cost, and I’ll explain said cost and my subsequent belief in a celestial-directed system of balance in a hot minute.)

The first leg of our trip was cost-free; we ate terribly unhealthy food, laid by the pool, ate some more food, talked, laughed, wrassled (just enough to prove I am SWOLL), and had a generally kickass good time. But little did I know I’d soon pay for those carefree moments of bliss.

Day 2. My apprehension began quite promptly upon our arrival at Six Flags. Riding on an endorphin rush from my AM workout (I am a badass fitness guru now, so WATCH YOUR BACKS), I trotted in the gates of Rollercoaster Rapture with my head high and my sarcasm in overdrive. If you know me at all you know I can be a bit flippant at times, and on this particular occasion the combination of personalities and theme park goodness had me at my back-talking best. So we walk in the gates, Twiggy FLIPS HER SH*T upon being approached by that scary-ass old man in all the Six Flags ads, I make hella fun of her (as do all my comrades), and we embark towards our first ride of the day. I am bullying with the best of them, and all is well.

Then, in a spur of the moment decision the group opts to go on the age-old ship ride. All agree it’s a little lame, but we are SO FLIPPIN EXCITED to start our day of screaming and it’s the nearest thing to us. So we pile in, I’m still wisecracking Twiggy for being a sissy pansy, and I start to feel as if this day is going to be the most awesome day…ever.

And then the Six Flags bastards come to strap me in.

At first I’m okay. Three (THREE) immobilization contraptions seems a little excessive for the effing ship ride, but safety first and all of that. I’m chillax. Then the not-so-enthusiastic Six Flags employee says “ahoy matey” (or something else entirely as I was by then starting to focus on steady respirations), and the over-the-head immobilization contraption- the one that strikes fear in the hearts of claustrophobics around the world- tightens. And it tightens A LOT. Boobs, ribs, lungs and all are crushed…Twiggy turns to me and says with mild concern, “I can’t breathe…can you?” And come to think of it, no I cannot.

And then I PANIC.

This was a low point in my life for two specific reasons. First, I had up to that moment led my Six Flags fellows to believe me quite tough and brave. Hence, when a terrific wailing emanated from within my very core on the ship ride I inadvertently admitted to them that I’m full of chit. And second, I’d also led myself to believe me quite tough and brave. Yes I’m afraid of heights, and yes I have some claustrophobic tendencies, but those bits of baggage had never hindered my awesomeness before and I thought surely, surely that wouldn’t change simply because I’m now an old maid.

But alas, I was very wrong.

So the ride starts, and at first my comrades think I’m just being comical. “Oh look at Frankie, she’s convulsing and turning purple. Such a kidder, that one!” But as the torture persists and the damn ship turns UPSIDE DOWN (ships do not go upside down where I’m from; Six Flags is full of dirty tricks and lies), my hysteria builds and those around me start to realize that wait…she really is having a conniption fit.

Lucky for her Mammy is laughing her head off, 3 seats away and entirely unaware of my condition. But dear Forrest is close by, and he has that 6th Big Brotherly sense that tells him when women are FUH-REAKING out. (I think it’s an evolutionary response to PMS…some men get a WARNING! WARNING! message when females are going off their rockers.) So Forrest starts talking to me. He says “close your eyes, Frankie. You’re okay…it’ll be over soon,” and I say “OMYGAWD OMYGAWD I’MGOINGTODIE OHSH*T OHSH*T!” (That is a direct quote.) Then Twiggy says “SERIOUSLY GUYS I CAN’T BREATHE,” and that freaks me out even more so I just start yelling swear words. Which, by the by, can get you evicted from Six Flags…future note to self.

But I didn’t get evicted, and I didn’t die either.

So we get off the ride, my legs are visibly shaking, I tell the group I’m juuuust a smidge freaked out, nobody believes or cares and onward we proceed. The next ride furthers my panic attack; the rollercoaster itself isn’t so bad, but Twiggy precedes our departure with a cute lil story about a girl who GOT HER FEET CHOPPED OFF by a Six Flags ride. (And it’s true, see?) So the entire time I’m on this Tony Hawk WTF ride I’m thinking of all the manners in which it could amputate my feet. If our cart derails, if that cable breaks, if my safety-harness snaps…I mean, you’d be surprised how many ways one can be de-limbed on any given theme park ride.

The coaster ends, I peel my eyes open (incidentally I never opened my eyes on a single ride, all day long), Twiggy says “oh Frankie, you look like you’re about to cry,” and I laugh in a way to conceal the fact that actually, I already am. (Just a little though…I’m still tougher and braver than your average Jane.)

At this point I’m on the verge of stroke or seizure. But though I’m indeed appalled by the scores of rides I now have to endure through newly developed phobias, I’m even more appalled by my apparent sissy-pansiness. I mean, what self-respecting twenty-something is scared of Six Flags? What could possibly be left to live for if I’m THAT much of a wet blanket? So as we trod onward, a bit less spring in our steps as I’m now glowering at my feet and talking minimally, I make a pact with myself and with God. I absolutely AM NOT a sissy. AM. NOT. That is not my MO and never will be, and if I have to ride every effing rollercoaster in the park I’M GOING TO GET OVER THIS. I will not be defeated. Not by Six Flags, not by anybody. Damn. Straight.

All this mental bullying commenced whilst Mammy and Twiggy rode Mr. Freeze. Forrest and I opted out (which was okay as my pact had not yet begun)- him because he was sick and me because helllllstotheno, that ride wasn’t going to help ease my mania. I felt alright about peacing out on that one; I remembered some distant memory of it breaking and people falling and bleeding and dying and such, plus I just don’t voluntarily get on vehicles that shoot STRAIGHT up in the air. Not gonna do it, wouldn’t be prudent. But after Mam and Twigs emerged, cackling and windswept but otherwise unharmed, I made my silent oath to ride any and everything they rode from that point forward.

I am such a freaking idiot.

First we hopped on the Batman ride, as it so conveniently neighbors the Mr. Freeze, and that singlehandedly almost made me break a promise to Our Heavenly Lord. In case you didn’t know, the Batman ride makes your feet dangle. So what was I thinking the entire time I spent on it? “OH DEAR SWEET JESUS JUST DON’T LET IT CHOP OFF MY FEET.” So yeah…that was fun.

Then we headed for the Texas Giant. And let me just say this: if you have any, any tatas of which to speak, DO NOT RIDE THE TEXAS GIANT. Though not typically one to grope myself in public, I was crossed-arms-hand-cupping both sistas by demonic drop #1.5 of that thing. (Mammy was too, although her hand-cuppage runneth over more than mine.) It was brutal; not the least bit fun, and not even scary as I was more concerned about developing Amazonian boobs than I was about dying.

After that we went on some less physically damaging rides…Mams and I were still pissed off at the Giant, and poor Forrest’s face was an increasingly ominous shade of green. But after our break (which included a lunch of greasy cheesy bread…brilliant), we set off for the eminent dropping BOOM of which I spoke earlier: 25 and ½ stories of pure steal wickedness, featuring “one of the world’s mightiest drops at hyper-speeds of 85 miles an hour.”

In layman’s terms, we were headed for The Titan.

I can’t speak in too much detail about this one, as I may or may not have lost consciousness at least twice whilst on it. But I do know I thought, whole-heartedly and quite literally, that I was going to die before getting off that cursed device. As the rollercoaster climbed it’s 7 bajillion stories I started choking on panic-spit again, and just as we reached the top Mammy started wailing, “OH GAWD…OH LORD OH GAWD OH GAWD HELP US JESUS!” So I screamed at her to SHUT THE HELL UP…she was the bravest one among us and her terror was only escalating mine. Then I felt the coaster level, and then I felt it drop…and the next thing I remember I was clammering off of the ride with reeeediculous hair and a bruise on my arm that made me look like a battered girlfriend. For a while I had no idea what caused it, until I recalled holding Mam’s hand on The Titan’s initial decent. I refused to let go of it at first…and then I couldn’t let go of it, as the coaster had by then reached light-speed. Hence, my arm got smashed into my immobilization contraption.

The rest of the day was gloriously uneventful; having mastered all of the most horrendous thrill rides at Six Flags, we dawdled about until twilight and then set off for the hotel. Everyone piled into Twig’s and my room that evening to watch “the game” (don’t ask what game because to hell if I know), and I’m told I fell asleep almost instantaneously and began muttering about like a fevered 4-year-old. I don’t think I believe it (though I also don’t remember any of the aforementioned game. Not even sure if it was baseball or basketball...hmm).

But it goes unsaid that the cockiness I boasted upon entering Six Flags was absolutely nonexistent by the car ride home. And here, I guess, is the type of instance in which I do believe in that karma crap; The day before had been simply fabulous and I was being a pain in the ass to boot, so it only goes to reason that I was going to get mine. When, I ask you, will I ever learn?

And though I mastered the thrill-ride threat that day, I have a sneaking suspicion my time as a daredevil is through. I just like my feet too damn much to continue testing fate much longer. Le sigh.

However. If you’re planning an upcoming trip to Six Flags and were wondering if I’d like to join, don’t count me out just yet. Let me know the time and place, and I’ll be there. I’ll be there with freaking bells on, I say! I’ll do the car ride, stay in the hotel, wander through Six Flags and arrive at The Titan. Then we’ll all look up, you’ll say “mother of God this is going to be FUN,” I’ll smile knowingly back…

And then I’ll hold your purses, because LIKE HELL I’m ever getting on that thing again.

Much love.

"Kids are the best kind of birth control."

2009-05-18T23:12:00.013-05:00

Well my dears, as in accordance with the academic calendar it is officially summertime. Hallelujah-praise-Jesus. I had my last final on Thursday, turned in a hellofa of a lit review on Monday, and spent the rest of last week fretting over three yet-to-be-written freelance articles. BUT. Now It Is Finished, all is complete, and I am well pleased.

However, my relief is stifled somewhat by a new looming Stress Monster: le summer job. For those of you gainfully/professionally employed, the race for summer break employment is a mere memory…one you don’t altogether miss, though part of you does thinks “dammit, where the hell is MY summer vacation? Effing bastard college folk and their summertime gallivanting!” But don’t be jel, my comrades. This ain’t the year to find steady-non-icky-and/or-demeaning temporary employment, and I should know. I’d been searching for what seemed like eons, only to decide that yes, the entire Earth is gone to pot and I’ll be a homeless vagabond come fall. (And I wasn’t kidding about the icky/demeaning job openings…icky=cleaning stalls at some mini-zoo in Moore, and demeaning=sales clerk at Christie’s Toybox. Both are real jobs I discovered, then promptly said hellllllllstotheno and moved onward with my Craigslist perusing. I’ll live on the street before I’ll shovel elephant poop or sell vibrators. My humbleness goes only so far.)

But after reconsidering selling my Life Fluid (aka blood plasma) so as to pay rent/eat this summer, my countless hours of obsessive Craigslisting finally paid off; I now have a cozy little position at a local area church. I’ll be assisting with their summer camp program, and I’ll specifically care for the 2 and 3-year-olds. Mission accomplished, crisis evaded.

BUT.

I am now fighting a plague of apprehension bubbling in the pit of my stomach…as the day of reckoning looms nigh and I’m faced with actually going to this church and manning a Universe of Toddlers, the sense of sweet preciousness associated with childcare is fastly waning. I can no longer cling to the mental image of rocking quiet, adoring baby-chillens while singing “Mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird” and feeling triumphantly maternal…now I must comprehend the actual reality of my self-imposed summer sentence, and I’m not quite as keen on it as I was on my fictitious Baby Land.

Now don’t get me wrong here...I like kids. I do. And I’m told I’m good with them, though I can’t imagine anyone would ever say otherwise. I’ve successfully cared for children through art camps and swimming pools and games of Red Rover, and not a single one has expired on my watch. So that’s good, and 10 points for me.

But yesterday I spent the afternoon with two arguably adorable toddler-relatives, and instead of bolstering my love of youngens it very nearly shattered my belief in the point of human reproduction altogether. If you think I’m joking, you would be wrong. And as I pondered my existential crisis brought on by mere mini-people, the magnitude of my commitment to this church congregation and its offspring hit me like a brick wall…or maybe a great big wall of dirty diapers. I think that’d be worse.

(I’ll preface this story by saying these children are delightful, because indeed they are. They have awesomely good genetics; plus, when you’re 2 or 4 years old and have the blonde/blue eye combo, all you have to do is smile and the world melts at your tiny feet. It’s science. And these kids are good, too…not angels by any stretch of the imagination, but they’re not like that kid on The Omen or anything.)

So. I knew this day of kid-caring was coming, as Sister was homeward bound and thus the entire family need convene and say “yep…Rachel’s still skinny and un-pregnant.” (My relatives don’t understand life without husbands and babies. You can therefore imagine how pleased they are with me.) But despite eminent criticism of my utter failure in snagging a manfriend with viable swimmers, I was looking forward to the day. I do enjoy family togetherness (call me a masochist), plus I viewed it as practice for my upcoming role as Mother Goose/Best Childcare Provider in All the Land.

And practice it was.

First, child 1 (we’ll call her “Ella”) wanted me to put on her tennis shoes for her. “So I can run around,” she says. So I put on her tennis shoes…they’re rainbow, and we have a good chat about colors and how green is better than yellow and what have you. All is well.

Then, not 5 minutes later, Ella tells me she’d like to take off her tennis shoes. “Why?” I ask patiently. “I thought you wanted to run around.” She ponders this, decides it doesn’t necessitate an answer, and continues to insist I help her take off the tennis shoes. Now Ella is four, and therefore capable of some logical reasoning. I reiterate that she can’t run around if I take off her tennis shoes…her other pair are flip-flops, and I explain that flip-flops aren’t good for playtime. Ella tilts her head. She’s irritated, and her fascination with our dialogue is clearly subsiding. I can see a hissy fit festering behind her eyes, and just as I prepare to be yelled at the “lunch is ready!” announcement is made. Ella immediately forgets the shoe debacle, grabs my hand and says “help me get food!” I agree with little hesitation; sure she’s a bit tiring, but at least the kid can be distracted.

The rest of the afternoon was a haze of confrontation; Ella would do something and I’d say “no,” then she’d try it another way and I’d say, “still NO, Ella.” Then she’d want to do something on her own (I received several Stuart-esque LEMME DO IT’s yesterday), and I’d then wrestle mentally with whether or not to let her. Namely, she very much wanted to tote about her own plate of food. Not a difficult task for someone her age, but we were dealing with paper cutlery and Ella is pretty ADHD. But after several moments of mental debate, I decided to let her. And then there were baked beans all over the floor.

Now as I said, there were two tiny tots at this particular gathering. The other, Ella’s younger but equally formidable brother, is 2 years old and about as cute as a lil bug. Like a lil rolly polly or something…or whatever other bug is widely thought of as cute. “Braden” spent most of the day with Sister, being hauled around from swing-set to jungle gym to picnic table to wiffle ball game. He was very good for the most part- a little mopey perhaps, but he’s two and thus allowed to be in a constant state of moodiness. There is such truth to the term “terrible two’s.” But my point is he wasn’t terrible…he latched onto Sister and stayed peaceful most of the day, save for a few dramatic “ELLA MADE ME FALL DOWN” incidents that were quickly appeased with brightly colored Bocci balls. But despite Braden’s generally good behavior for her, I watched as Sister withered from exhaustion in a matter of 4 hours. She was a trooper, for sure…she enjoyed Braden’s affection, and the fact that he kept coming back to her reassured her innate need to be maternally capable. But she was visibly worn by the attention, and at day’s end she collapsed facedown on my parent's couch and started begging all who had ears to hear for neck rubs and pain pills.

The day was trying for both of us; we still enjoyed the family camaraderie (and I only got berated for being unwed on three occasions, which absolutely is a record), but by the time we’d handed Ella and Braden back to their parents we wanted nothing more than to have our tubes tied in double- make that triple- knots.

But actually and tragically, I don’t think that’s entirely true. Yes, Sister was almost mentally and physically defeated by a two-year-old yesterday, but I think if I asked her now she’d say she really liked her Day as Mommy (and I would ask her now, but she’s off having dinner at The Bistro in Tulsa. See, Sister? I listen). In fact, I bet she’d say it made her want to pop out some babies ASAP…a revelation that would have both her husband and my grandma in tears, but for very different reasons. So the saddest thing in all this is that I, the Professional Childcare/Diaper-Changer To Be, am now legitimately concerned for my psychological stability following 3 months in Little People Land.

I’ll do it, of course…and I’m sure I’ll get the hang of it, once the FOR THE LOVE OF GOD THE ANSWER IS STILL NO mental screaming subsides. I’ll probably even enjoy it after a bit, though I know I’ll quickly tire of 3-year-old miscreant boys who STILL can’t find their ways to a toilet. Seriously, what is wrong with mini-menfolk that they can’t figure that out? What are Freud’s thoughts on that one?

But no matter how this new venture in employment unfolds, I can almost guarantee it won’t have the same affect on me as one afternoon with Braden had on Sister. I’m just not the kind of girl who holds a baby and begins to spontaneously ovulate. If anything, I’m the girl who holds a baby and thinks WHY GOD WHY DO PEOPLE EVER HAVE SEX? Yesterday my aunt said to Sister and me “kids are the best kind of birth control, ehh?” I may have been the only one nodding, but I did so vigorously enough for the both of us.

Ahh well, this’ll be good for me and my patience (or lack thereof). I need a break from academic nonsense, and I do like watching young minds tick and think and grow. Plus, there is naptime…and before you sass me YES I KNOW it’s not a naptime for me. But it does mean they’ll be still for at least one hour each day, and as long as I have a moment or two of quiet I think I’ll be able to endure the 7 subsequent hours of chaos. Here’s hoping, at least.

So if you see me in August with my hair gray and my eyes bloodshot and my expression crazed, you’ll know without question that I’ve successfully completed one summer in the Universe of Toddlers. And if that’s the case, serious congratulations will be in order. So gimme a smile and buy me a drink (because God knows I’ll need it), and ask me what’s next on my list of things to do. Chances are I’ll say "join a nunnery" or some nonsense, just to assure you I didn’t cave and catch Baby Fever from the nursery. (There's a decent chance I'll have caught lice, however; a possibility I’ve been warned about and am none too excited to see fulfilled.)

Then I’ll probably head off for the gym, no doubt to do some crunches and planks and such. Because after 3 months of childcare, I’ll want to celebrate the awesomeness that is my un-pregnant, un-saggy, un-withered-by-chillens body. And the best part of an untainted-by-babies frame are one's abs, so I’ll work extra hard to keep those toned and trim.

After all, one of the greatest things about not being a mother is the ability to have a flat tummy…and after this summer, I’ve got a feeling my tummy will remain very flat for a very long time.

Much love.

The Empty Promises of Patrick Swayze's Hips

2009-05-11T14:39:00.006-05:00

NOTE: The following is a piece I wrote for class, but in the spirit of posting something to the ol' blog during this frenzied finals week I thought I'd share it now. My professor told me to address love and relationships from my position as a woman scorned. (Where he got the "scorned woman" thing I HAVE NO IDEA, as I'm very much a hopeless romantic and am not the least bit cynical. ...oh bugger off, what do you know?) Kristina should be especially happy to see this, as she's been wanting to read it for quite some time. I hope the rest of you enjoy it too, and much love.

When I was 11 years old and Sister 13, we were finally, finally allowed to watch Dirty Dancing (which in retrospect is still dreadfully young. Abortion? Teen sex? The side of Patrick Swayze’s naked ass? It’s a miracle Sister and I turned out as morally sound as we did). We were overjoyed to the point of giddiness for two reasons:

1. Everyone else our age had already seen it and, as we were both socially…challenged, we felt being up on Baby and Johnny’s torrid love affair would help our cool-factor (it did not).
2. We were young and naïve, and therefore still completely enamored with the ideals of movie love.

Unbeknownst to me at the time, this second point would prove to create an earth-shattering crossroad in my life.

I remember sitting Indian-style in front of the TV (in the‘90s “sitting Indian style” wasn’t so un-PC), totally engrossed in Johnny’s chin-dimple and the way his hips moved when he danced. Sister sat beside me, no closer than 3 feet to the screen as that was the rule, and together we settled in for 100 minutes of mild raunchiness never before experienced by our virginal eyes.

Without realizing it, we were building our expectations of our existences to come; we were on the verge of transitioning into teenagers (a conversion that would result in our hating each other for 3 to 5 years), and we were thus on the cusp of boys and relationships and first romances. And as the opening credits rolled and sweaty miscreants grinded in slow-mo to “Be My, Be My Baby,” a societal fairy-tale began seeping into our impressionable minds.

Then, somewhere between “I carried a watermelon” and “nobody puts Baby in a corner,” my all-business, proud-feminist mother marched into the room. Standing defiantly in front of the screen, she put her hands on her hips and in her sternest, do-not-question-what-I’m-about-to-tell-you voice said, “This is not how it happens in real life.” Then she turned on her heels and was gone.

This is not how it happens in real life.

Sister and I were frozen in place, not knowing what to do but being entirely aware that, on some fundamental level, our views of the world had been forever changed. After several moments of stunned silence, we turned back to the TV and pretended not to be scarred for life. We still enjoyed the movie; we booed when Johnny got fired and we cheered when Baby did the lift, but underneath our exaggerated reactions, we knew a part of our souls had died.

At least, that’s what I thought at the time.

For many years following that memorable incident I held a tiny grudge against my mother. I thought her words were completely unwarranted, and I attributed them to some sinister desire to hurt my feelings/be a mean-spirited-dream-crusher (keep in mind that at this point I was the epitome of a foul-tempered teenager, and I was pretty much in a mood 24 hours a day). More than anything in the world I wanted to believe my mother was wrong, and I’d therefore be damned before I’d heed her warning.

Then real life happened to me.

At 17 years old my first love was what you might expect; I fell fast and hard, named both of our future children (Robert and Amber), let him sloppy-French-kiss me even though I hated it, and began preparations for our long, happy life together. And then, just as I was becoming convinced that there was no truth to the saying “love hurts” or to my mother’s words, he dropped by my house one night and lowered the boom: he didn’t love me anymore. Suddenly I knew what it was to have a broken heart.

At that point in my naïveté I still wanted to believe the fairy-tale, so when he called two months (and 12 pounds of woe-is-me-weight-loss) later, I joyously accepted his proposal to get back together. Maybe this was my dream come true! In every life some rain must fall, right? But now things would work out and be perfect…the break-up would become a distant memory, and now I’d have my Prince Charming.

I don’t have to tell you what happened next.

So after heartbreak #2 and 8 more pounds lost, I finally decided to branch out to new specimens. I started dating other guys…some secret pot-heads who used me for free meals, others manipulative womanizers who pitted me against their exes. There were those who called me a “princess” and then hit on my friends, and some who told me they loved me (but could I just dress differently and be less opinionated?).

With every new date seemed to come a new disappointment, and I quickly lost faith in relationships altogether. If true love existed, then where was my perfect romance? Where was my slow dance ‘neath the moon? Where the hell was my Johnny?!

And then my mother’s words played quietly through my head.

This is not how it happens in real life.

Our society sets us up to believe in love at first sight and happy endings and Johnny Castles. We’re raised in a culture where reality is considered over-rated; people would rather seek movie-perfection and fail trying than settle for the world as it actually is. I don’t claim this as an original thought; we all know romances like that between Johnny and Baby are oversimplified and idealistic. We’ve all heard “only in the movies,” and few of us would admit to believing a Cinderella story could happen for us.

And yet, we do believe it….or at least, we’re keen enough on the idea to feel slightly cheated when our relationships don’t turn out that way. That’s not to say my past beaus were actually upstanding gentlemen, because they weren’t. I had remarkably poor taste in the past, and I’m hoping to God that I’ve since learned from my mistakes. But there is merit in expecting something human from your relationships- and by “human” I mean complicated, often frustrating, awkward at times, and most of all…real.

Johnny wasn’t real, and Baby wasn’t either. He wouldn’t have abandoned his playboy ways for the cute-ish girl named Frances, and she would never have been able to learn to dance like that (I mean, come on). But if you think about it, who would want that kind of relationship anyway? Real love can’t survive between wayward bad-boys and innocent do-gooder girls (and I should know, as that’s what caused heartbreak # 3).

So I guess what I’m trying to say is this: for anyone younger and thus less baggage-riddled than I, please heed the lesson my (come to find out, well-intentioned) mother once tried to teach me. Do not expect perfection. Do not expect swells of music when you kiss, or heartfelt I love yous on the second date, or hand-holding strolls on the beach that fade to black and end with the assumption of happily ever-after. Because as a wise woman once warned me, This is not how it happens in real life.

In real life there is heartache. There is arguing, and tension, and differing opinions and constant compromising. Sometimes your relationships won’t work out; you may be mistreated, and karma may never avenge you. You might be lonely for a little while. You might be lonely for a long while. And you may never have a blockbuster “love realized” moment to rival Johnny and Baby’s legendary last dance.

But if you’re very patient and just a bit lucky, you might find somebody who is pretty great - who cares about you and understands how you feel and wants to support you from day-to-day. You may meet someone who makes you laugh and holds you while you sleep, and you may just find someone who will love you for exactly who you are.

And if you do find that, don’t be deterred if there are bumps in the road or if his hips don’t move quite like Johnny’s. Trust me on this one, or at least trust my mother; your romance won’t be like Johnny and Baby’s, and that’s okay. Because real life love isn’t like movie love. It’s something a little bit different. It’s something a little more complicated. It’s something a little more real.

And real is always better in the long run…even if you never go dirty dancing.

This is dedicated to the eternally dreamy Patrick Swayze, who put my middle name on the map and made me proud to be a Frances.

Not all who wander are aimless

2009-04-27T16:44:00.008-05:00

When I was a minor and thus still under the organizational genius of my type-A mom, I was made to sort through each year’s worth of homework and mementos for future keepsake purposes. At the end of every school year I’d experience a mixture of joy and dread; joy for the upcoming freedom and swimming pools and late-sleeping provided by the structure of summer vacation, and dread for two very memorable reasons:

1. Impending summer homework (as generated by my mom’s aforementioned organizational genius)
2. Categorizing my mounds o’ crap into an easily filed folder of the most meaningful assignments of the year

I hated it…hated having to sort through page after page of Geometry homework and sight-reading practice sheets and color-coded maps of America and what have you. Sister and I would sit down together and proceed with our sifting, and absolutely every year she finished first; partly because she saw it as a friendly competition that she WOULD NOT STAND TO LOSE, and partly because I’d get so distracted reminiscing that I’d become sidetracked and forget my objective entirely. Ahh, ADD.

But. I am now thankful for my 14-color-coordinated folders (one for each year from preschool through 12th grade). My mother’s meticulous foresight has provided hours of nostalgic remembering, and yesterday provided one such incident of looking-back. Instead of writing my 20 page literature review or searching for summer employment or seeking more freelance work, I chose to go through my Complete Education History: Abridged. The ADD of my childhood follows me still (and also does the laziness).

So I started with my countless craft projects from Peace Lutheran Preschool; there were finger-paintings and construction paper cutouts, but most of all there were drawings. I loved to draw from the first moment I held a pencil (left-handed, of course), and I still find myself doodling when I should probably be paying attention in class. The creative mind must not be stifled. My parents love to recount the day I drew every scene of The Nutcracker from memory, and in my preschool folder I found the infamous collection of sketches. I was 4 years old at the time (and quite a bit awesome, I might add).

Then I filtered through 1st grade, and found a letter from my teacher saying that I was an excellent writer. 6 years old and already a master of the written word…my school folders were proving to be an unexpected and welcome ego-boost.

I went all the way through high school, which helped replant my feet firmly upon the ground…I knew I was obsessed with *Nsync in the 9th grade, but I’d chosen to forget that I signed all of my assignments as “Frankie Timberlake.” I am dead serious. I’d also chosen to forget that my vocabulary sentences revolved entirely around *Nsync members. Example:

“Joey hoped a friendly smile and wave would help appease his adoring fans.”

SICK.

One such assignment (which also included a darling little sketch of Justin with an unidentified blond girl (what do you wanna bet it was Frankie Timberlake?)), was graded with a 95% and an “ugg!”. Dear Mrs. Spain had written “ugg!” next to my drawing…not because it was bad necessarily, but because beneath it I’d also written “Justin is my baby!!!!!” I kid you not. 11 years have passed since my wayward years as a teenybopper, and yet I still felt mortified upon seeing that.

But by far and without a doubt the most appalling part of my walk down Memory Lane came in my 4th grade folder. On a poorly folded piece of notebook paper (as I was never one of those girls who could fold paper into a triangle or a bird or the Taj Mahal), was a list:

10 things I want to do before I’m 20

I was immediately enticed. What could my 10-year-old self have dreamed for my future? What great goals of grandeur did I wish to attain? I anxiously read through the list, mentally patting myself on the back upon each aspiration achieved. Go to college…check. Get a puppy…check. Go to high school……they were a little out of order, but check! I was 10 for God’s sake; when you’re 10 college can come before high school. The only goal I didn’t meet was to become a professional dancer, which I discovered at age 14 was not something I really wanted to do. Socializing, having functional toes, and eating were far too important to me. But then, just as I was feeling good about my life’s achievements as of age 20, I got to number 8…and I stopped.

Because the list stopped.

I made a list entitled “10 things I want to do before I’m 20”…and I stopped at number 8.

At first I just laughed, because it is so very like me to get distracted and quit mid-project. I can’t tell you how many short stories I found yesterday that ended suspensefully with “and then,” a doodle of a butterfly, and several pieces of blank paper. Following through was never my style. But as I let myself ponder the list and my mindset as a 4th grader, and as I took note of the carefully written “9.” and “10.” that had no Life Dreams to accompany them, I came to a very real, and very depressing, understanding.

I was born without the motivation gene.

My whole life I’ve felt a little without. People all about me seemed to be chasing fantastic dreams - dream jobs, dream houses, dream cars - while I plodded along, happily but carelessly with my head permanently stuck in the clouds. I had aspirations, sure…but the central theme to my aspirations was that they changed. A lot. The only reason I stayed in Oklahoma for college was that I simply couldn’t make up my mind; one day I wanted to go to New York and study fashion design, the next I decided to head to Stilly for Vet school (until I realized Vet school required loads of math, and then it was promptly back to fashion). And as the years have progressed and my search for a Life Passion has improved with no statistical significance, I’ve really started to wonder if I’m destined to be a wanderer. A flake. A lost soul.

Then I found my list of 10 things I want to do before I’m 20, and I’d only filled out 8. And yeah…that pretty much sealed the deal on that whole debacle.

It seems I’m never going to be chasing the dream, as it’s hard to chase something you cannot see. Where’er I am, I’m this much happy and that much looking for bigger and better things. True, I go through better times and worse times, but I’ve never felt like I reached a pinnacle and could thus sit back and congratulate my awesomeness. Maybe it’s because I’m still young…or maybe it’s because my life isn’t defined by achievements.

But then, what is it defined by?

I think I was born in the wrong generation. I’m sure you’ve felt that way at times too; everyone learns about a certain period in history and thinks “damn, I would’ve made a fabulous Viking.” But it’s more than that for me; the ideology of 2009 just doesn’t fit my genetic make-up. I should’ve been a hippie, I tell you. I could’ve been happy protesting Nam and reciting poetry in the back of somebody’s VW (plus, I can rock bell-bottoms with the best of them).

Sister is well made for modern-day. She’s the perfect blend of nurturer and career-woman; she’ll dote on you and hold you when you cry, but if you go up against her for a job she will absolutely kick your ass. Yes, Sister will do fine in this new millennium. She’ll have a PhD, 2.5 kids, far more stress than she can handle and a house on the good side of the tracks. But as for me, I’m afraid I’ll always be one of those people who doesn’t quite fit. Others will look at me and think, “huh…such potential, and yet she remains a drifter. Tut tut.”

(We should all really start tut tutting again.)

I suppose I’ll stick with the old adage that my existence is not defined by the acquiring of tangible things. I will not be pacified by a house on Newport Beach or a Mercedes McLaren (although GOOD GOD I’d love to have one of those). No…my life - the life of a drifter, apparently - is about self-improvement, growth, learning, and a constant effort not to be a prat to those who love and care for me. And who knows; maybe someday I’ll discover a hidden dream that the gods of motivation have been leading me towards all along.

But until then I’m going to focus on the present. My newest goal (which is infinitesimal when compared to Aubrey’s goal of becoming a novelist or Chris’s goal of going to Dental school) is to get a dog. In a year, I’ll have a master’s degree and will be a far more matured and responsible person (and if you laugh I will cut you). So, my reward to myself will be a dog to call my own: a companion that will love and adore me and think me a god among men, simply because he won’t know any better. This plan is indeed flawless.

And, I’ve even decided upon a breed! I want a Bernese Mountain Dog. A Bernese Mountain Dog named Bernard. Yes, it is decided. It’s a small step, but for a dithering flake with little ambition and diagnosable ADD, it’s a start.

In one year, I will achieve my newest life goal: I will get a Bernese Mountain Dog named Bernard.

(….or maybe a German Shepherd named Lupin.)

DAMMIT.

Much love.

Stupidity: the new little black dress?

2009-04-20T12:53:00.007-05:00

So I’m sitting in the library, talking Muse and Mormonism with my friend Chris, when in walks a sorority debutant princess and her friend the frat boy. They seem to be headed my direction, and I know immediately what they want: laptops. (The guy has been in before and wants nothing to do with books, research or the like, and the girl is giggling so manically that I’m pretty sure reading is not yet a skill she’s mastered.) So I begrudgingly withdraw from my conversation and smile politely-if-not-warmly at them. And the girl, idly twisting her meticulously straightened hair through her recently manicured fingers, opens her eyes scary-wide and says to Frat Boy Friend (even though I’m sitting RIGHT THERE),

“Omigaw, wait…I dunno what to do.”

“What?” he says, confused. I’m confused too. All she needs to do is ask me for a laptop…there’s not a secret handshake or anything.

“I dunno what to do; I’ve never done this before. Do I just, like….ask for one?”

(Sweet mother of God.)

Frat Boy Friend laughs, and says “yeah, you just ask.” And Sorority Sister giggles, and asks me sweetly if she can um, have a laptop maybe? Please?

So I give her a laptop (and one of my token “oh child I pity you” looks), and send her on her way. And as she turns her doe-like expression back to Frat Boy Friend, I hear her say, “So wait, can you help me? Cuz I dunno how to get on D2L."

Let me explain something to those of you not in the know. D2L is OU’s website for All Things School: grades, assignments, syllabi, announcements, course requirements…if you want to have the slightest prayer of passing a class, you have to use D2L. So when I hear Sorority Sister say she doesn’t know how to get on it, I’m understandably taken aback.

Then Frat Boy Friend, who is smiling at her like one might a slightly retarded puppy, says, “but you’re a senior. How can you not know how to get on D2L?”

She giggles and giggles (and giggles), and I ogle them both in sheer wonderment of how she could possibly be a SENIOR without ever having used D2L. How is it feasible? How can this be? And then, as she bats her pretty eyelashes and makes her way across the library with Frat Boy Friend, it hits me:

She’s faking it.

No one is that stupid, and no one could pass 3.5 years at OU without using D2L. It just can’t be done. A few minutes later she waltzed up to me (alone this time) and asked with confidence and far less sweetness to use the Marketer’s Guide to Media. And as I handed her the book she looked at me intensely, not a glimmer of the Dumb Donna left in her eyes, and said “will the ID I gave you for the laptop suffice for this too?” !!! She was faking it! This was a smart girl, playing the part of Stupid Sorority Sister.

But why?

When I was 19 I brought home my latest Epic Fail in dating: an ex-crackhead with a taste for speeding tickets and marijuana (though I didn’t know that at the time). Despite his questionable past and his even more questionable upbringing (his father used to fight pit bulls…oh PS, that’s a FELONY), my biggest concern about introducing him to my family was this:

He was not the sharpest crayon in the box.

At one point during the evening he managed to interject “I got a 20 on the ACT” into our dinner conversation. My highly achieved parents and my 34-ACT-sister kindly showed no reaction, but I was simply mortified. I remember blurting out “I thought you got a 22!” (yes…because that’ll make it better), and my ex-crackhead boyfriend just laughed and said maybe, but that he didn’t remember.

Didn’t remember…and didn’t care.

That’s when I knew I had to break up with him. Not when he got his 17th speeding ticket (but it was the police’s fault, you know…the bastards) or when he made me pay EVERY TIME we went out or when he smelled suspiciously of pot and refused to let me see in a certain closet of his house…when he said carelessly that he got a 20 on the ACT, I knew we were through.

And here, finally, is my point: stupidity is not an attractive quality to me. In fact, it’s a deal-breaker. So why then was this girl so carefully portraying a dumb blond persona, seemingly to attract a mate?

In this world of Equality Now and women’s rights and female presidential candidates, I always assumed girls no longer felt the need to be vacuous of brain function. I was raised believing I had the ability (and the responsibility) to do whatever I wanted in life, and it never crossed my mind that others might think intelligence was less than virtuous when paired with tatas and vajayjays. But now, after a year in Sorority Debutant Princess Land, I’m starting to wonder if we’ve come a long way, baby, after all.

Every single day I encounter beautiful girls with vacant expressions. I kid you not, Stepford Wives could’ve been filmed on campus corner. These chicks have perfect hair, perfect clothes, perfect teeth, and men on their arms; the only thing missing is the ability to add 2 and 2. And as I near my master’s degree and witness the increasingly small pool of People Like Me, I can’t help but wonder if the two aren’t intrinsically related. And if this is true…if getting smarter means distancing ourselves from companionship and romance and happily ever after…is it all really worth it?

Female intelligence: friend or foe?

For better or worse I think it’s too late for me to reconsider life as a Valley Girl. I’ve been in school too long and know too many big words to ever pass as a harmless Southern Belle, and with my proficiency for sarcastic wit few would believe I’m a damsel who needs a Big Strong Man to show me how to check out a laptop. That’s not to say I’m brilliant; the past two weeks I lived woefully without television simply because my cable box was turned off. That a genius does not make. But I can’t play stupid. I can’t toss my hair and smack my gum to make a man want to take care of me…and I don’t think I should have to.

Maybe it’s because I’m in the Bible belt. Maybe Oklahoma is still so ass-backwards that we need our men to be men and our women to be non-threatening, and maybe I’ll just have to deal with it until I can move away from the Land of the Lobotomies. But until then I have to stand for what I believe in, and I believe in girls who can cross the street in their Dior pumps alone.

So to my fellow females I make this plea: never hide your Smart Lamp under a bushel. Never feel embarrassed for having a brain, and never believe intelligence to be a masculine trait. I promise you it’s not (as evidenced by my aforementioned former boyfriend). If a man is threatened by your intellect, then he’s not a man worth having. You can do better (and probably smarter) than that, so just give him your copy of the Wall Street Journal and move along.

And to you men out there: I challenge you to value women who can read and write and do ‘rithmetic (or at least 2 out of 3, as we writers don’t do math). I challenge you to seek smarts and not to be intimidated by girls who know their sh*t. I challenge you to be MEN and to suck it up and stop being scurred by women of substance. I challenge you, kind sirs, to grow a pair.

Girls are smart. Boys are smart. It’s all relative, and it’s all irrelevant. What matters is what we value in each other, so we need to up and realize that intelligence is redeeming for all.

But alas I’m in the Sooner State, where a smart woman is still just as terrifying as a gay minister or black president. So until I escape (or until Oklahoma yanks itself out of the Dark Ages), I suppose I’ll go it alone.

For they say no man is an island…but the good Lord knows I ain’t no man.

Much love.

“I am in a financial cul-de-sac.”

2009-04-13T22:58:00.007-05:00

-Carrie Bradshaw

Mmkay kids, I’m going to be real honest with you right now.

If you call me within the next few months and my life is largely similar to how it is today, and you ask me to go have dinner or drinks or take in a movie or an Il Dolce gelato…I gotta tell ya, I’m going to have to say no. No hem, no haw; just a good ol’ fashion, cut to the chase, grow-a-pair-and-just-say-it: NO.

It’s not you though. It’s me.

And I’m not breaking up with you I SWEAR; it’s seriously not like that. I just think I need some time alone to think about where I am…you know, in life. Don’t say I’m bullsh*tting you, and don’t think my feelings for you have changed. This is simply a matter of personal need; a sabbatical from dating if you will, and when I say “dating” I mean “hanging out in any capacity that isn’t entirely and absolutely free.”

Because OH YES THAT’S RIGHT MY FRIENDS…

Frankie is in the Poorhouse.

(Le sigh.)

I am using this blog-post to turn a private matter public; to make all y’all who think pestering me to order another Riesling or join you at Benvenuti’s is a harmless pastime feel dreadfully bad right now. I know you mean well. I do. Especially all of you who took to kidnapping me following the Demonic Day of Doom; I truly appreciate it and probably needed it (though I did not need all those Oreos). But from this point forward, it’s over. This madness of spending - this constant hemorrhaging from my savings has GOT TO END. I just can’t take it anymore.

I’m a graduate student, people. A Full. Time. GRADUATE STUDENT. And yes, OU is paying me to go to school, but let me assure you they aren’t shelling out 6-figures for me to sit on my ass in the Gaylord library and Facebook all the livelong day. Life ain’t that sweet I’m afraid. And yes, I have enough money to pay rent and purchase groceries and buy my 18-bajillionth lip gloss when I’m feeling blue (or frisky). But that is the extent of it; that is where my fountain of funds runs dry. Theretofore, this seemingly unbreakable relationship between socializing and spending money simply cannot continue. It’s just not good for me (and it’s not good for you either, as I’m apt to completely lose it one day and snap you and your Chase Rewards Card in half).

In case you need proof, Example 1 of my Poordom: As of last week I was so financially strapped that I actually considered selling my blood plasma. My LIFE JUICE, for God’s sake! I got my latest hospital bill for the Boobotomy from Hell (another story for another day), and I thought to myself “yep…selling my bodily fluids.” That is just SAD.

(The only reason I’m not doing it is because of this right here. Be forewarned; it’s heinous and will make you want to tuck your fists up under your chin and never unbend your arms…ever, ever again.)

In case you need more proof, Example 2 of my Poordom: I was standing in the seemingly endless line at Victoria’s Secret, just itching to spend money on unmentionables for an upcoming lingerie shower. (When broke and newly single, it is a sheer delight to buy expensive panties for somebody else’s eminent marital-romps-in-the-hay. There’s simply no greater pleasure.) So I was standing there, and I heard the cashier say to her customer “did you try on the What’s-Its-Face bra today? If so, you get $5 off your purchase!” And I stopped, and I thought “hmmmm…what was the name of that bra again?” Because even though I’d stood in line for 7 years, and even though the last thing I wanted was to endure a personalized Victoria’s Secret bra-fitting (Satan!), I was actually considering popping out of line to try on the What’s-Its-Face bra. To save 5 dollars. FIVE. DOLLARS.

(I didn’t do it…I never could remember the name. Probably for the best though, because I used to work at Victoria’s Secret and those bitches are FIERCE. If they had figured out I was playing them, it’s likely they’d have strangled me with their hot pink measuring tapes.)

So I beg of you, comrades: don’t make fun of your friend Frankie the next time she orders a diet coke at The Library. And don’t get fussy when I have water on our coffee dates…and don’t glare at me and think I’m on a starvation diet when I order chicken broth for lunch. I’m not trying to be inconsiderate, and I’m definitely not aiming to be the next MK Olsen. I’m just poor. POOR, I say! Broke, impoverished, in need, without. POOR.

I have high hopes that my cash flow will pick up shortly; I landed my first freelance gig (PRAISE THE BABY JESUS!), and I have several summer job applications currently underway. But even if I can’t get out tha po’ house anytime soon, I assure you I’ll be fine. I’ve got this covered, so be cool bitch…be cool. As long as you’re willing to hang out with me in superawesome, no-riches-required capacities, my life will putter along happily as usual (just with a little less Chipotle and fewer new shoes). I love you, my dears. I truly do. But I believe in Dave Ramsey, and I’m going to try my damnedest to keep my 6 Month Emergency Fund alive. So please understand that I never meant to hurt you, but something’s gotta give. For I was born a poor black child…

But I have no intentions of dying that way.

Much love.

Demonic Day of Doom

2009-04-06T15:26:00.004-05:00

Firstly, I’d like to say how thrilled and indeed blessed I feel to be here today, with you people, on planet Earth. For it is no exaggeration to declare that I very nearly died last week.

Not because of a failed attempt at jaywalking or because I ODed on Nyquil (which I swear I’ve almost done before), but because I quite nearly had a complete meltdown: an emotional, psychological, mental, physical, Total System Failure.

April 1: Day of foolery for most, and Sister’s birthday to my Beloveds and me. [Momentary aside: the morning started off a little rocky as I signed onto Facebook (damn you, Stalking Machine), and found that my then-dating-partner was in cahoots with…well I’ll just say it…America’s Next Top Model. Now, in my defense I’m not usually the jealous type. But things between Manfriend and I had been damn confusing for a hot minute anyway, and at 8 in the morning my judgment is generally skewed. My logical brain immediately spoke up with a resounding “be cool, bitch…be cool,” but my illogical brain (which is far louder and more outspoken) began hollering “does he like her?? Will they date?? ARE THEY GETTING MARRIED??! WILL THEY HAVE BABIES???!” What can I say; I’m blessed with an active imagination.]

Lucky for me I had bigger fish to fry that day, and so I powered through and pushed past my suspicions that my dating partner was betrothed to a younger Giselle Bundchen. (Let posterity note that the aforementioned manfriend and I are no longer dating. WAH wah. Relationships are fun, no?)

But the real issue at hand, the true ticker that was causing me ulcers and clammy palms and blurred vision and impaired driving, was one I had been anticipating since the start of this semester. For April 1 was my personal day of reckoning. My day in Satan’s grasp…my day of 1.5 hours of public speaking.

I hate public speaking.

HATE. IT.

If you know me well, you probably know that I’m not a fan of talking in front of large groups of people. If you know me very well, you know I’ve loathed presentations since age 4 (when I had to be bribed with popsicles to be in my preschool play), and that I avoid such scenarios like an outbreak of Ebola or the Bubonic Plague.

So needless to say, the day was doomed from 12:01 AM. But God, being the kidder that He is, decided to have some fun with me…and see just how much torment I could take before losing it completely and cackling about like Archimedes from Sword in the Stone (which I’m told I did most of the day anyway…yeah thanks, Aubrey).

Total System Failure: A Synopsis and Overview

Unfortunate Incident # 1: I drive to campus at 9:45 AM, and begin my usual hunt for a parking spot. Typically I park in the garage so conveniently located across from Gaylord, but today I’m sh*t out of luck finding a free space. So I go to pursue plan B…and cannot get out of the garage. Can. NOT. Some damn Pepsi truck has lodged itself in front of the garage exit, and so I find myself trapped like an ant in an ant farm. (Remember ant farms? Those were fun…though Sister’s ants always made far more intricate tunnels than mine. I may have some unresolved issues from my childhood - but I digress.) So I sit there. And sit there. AND SIT THERE. For twenty effing minutes.

(One adverse side effect of a creative mind is that it often comes with some (to a lot) of neuroses, and I’ll admit to being no exception to that rule. So sitting in a line of jam-packed cars, surrounded by cement walls and pillars and dividers and what have you, did no good things for my claustrophobic tendencies.) So finally, finally the damn truck-driver learns how to drive, and I’m freed from my paved-coffin-of-doom.

Unfortunate Incident #2: I then begin meticulously perusing the nearest-by parking lot (and by “nearest-by” I mean it’s in BFE) for an empty space. Upon finding one I zip Little Red in, open my door with great speed (as I’m now officially late for work), and find myself in a Marilyn Monroe-esque type scenario. My lovely peasant skirt, which I’ve worn so as to feel pretty during my Presentation of Death, lifts itself as if of it’s own accord up around my ears. I’m not kidding you. And I of course have seven different bags in hand, so there’s nothing I can do but stand there and think “which pair of PINK panties am I now displaying to the entire Sooner World?”

Unfortunate Incident # 3: After realizing only a parking-meter-maid has seen my unda-carriage and I’m thus able to regain composure, I take one, maybe two steps in the direction of my destination. And trip. And fall. And this isn’t one of those, “whoops, caught my shoe a bit and now I’m just fine” moments, this is a “OH HOLY HELL I’M GOING TO SMASH MY FACE ON THE GROUND” kind of trips. But I didn’t…instead I flailed about like a drowning cat and merely slammed my torso into the rear of somebody’s (dirty) car. Of course my right boob took most of the fall. Which felt awesome. Then I hear a husky male voice not far from where I’ve landed (grasping for dear life onto the back of said car, my seven bags askew across the pavement) and I hop up to respond to what I assume to be his, “oh darling girl, are you alright?” questioning. So I turn, plaster a “damn I’m a dumbass but I’m okay” look on my face…and realize he’s not talking to me at all. He’s on the phone, and merely looks at me in a disapproving (and perhaps mocking) manner. So I’m sure my attempt at a brave-face read to him as a “hiya I’m a schizophrenic” expression. AWESOME. So I gather my things and start once more for Gaylord Hall.

Unfortunate Incident # 4: I make it all the way to Gaylord without another embarrassing moment, and I’m just about to hoister myself out of my pit of sorrow and self-loathing when I walk through the doors. And trip. AGAIN. Now mind you, I’m wearing flip-flops. Not heels; not stilettos that make one’s ankles wobble or one’s knees bow. I’m wearing the simplest of simple flip-flops, and I’ve tripped AGAIN. This time I’m in the atrium of Gaylord, which means at least 17 undergrads, 9 grad students and 4 professors have witnessed my graceless entrance. So I force a laugh (which sounds just as forced as it is) and proceed to the stairs. OF COURSE the library where I work is upstairs.

Unfortunate Incident # 5: I make it up 2 steps and see my dear friend Chris descending the stairs towards me. I smile at him, begin babbling about how sh*tty my day’s been thus far, and you guessed it…I EFFING TRIP AGAIN. I’m indeed lucky to have Chris there to catch me, as otherwise my shinbones would be irrevocably scarred from the fall. But the only thing more embarrassing than falling in front of strangers is falling in front of friends. So I mumble something about my shoe being broken or SOME nonsense, and being the gentleman that he is Chris goes to examine it. Damn thing isn’t broken (which I of course knew to begin with). I’m just a douchetard.

(It’s worth mentioning that Chris himself tripped on the exact same stair a mere hour after I did. That made me feel better…until Unfortunate Incident # 7).

Unfortunate Incident # 6: I stumble into the library, and my boss greets me with an icy “WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN” look. Deserved, I know, but it only adds to my desire to crawl into a ball on the floor and hum “Yesterday” to myself. So I grab a laptop, sign into my OU email account, and find I’ve received an ominous email entitled “Puerto Rico: An Update.”

Side Note: I have been unabashedly excited about my upcoming study-abroad trip to Puerto Rico. I never got to do an abroad program at my lame-ass undergrad school (my life is dreadfully unfair; I know), and one of my top goals for grad school was to do one through OU. So when I found this program, which would grant me 6 hours credit in Travel Writing during a two-week stint in Puerto Rico, I was ECSTATIC. Freaking blissful, I tell you.

And the email reads: We have had several people contact us regarding this trip and although the ones who have shown interest are ready to hop on the plane and start learning and writing, we haven't had enough people sign up to make the trip economically feasible. And, sadly, taking a smaller group would be cost-prohibitive for everyone. We are disappointed, as I'm sure you are.

It goes on to say that I shouldn’t fret, as they’ve already started planning another trip. For next May. WHEN I’LL HAVE GRADUATED. I sit there, staring at the computer, in absolute and complete disbelief. If I was a public-crier, I would’ve cried. Instead I did something worse; I opted to go talk with someone (anyone) about it in the Dean’s office. Which is upstairs.

Unfortunate Incident # 7: At this point I’m literally dragging my feet as I make the slow and agonizing trip towards the third-floor staircase. I run into Man Candy (one of two fellow JMC students Hot Librarian #2 and I giggle about when we’re bored at work), but all I can muster is a “hhmmello.” I begin climbing the steps, grasping tightly to the banister (as I’ve learned my lesson from falls number 1, 2 and 3). I make it juuuuust almost to the top of the stairs, let go of the banister…

AND. I. TRIP.

This time I stop. I do not laugh, hop up to regain composure, curse at my shoes, or cry (which is becoming a more realistic threat with every passing moment). This time I simply lay my forehead on the banister and breathe. Several people pass me; they look concerned, but I do not care. I’ve lost the ability to walk, my trip to Paradise Island has been canceled, and I have to give a 90 minute presentation in a matter of hours. TO HELL WITH YOU AND YOUR SEMI-CONCERNED GAWKING.

The rest of the day went without notable incident; when I finally regained the will to live and walk I proceeded to the Dean’s office and glared at his assistant Tyler for at least 9 minutes. Poor Tyler has nothing to do with the trip or its subsequent cancellation, but he was the nearest human person when I entered the room and by that point I was nigh out my mind. So I sat at his desk, told him how mad I was and how I’d tripped four times and how April 1st is the Day of Satan and his followers, and then descended (without misstep, miraculously) back to my library to endure the rest of the day.

From 6:30-8:00 (or 8:30 or 9:00 or Eternity - I lose track of time in that class), my dear partner and I spoke on globalization and its effect on gender equality. I was a little apprehensive, but mainly I was numb…the day had quite literally kicked my ass, and I was then on autopilot until I could crawl into bed and pretend none of it ever happened. At one point I snapped at my friend Alex for laughing at one of our videos; I thought I was being funny and sarcastic, but later he apologized so profusely that I realized he thought I absolutely hated him and his gender as a whole. Epic Fail on my part. After the presentation was over everyone clapped and began gathering their things to head home, and I walked up to my fellow Hot Librarian and said quite simply

“hug me.”

In front of the entire class and my professor (who was still obviously mentally deciphering my presentation grade) I asked Aubrey to hug me. And to her credit, she did…she gave me a nice big hug, and she made me laugh by referencing our v-neck shirts and how they were forcing men to stare at our tatas (it was part of the related presentation-debate…you had to be there, but be thankful you were not). But after our impromptu hugfest I realized something disconcerting: I’ve not been that emotionally drained in a very long time. When I’m at my veryveryvery wit’s end I ask random people for hugs, so that just confirmed that April 1st had waged total war on me…and quite obviously and unfortunately, it had won.

BUT. I survived. It is now a new week, I have a new Happy Flower Bracelet I bought at the Medieval Fair, I LIVED THROUGH MY PRESENTATION, and Man Candy should waltz in here any minute now to try and borrow a laptop from me (he won’t be able to do so as they’ve all been checked out for a class, but I’ve conveniently neglected to tell him that. I never said women aren’t manipulative). So I guess I should feel somewhat achieved, if for no other reason than for not letting my day of dysfunction, disappointment, and dreaded public speaking get the best of me. April 1st may have kicked my ass, but I kicked April 2nd’s ass by living to see it…and while I’m at it, I think I’ll go ahead and kick the rest of April’s ass as well.

For what’s the point of living through it if you can’t laugh at it later?

Much love.

Frankly, Frankie.

2009-03-29T17:40:00.003-05:00

It is days like today that make me thankful for the order and unshakable patterns of human existence. Afternoons like this one, when the sun is out but remnants of harsh weather still linger in swampy puddles beneath my storm drain, remind me why disorder equals chaos…and why in reality, chaos is only good for horror film dialogue and Britney Spears lyrics.

Today is one of those days when nothing is wrong, but nothing is quite right either. It is a day of funk; it is a day of unease. But just as things always work out in this endless cycle of hours and days and of months and years, my weary mind can find solace in this day in particular. For my day of restlessness has fallen on God’s day of rest. It is Sunday, and in 2009 secular terms, it’s the international day to recharge one’s battery.

So recharge I will. Rest I will, and pray a little I definitely will. I’m off to take my Sunday afternoon nap, people. I hope you get yours, too.

Much love.

Does your URL say Dooce.com?

2009-03-24T11:14:00.006-05:00

Yeah...I didn't think so.

I made a detrimentally huge mistake today.

So I’m perusing Facebook, as is my nightly ritual...peel an orange, pop in a season of Friends (as disc 1 of Arrested Development is tragically MIA), grab the Macbook and stalk. Oh stop it, you do it too.

But as Facebook has recently decided to be a Big Fat Failure and Twitterfy it’s homepage, I find it increasingly uneventful to stalk in this forum. So after several minutes of out-loud-to-myself complaining about the newandimproved Lamebook, I decided to take my stalkery in a new direction.

I decided to read other people’s blogs.

This will probably seem quite hypocritical (ahem, narcissistic) to you, but for the most part I’m not a blog consumer. I have a few close friends who blog in a manner I can tolerate; they’re adept writers, and they talk about familiar things/people so I that I feel like an unspoken VIP when reading their posts. I’m also a faithful follower of Dooce.com, as she makes me laugh about some of the more pathetic aspects of being a female. Better than crying about them I suppose. But beyond that, I view most blogs as the mindless prattle of people who couldn’t (and shouldn’t) construct a written sentence if it weren’t for the ease of the keyboard.

And today that view was entirely and painfully justified.

My first mistake was browsing the Facebook profiles of former college acquaintances. Perhaps the term “acquaintance” isn’t poignant enough; these were the people who were not necessarily my enemies, but who did for reasons yet unknown vandalize my apartment 12 times in one semester (and this was at a religious school, but we won’t get into that mess of weeds). So when I say “acquaintances,” I mean people who I secretly wish great misfortune upon. Kidding, only kidding…(but really only kidding a little bit).

Mistake 1: stalking people whose very existence seems to me like a waste of perfectly good oxygen.

Mistake 2: following the Queen Bee of My Loathed College Peers’ link to her blog. Ohh, how I wish I hadn’t done that…

For it was like opening the very gates to my own personal Hell.

Something you need know about my college frenemies: they all, ALL went to university for the sole purpose of receiving their MRS degrees. And now that many of them have achieved it (thank you Jesus! Old Maid Syndrome is evaded once more!), they’ve moved onto ultimate life goal #2.

Reproduction.

Don’t get me wrong - I think marriage and child-rearing is all well and good, and I plan to do it myself one day if I can manage to get my act together. But some things about being a wife and mother should absolutely-without-question be left to the imagination. Example:

In a matter of mere moments I knew all about one girl’s, uhh…well, period. I can’t figure out a way to make that more discrete. I knew when it was and how it affected her relationship with her husband, and I also knew about her new baby’s diaper deposits – frequency, consistency, color and smell.

I am not kidding.

Then another blogger informed THE ENTIRE UNIVERSE of her massively unreasonable mood-swings, and how she cries 4 or 5 times a day. Sad, yes. Postpartum depression is a bitch I’m sure, and I feel for anyone who has to endure it. But ON YOUR BLOG? REALLY? Then she too described her baby’s bathroom habits, and concluded with a description of her after-baby-jelly-belly.

This kind of offensive exchange continued for blog after blog after blog after blog…it was like being sucked into a vacuum-world of people whose entire lives revolve around the digestive habits of another human being. And truthfully, that’s a pretty accurate description of early motherhood.

I spent several hours this weekend holding/feeding/burping (I masterfully avoided changing) an 8-week-old baby. He was CU-U-UTE, and it was fun to play caretaker…but new babies seriously don’t do a whole lot. At one point he started gurgling in his sleep, which prompted me to have a minor freak-out that I was inadvertently drowning him in his own baby-spit (I wasn’t, thank God). But besides that brief outburst of involuntary noise-making, he essentially just laid there.

Point being, I understand that new Momdom must get pretty monotonous, and I can’t imagine the sleep-deprivation and the hormonal tidal waves. I sympathize…really, I do. But if I still have this blog when I get overconfident enough to procreate, this is my solemn vow: you will NEVER read about my mini-me’s dirty diapers on God Willing and the Creek Don’t Rise. I care about you, and I'd never do that to your delicate psyche.

So to my college frenemies I address this plea: you are not Heather Armstrong (and I’m not either, although I’m a damn bit closer as I know the difference between YOUR and YOU’RE). If you want to talk about your uber personal bodily issues, that’s your prerogative…but do it through an email. Do it by phone, do it by text. Hell I don’t care if you do it via Facebook note, as long as I’m not tagged in it. Just leave it out of the PUBLIC FORUM that is your blog, where innocent eyes can be unwillingly traumatized by the detailed account of your issues with breast-feeding. Discretion, people. It’s a beautiful thing.

I know that karma will probably come back to haunt me for this post, and when it is my time to birth a baby I’ll be the next Octomom in all the tabloids. That would be just my luck. But it’s alright, because I’ve got a plan…if that happens, I’ll sell the suckers on eBay (and as I’ll have cute kids, people will definitely want to buy them.) Then I’ll be so bloody rich I’ll purchase blogger.com…

And shut down my frenemies’ failed attempts at Mommy Blogging.

Much love.

The Ultimate Douchetard

2009-03-17T00:07:00.004-05:00

Good God, I’m the dumbest person alive.

So Edward and I walk into my house yesterday, and we’re doing that thing where you talk idly about the weather just for the sake of making noise.

“It’s so nice out...I’m so glad it warmed up.”

“I know; I can’t wait for summer.” (We say this to each other at least once daily; if we were to have a motto, this would be it.)

Then we’re inside, and Edward says

“You should open up some windows!”

To which I reply that I was just about to do that very thing…because I was, and GOD HELP ME if he thinks he thought of it first. So I go to the front living room window and I slide it open with great skill and caution (the house is 89 years old and could quite possibly collapse upon me if I cause too much disturbance). And then I stand back, look at Edward, and make the “ahh, such a beautiful, breezy day” face at him.

He smiles and looks outside, and then his face scrunches up and he bends down to examine the window. A look of understanding quickly flashes in his eyes, and he turns slowly to look back at me.

Then he reaches out and taps the glass…of the storm window. Which is still closed.

“Did you know you have storm windows?”

Silence.

He turns and opens said storm window, letting in the breezes I was only just imagining before.

“This is a storm window, Frankie. There are two panes of glass here.”

More silence.

I look at him, sheepish and wide-eyed. The wheels are turning in my head, and I make a little “Op!!” noise as I realize what I’ve done.

“There are two panes of glass here”…so I have to open two windows. Not just one.

“Frankie. Did you know about the storm windows?”

I glance back at Edward, who clearly hopes I did know about them but also obviously recognizes I did not. I start to grin and admit that no, I didn’t realize there was ANOTHER window to be opened. I mean, WTF.

Then he looks at me in a tragically piteous manner, and says

“So…so let me get this straight. You’ve lived here a year, and every time you’ve opened this window…”

He lets the sentence die, because it’s all too pathetic to be voiced out loud.

I’ve lived here FOR A YEAR, and I always open that particular window when it’s nice out. And not once has the damn thing actually been open. Not. Once.

Good GOD.

Edward laughs at me, and I join in to show how unphased I am by my retardedness. I mean, the guy now knows I’m a dumbass; he needn’t know I’m humiliated too. Then after lots of incredulous head-shaking, he asks

“Haven’t you ever noticed that you weren’t getting a breeze?”

Long pause. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut in an attempt to make myself or the entire world disappear. And when that doesn’t happen, I sigh and admit (and this is true)

“I just always thought it was a reeeally still day.”

…I am the ultimate douchetard.

Much love.

Madness is like gravity...

2009-03-11T16:37:00.007-05:00

all it takes is a little push.

Perhaps it’s the moon or the unpredictable ebb and flow of my hormone levels, but every few weeks I reach a point of actual, Merriam-Webster-dictionary-definable hysteria.

(Just so we’re clear, Merriam Webster defines hysteria as: psychoneurosis marked by emotional excitability and disturbances of the psychic, sensory, vasomotor, and visceral functions. Save for the fact that I don’t know what “vasomotor” or “visceral” means, I do believe this to be my current state of being).

Typically this misfire of my psyche comes and goes in a matter of days; I may be seized with fits of inexplicable grumpiness and/or joy on Tuesday and Wednesday, but by Thursday I’m back in my right mind and am once again capable of interacting with the general public. But for reasons only known by God and perhaps Obama, this month has provided two long weeks of the Crazies for me.

It all started last Monday when I realized everything upon everything was remarkably bothersome. The traffic on Lindsey street, the cowlick in my hair, the ridiculous water pressure in my shower and the way I can never seem to not flood my bathroom: all these issues cause me minor strife on an average day, but last week they nearly made me off myself with my Schick Quattro for Women. One particularly bad morning I knocked my open box of cereal off the counter…and next thing I know I’m thumping my head on the door-frame and wailing WHY GOD WHY IS THE ENTIRE WORLD AGAINST ME? The moment soon passed and I recognized I may have overreacted just a smiiidge, but for the next 5 days it was all I could do not to mow down lackadaisical pedestrians or scream profanities at Oklahoma’s relentless winds (actually, the wind thing isn’t solely a crazy issue; on any given day it has the power to turn me into a SheDevil. I think if the wind was a person, I would shoot it point-blank…but I digress). For the most part however, my rage was dreadfully unwarranted.

For those of you who think this is clearly a post-PMS blog update, I say to you NOT SO. My neuroses are more complicated than that, thanks very much. For every day of irritable bitchiness is matched with one of equally bizarre hilarity; there are times when I find something so amusing that I simply cannot contain myself, and these situations rarely merit my overjoyed reaction. It may sound like fun, and indeed sometimes it is…today my fellow hot librarian commented on the delectable manliness of one of our patrons, and when he later approached her for a simple librarian-task I was made physically incapacitated by fits of giggles. Luckily she was also hysterical due to severe stress and sleep-deprivation, so she too found the scenario extraordinarily funny. For the next 7-9 minutes we were red-faced and unable to speak, doubled over behind our hot librarian desk in semi-silent laughter. The poor man-candy must’ve thought we were wretchedly mean for laughing at him…I briefly considered explaining myself, but my friendship with Hot Librarian #2 is far more important than some undergrad’s ego (and he wasn’t even my kind of man-candy, anyway).

So, on occasion mania can be fun, especially if you have an equally manic buddy. But when you’re going about your business trying to behave like an adult human, bursts of laughter or uncontrollable smiling just makes you look like a dumbass…or worse, like a raging lunatic.

Today I believe I’m coming off as a raging lunatic, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. I’m not sure when this onset of hysteria will end as it’s already outstayed its usual duration, but I hope to God I can get it in check by class this evening. My Wednesday class is my No-Bullsh*t-Actual-Studying-And-General-Grown-Upness-Is-Required grad course, and if I’m still acting this way at 6:30 tonight…well, I may need to fake sick and make it a mental health day. If you could be in my head right now, you would understand.

I guess it goes without saying that you should disregard my behavior for the duration of this week. I swear to God I’m trying to regain composure, but with funny people doing funny things all about me I feel I’ll have little success. Earlier a girl tripped while walking up the stairs; it was possibly the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen. I am a lost cause.

I’ll bet there’s a pill I could take to combat my hysteria, but with the second half of it being so enjoyable I really have no desire to self-medicate. Plus, the irritable bitchiness affects you more than it does me, and if I’m bitchy to begin with chances are I won’t care about upsetting you. So the next time you see that glean in my eyes that says I’M DANGEROUSLY IMBALANCED AND WILL BE PISSED OFF BY WHATEVER YOU SAY OR DO, steer clear for a little while. Just be sure to come back in a few days, because by then I’ll be like that one friend who can’t stop giggling when she’s drunk…

Only I promise not to throw up on your shoes.

Much love.

Invasion of the Spider Monsters

2009-03-04T17:22:00.006-06:00

Living alone, for the most part, is a necessity of life I’ve come to enjoy.

(I use the term “necessity” loosely…I could go to Craigslist and fetch me a roommate, but my packrat piles of nick-nacks and randomass crap all but dominate my spare bedroom where said stranger would expect to sleep. Plus, I waltz around in various degrees of undress most of the time, and I fear this particularly freeing form of expression would be squelched by the presence of an Other.)

For the first 22 years of my life I shared a bathroom with at least 1 and sometimes 15 other girls. That is a long time not to have one’s own stash of tampons. Therefore, once I graduated college and could no longer be required to wear shoes in the shower or wait my turn to spit in the sink, I committed myself to a living situation of solitude.

And like I said, I enjoy it…for the most part.

But spring is now eeking its way around the corner, and though I’m elated for warmer weather and thunderstorms I’m reminded of the terrors of March/April/May 2008.

You should first know that I, by strict definition, am not a girly-girl. I love being outside, I don’t mind my clothes being mussed or drooled on by dog or horse or what have you, I’d go barefoot and braless everyday if possible, and I’ve never chipped a nail in my life (as I have no nails to speak of). But there is a certain point where I draw the line, where I say TO HELL WITH IT to being brave and ballsy and surrender to my more feminine instincts.

And since my move to the Nomptom bungalow, that line has manifested itself via an infestation of Spider Monsters.

I do not like spiders. I do. Not. LIKE THEM. They move too fast, they have too many legs, and just when you think they’re going to scurry right they scurry left (or they leap from within your sock drawer and scurry up your arm, which marked the beginning of my arachnophobia). So it was with great displeasure that I realized my precious little home is a hotspot breeding ground for eight-legged mini-aliens.

Most of you have heard the tale of the tarantula in my living room…it was 6 in the morn one day last April, and the mother of all disgusting creatures flitted across my floor just as I stumbled out of bed (barefoot, of course). The War of the Worlds thus commenced, with me hopping from couch-to-chair-to-coffee-table while the Spider Monster followed at rapid speed (I swear to God the thing was chasing me). I screamed a lot that morning, and I called many people who became overly distressed about my well-being as all they could hear was OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD HOLY HELL on the other end of the phone. I daresay you’d be no more articulate if put in the same position. I eventually killed the bastard, but only after discovering it was actually a bastardette. After drenching said Spider Monster (and most of my living room rug) with multiple types of poison, I watched in horror as it exploded…into majillions of baby Spider Monsters. Apparently my little friend was in delicate condition.

Unfortunately for me (and for those whom I call when massively freaked out), this did not prove to be an isolated incident. Far from it - I found so many spiders in my house last spring that I began a daily count…at one point I was killing at least 6 every 24 hours. Finally I had enough, and I employed the assistance of both a professional Spider-Monster-killer and my father (who set off so many bug bombs that I’m sure my death will be a direct result of their fumes). For the next few months my critter numbers dropped to a tolerable point. Sure I still had tree bug thingamajigs and rolly-pollies, but the potentially blood-sucking-people-killing arachnids seemed to have moved on.

But alas it is once again March, and my floors and walls and ceilings are no longer soaked with spider kryptonite. I’ve smashed 3 already this spring…they were easy targets as the lethargy of winter had not yet warn off, but the very sight of their prickly legs and squishy bodies made me momentarily regret being Miss Independent. If I had a roommate, I’d have someone to run to and shake and holler at when I discover a wolf spider in my dryer (an occurrence I became all too familiar with last year). And with any luck, I could make said companion partake in some of the arachno-killing; I’m a bad aim anyways, since I refuse to get close enough to the Spider Monsters to guarantee a hit. Half the time the damn things get away, and then I get to wrestle with the thought of going to bed with angry spawns of Satan roaming my halls.

I’ll make it through. I’m no sissy-pansy, and I have too much pride to ever surrender to my irrational fear of creatures 1/200th the size of me. But take this as a word of warning; if you are a new add to my speed-dial, you best be expecting some frantic calls from me in the near future. Try to identify the word SPIDER within my stream of howling, and once you do you’re welcome to sit down the phone and go about your day. For I know you can’t save me from the Spider Monsters, but at least you can recognize my bravery and/or stubbornness for residing by myself in the true 8th circle of Hell (trust me – Dante’s scorpion-man is no match for my army of arachnids).

Indeed I am quite valiant for living alone. Plus if you think about it, at least I won’t be living alone for long…there are thousands of future roommates just waiting to hatch within my bedroom walls.

Much love.

Insomnia, BlogCritics and the Addy's

2009-02-28T04:01:00.008-06:00

3 AM is an excellent time for blogging, no?

Urrg, I’m doing that thing where your mind is so busy you can’t sleep; I did this at the start of last semester too, and it was just as disturbing then as it is now. I am a sleeper; if there’s one thing you can count on me to do it’s sleep (and not much else, as I’ll probably accidentally sleep through whatever it is). Therefore, this new-found desire to check my email at 4 AM (and send responses, which results in “why were you emailing at 4 AM?” phone calls the next day) is severely mussing my whole system. Asleep before 12, awake as late as possible. This has been my tried-and-tested pattern since high school, and I’m more than a little freaked out by my adult-esque new habit of staying awake to worry about unimportant things.

Damn you, 25. Damn you, sense of personal responsibility. Damn you, crows feet (do not tell me they’re not there because I CAN SEE THEM.)

But if I’m up, I might as well use this opportunity to splatter some words on the ol’ weblog. I have broken my self-imposed post a week promise, and for that I am truly sorry. I’ve actually had people ask me to update; this makes me feel both special and like I need cooler friends, all at the same time (I don’t mean that…please keep reading…I crave your validation).

First order of business: I am now also publishing on Blogcritics.org, which is a slightly more credible/less narcissist writing outlet as my pieces must first be approved by an editor before venturing into CyperSpace. I’m excited for the opportunity of portfolio padding, but it also means God Willing must be good and patient for its updates. I have to give Blogcritics first publishing rights, so if I seem to be slacking (like this week, for instance) that’s probably why. Just don’t panic; I will keep posting as I’m too OCD not to, so take a deep breath and peruse my archives. Or better yet, go to http://dooce.com (but please don’t leave me for her. I need you more than she does).

Second order of business: Addy’s. This topic was actually requested by an aforementioned uncool friend, so don’t blame me for crossing the TMI line by posting about my dating life. Take it up with Lola, aka Team Park…I’d provide more info on her identity, but she’s remarkably scrappy and frankly I’m afraid.

Ahem. So the Addy’s are an advertising competition. Prior to January I knew nothing of them; to me, “Addy” was a girl in my high school show choir and nothing more. Then I met my dating partner, and as he’s an Ad guy I was quickly caught up to speed. (“Dating partner” is a funny little quip said Ad guy and I originated, but as I realize it’s not actually that funny I’ll drop it. For the purpose of this post, DP now = Edward.)

Edward asked me to be his date for the Addy’s about a month out, and I proceeded to react with far too much enthusiasm…we’d only been dating for a few weeks, so it was imperative that I still act cool and nonchalant. However, he said “cocktail dress” and it was a lost cause; I immediately began making prom-like-shopping-plans and wondering if my tanning contract had expired. Luckily for me Eddie powered through and didn’t spazz out at my gusto, and one week out from the Big Night I embarked upon my journey for the perfect dress.

For this outing I required more estrogen than I alone could produce, so I asked for the assistance of the one woman genetically obligated to accompany me on such a trip: my mother. She kindly agreed to tag along, and by 11 on a Saturday morn we were chin-deep in corset-tops, empire-wastes and chiffon-overlays. Ahh, what sweet perfection!

Now, I misspoke earlier when I said I could be counted on to do one thing (sleep). I can actually be counted on to do two things: sleep…and shop. You don’t become Best Dressed 2002 without first memorizing the layouts of both local malls (and I should know, as I was Best Dressed 2002…or have I mentioned that?). So I was absolutely certain that this particular excursion would end like most of my trips to Penn Square; with a few too many dollars spent and a bag of glorious Fashion Fabulousity in hand.

When store #1 didn’t rock my world, I lost very little heart. There were still several stops to make, and I didn’t really want to find it that easy anyway (because half the joy is in the hunt). Store #2 was a disappointment as well, as it was riddled with prom-dress-shoppers who tainted both the ambiance and the dresses themselves. But not to worry, it was still barely past noon.

So we continued on to store #3, and 4, and 5…my mother vigilantly maintained her “I’m so excited to be trudging through the crowded mall with you” façade, but as the hours passed a bit of the life behind her eyes began to die. Even I became disheartened as the failed attempts piled up, and when the stores finally started to close I was left with a throbbing head…and no dress to call my own.

The pains-in-the-ass didn’t end there, but I’ll spare you some of the details (especially the part where my mom went shopping on my behalf and sent pictures of dresses to me via cell phone…yeah, I’ll leave that out as it’s kind of horribly embarrassing and makes me seem like a wretched child). I’ll pick up a few days later; I’d almost come to terms with the fact that I had failed at shopping, and I’d decided to just wear a dress I already had (siiiiigh, how great the trials of my life). Then just as I was coming out of my no-dress-deep-blue-funk, I remembered a sassy little number at shop #2.

My mother had immediately loved the dress; it was royal blue, which she’s been saying is “my color” since I emerged from her womb. I opted to try it on for that reason alone, and once I’d wiggled my way into it I swiftly used my veto power. It was strapless - as a rule, I don’t do strapless. Ever. They’re dreadfully uncomfortable, they make breathing nigh impossible, and they squish up one’s side-boob in a most unappealing way. So, once I realized what I was dealing with I turned to Mother to say “uhh, NO.” But to my surprise, she had a peculiar look on her face.

“You look like a movie star!”

Wellllll crap. Somewhere deep inside every woman is an intense desire to please her mother, and when mine said those words I knew I was about to experience a great internal struggle: to appease, or not to appease? I gaped at her, then turned back to the mirror…I had to admit I liked the color, but no. This girl does not wear strapless dresses; I am nothing without my principles, and no innate need for my mother’s approval was going to change that. I am strong. Damn straight I’m strong.

Much to your surprise I’m sure, that all changed when I realized the serious anorexia of my options. I ended up in the blue, utterly strapless dress, and by the weekend of the Addy’s I’d gone from hating it to tolerating it to liking it to loving it. Never doubt the power of a mother’s opinion. So I set out on my first advertising-awards-ceremony-evening, and I daresay I did a fine job. I don’t remember saying too many stupid things, and even if I did I was in a fabulous dress that with any luck distracted everyone from my babbling.

The night was a lovely blur of fine wines, good food and new faces, and I’m pretty sure Edward still liked me afterward. So, mission accomplished. And the real star of the evening-The Dress-survived without spill, slippage or tear (and received several compliments to boot). One gentleman seemed notably taken by my attire…he asked me in apparent awe what color I was wearing, and when “blue” didn’t satisfy him he asked me again…and again...and again. I eventually bowed out of the conversation mumbling something about needing to find my seat, and clung just a bit more tightly to Eddie’s arm from that point forward.

So there you have it, Lola-my-uncool-friend: this is my account of the Addy’s. Don’t act surprised that it revolves almost entirely around the dress, as you know me well enough to realize what a prisoner of fashion I truly am. It was several weeks of preparation for a few hours of display, and I’d do it again in a heartbeat. Dressing up is a high for me; keep your cocaine, I’ll take the couture. So say what you will – I think it was worth it…

Afterall, my mom said I looked like a movie star.

Much love.

Don't mess with the Fashion Master

2009-02-16T16:46:00.007-06:00

As we age, there comes a time when it is necessary to pass the torch of Things We Once Were to younger generations (I'm 25 now...I'm old...I can talk like this). Previous pageant queens relinquish their crowns to newer, shinier Plastics; former record holders surrender their titles to stronger, springier athletes. It's a short distance between Late-Breaking Story and Yesterday's News, and the older we get the harder it is to be a headline.

Fortunately for me and my naiveté, it wasn't until my Sooner Land arrival that I realized this truism would soon apply to me. Perhaps I've made mention of this before, but I was Best Dressed in high school. Hold your applause. I took my position quite seriously; throughout college I vigilantly maintained my unique albeit impractical personal style (and I ruffled more than a few feathers with said style, which is always a good indication that one's Look is working). Despite my less than desirable fashion-locale (Shawnee, America = shopping-barren-wasteland) I kept up on the trends, and I graduated still feeling like a fashionista, regardless of my age.

That all changed when I came to OU.

Beyond the fact that I'm a haggard grad student now and thus am too jaded and exhausted to care, I simply cannot keep up with the apparel of my Debutant Sorority Princess counterparts. These girls must shop 23 hours a day (the other hour being reserved for parties at the Fiji house)...and they most certainly have more cash to burn than I, what with their Daddy-provided expendable incomes. Ahh, to be the offspring of a Texas oil baron. Louis Vuittons, Dior sunglasses, and UGGs (ugggggh) are a dime-a-dozen here; if you don't have these basic accessories, you do not register on the Fashion Radar. And I, a former fashionista and Best Dressed title winner, have none of the above.

Therefore, when I waltz into my undergraduate Journalism History class (a course I now have to take as it was not required for my BA, which further supports my suspicions that I went to a pretend school...but I digress) I drop my bags, silence my phone, and settle in for an hour and 45 minutes of Couture Research ala Undergrads. No, I do not pay attention in class; it's a 4000 level course, so it is my right as a Master's student to feel I am above listening to the lectures. Trust me, it's science.

Typically I marvel at the ever-evolving styles to be observed; I saw a girl in a magenta sequined-beret last week, I kid you not. The clothes kids are wearing these days are retro, throwback, vintage, not a bit sensible...and utterly fantastic. Most afternoons I lust over designer pieces that I will never own, and I almost always leave feeling like I need a "come to Jesus" talk from the God of Fashion (Dolce or Gabbana; either one will do). But last Thursday, as the lecture began and I thus prepared to zone out, I noticed something startling. As I scanned the room, a new trend was evident to me amid the sea of heavily peroxided heads of hair. And as this new style seeped into my fashion conscience, I became quite deeply disturbed.

Baby bows.
I saw baby bows.
Pinned to the perfect quafts and intentionally messy ponytails...were baby bows.

For anyone currently confused by this terminology, think of it literally; baby bows are exactly that - bows for babies. They're tiny, cheapy, cheesy bows that people glue to bald baby-heads presumably to alert the world that "hey, this slobbering bundle of rolls is a girl, and God help you if you call her a 'he.'" (New moms are weirdly protective of their children's gender integrity.) These bows are dumb and unnecessary for babies, as they don't make newborns look any less like pinkish old men, but for sorority sisters...they're creepy.

And I mean creepy.

What kind of message are you trying to send with an infant child's bow stuck to your head? Hmmm? What twisted daddy-complex does that address? I also noticed that some girls had branched out beyond the baby version, and were wearing those suuuuper tacky cloth headbands that have giants bows on one side. I wore one of those once...when I was 5. It was a fashion faux pas then, and now - if I were to wear one now, well it would be an atrocity for which I would invite you to lock me up at Griffin Memorial and throw away the key. Hold me to that, please; I'd rather be trapped in a padded room as a crazy patient than walking the streets as a fashion victim.

But back to the issue at hand; I was incredibly demoralized by this clear disregard for actual style. If Gianni Versace saw what I saw - Gucci bag and True Religion jeans, topped off with a pink satin hairbow from Gymboree - he'd roll over in his grave, twice. I swear to it. There is no excuse for this trend. I bought into the return of fluorescents and I'm almost on the plaid-shirt-dress bandwagon, but baby bows are an outrage...and I will not stand for it.

Therefore, as I teeter on the cusp of handing the Style Baton to these young sprites, I've decided to hold my Best Dressed Fashionista title for awhile longer. It is a vital role, being a trendsetter, and I just don't think these kids are ready. So in the spirit of being an inspiration to others, I've once again begun perusing the pages of Vogue magazine, and I've made return voyages to my old shopping stomping-grounds. This weekend I bought a dress I daresay I do not need; the rebirth has already begun. And until I see a complete extinction of the horrific baby bow trend, I will dutifully adorn myself in skinny jeans and Free People hippie shirts (and I'll carry my fake Louis Vuitton...but if you tell anyone it's fake I will cut you). I have to do what's best for society. I have to be me. And I am Best Dressed 2002, bitches.

Now leave your baby bows at the DOOR.

Much love.

We pay no attention to the Man behind the curtain

2009-02-11T15:09:00.010-06:00

Well kids, Tornado Season is upon us. Every year it seems to come earlier and earlier - when I was little I associated it with Spring Break and Sister's biffday (which is in April), and now I've come to register it with Valentine's Day and my biffday (which was 3 days ago...spitspit). I tell you, God's messing with us. I think he's sick and tired of the cockiness and the "I dare a tornado to suck me up" attitude most Oklahomans have adopted. He is a god to be feared and respected, and if massive tornado-storms with hail and sideways rain every spring won't do it, he'll keep us in a state of constant wariness by dropping his Twisters of Torment whene'er he pleases. It's a good plan in theory; people generally dislike unforeseen disasters, and having rainwrapped cyclones pop out of the clouds mid-February certainly qualifies as an unexpected act of Godly fury. However, this is Oklahoma. You drop a tornado on us unawares and (assuming we survive) we'll stand on our porches, watch that sucker evaporate back into the sky, and shake our fists at it in the most obnoxious "you can't get me that easy, Jesus" fashion we can muster. God underestimates our stubbornness.

Yesterday marked the first day in 2009 of widespread OMIGAWD THE SKY IS FALLING weather reporting on Oklahoma's fantastically sensational local news stations. The only reason I know this is because I accidentally unplugged my DVD player (by tripping over it, which hurt), and my personal marathon of Arrested Development episodes was rudely interrupted by a weatherguy exclaiming "THE TORNADO'S GONNA HIT QUAIL SPRINGS MALL." At first I was merely perturbed, as I A) didn't believe him and B) couldn't figure out how to get my DVD to start up again. But then a snippet of a phone conversation came trickling back into my brain....my mother had called earlier, and was blustering about getting ready for something....what was it?? And then I remembered; she was going to the movies. At AMC. In Quail Springs Mall.

You might assume that this prompted a Freak Out on my part; frantic texting and dialing and skyping Sister in Virginia to tell her our mother was woefully following in the footsteps of her favorite movie character, Dorothy Gale. But on the contrary. I called my father to say "uhh, so about Mom...." and once he assured me that all weathermen lie I pushed my concerns aside and cozied back into my couch for more TV marathoning.

(Well that's not entirely true. I did call Sister and leave a message detailing the aforementioned Wizard of Oz scenario - but that was merely to pay her back for ignoring my phone call, and thus she deserved it. You kids are aware that people can tell when you've clicked "ignore" on an incoming call, yes? Okay, then...stop doing it.)

And so a few hours later, after peeking out the window every now and again to assure my house was still firmly attached to the ground, I talked to Mother once more on the phone. Yes, there had been tornados all around her and yes, the entire mall was shut down due to the impending doom, but she got to see the conclusion of Slumdog Millionaire so she was in a chipper mood. No harm, no foul.

Point is, Oklahomans cannot be swayed in their defiant disrespect for Mother Nature. We've heard the "you're going to die if you don't climb in the bathtub with a mattress over your head" song and dance too many times, only to resurface 30 minutes later with mussed hair and a sneaking suspicion that somewhere, Gary England is laughing at us. Those weatherpeople get off making us act like douchetards, I swear it.

So, now that I live in a stamp-of-a-house that doesn't seem all too securely fastened to Earth, I am embracing my midwestern instincts to Fear Not the Weather (even when it's logically the smart thing to do). I don't have a central room, and I certainly don't have a cellar (and even if I did, I bet you it'd be 20 times worse than The Spider Room...and I'd rather try my hand at involuntary windsurfing than submerge myself into such a Pit of Despair). No, this Tornado Season it's just me, my 89-year-old bungalow and my innate Oklahoma ignorance against the wrath of God. I really don't think it'll be that bad. If my teenage self was able to survive my mother's fury after slamming one too many doors in her face (she single-handedly removed my bedroom door from its hinges in a fit of rage and stole it away to A Place Unknown)....well then, I can survive most anything. I hope you kids are ready too; just put on your best "I ain't scurred" face and keep one eye on the sky. And if you hear the chaotic howl of a westerly wind or the ominous call of tornado sirens, remember; that's your cue to walk outside and look up. Afterall, you're not in Kansas anymore, my friends...

You're in Oklahoma now.

Much love.

Does Playboy qualify as an academic journal?

2009-02-04T23:56:00.004-06:00

Grad school is a ruse, you know that? It's all smoke and mirrors. The next time you get an email from I'm-Kind-of-a-Big-Deal Joe Blow, MA, put two marks for "douchetard" next to his name in your mental catalog and move his message to the junk inbox.

Because MA doesn't mean "I'm smarter than you" or "I'm uber qualified for my job" or even "I worked semi-hard so I could put two letters at the end of my signature." MA just means a person has an unusual amount of tolerance and time for BS.

That's not to say I won't boast and brag and be completely obnoxious when (when, not if) I get my Master's; I was brought up in a household where we announced any and all titles we received as a sign of our awesomeness and superiority over others. Best Dressed in high school? Yes I was, thank you...put it on the list of ways to answer the phone:

"Frankie Avenger, Best Dressed at EMHS...may I help you?"

It's simply the way I was raised. My father has loads of ridiculous letters after his name, and he insists on articulating them all anytime he calls me (or Sister; his unspoken but none-the-less clearly second-favored daughter). It's funny I guess, if you haven't been living it for 20 some odd years...but the most clever thing about it is that he both admits the lameness of the letters while also gaining respect by letting their presence be known. Because it doesn't really matter if they mean diddly-rat's-tail-squat; if you've got letters after your name, somebody somewhere is gonna be impressed. People are stupider than we generally give them credit for.

So yeah, one day I'll send you emails that say

Regards-

Frankie Avenger, MA

(I can't wait until I'm grown up enough to sign emails with "Regards.") But let it be known now that those letters will be earned through my personal mastery of utter prattle. I'm constantly bemused by the dumb junk I'm made to read; page after page of citations and et al.'s and quotations so spliced and deconstructed that they could only make sense in the mind of the author (and perhaps in the mind of a crackhead; I really can't be sure). Point being, it's nonsensical academic jargon that matters only in the stuffy world of research junkies and PhD's.

So do not fret, my Bachelor's-only friends. For though I am climbing up and beyond you on the educational food-chain, I'm doing so by learning that which will certainly never benefit me in the Real World. And there you are, holding down a good job in this age of economic and professional uncertainty...something I may never again have the chance to do if Obama fibbed and actually has no idea how to Heal This Nation. Hey, I voted him into office - I can talk smack where smack-talk be needed.

Ahh well. The hours not spent pretending to care are open for suggestion and interpretation; a freedom for which I sacrificed my first Big Girl Job without as much as a second thought. Therefore, I should now be thankful that this Friday I have the option to

A) read about human rights/equality in the globalizing climate of modern mass media culture
-or-
B) go to Christie's Toybox with a married friend to help her pick out Unmentionables (and sneak peeks at various elements of Filth hitherto-unknown by my piteously naive little mind).

Hmm, wonder what I'll decide to do? I do need to learn how media conglomerates are taking over the universe....but I'm far more interested in seeing an actual pair of edible undies and/or furry handcuffs. Sue me. Plus, I'm pretty sure the Greatness of Christie's has more real-life applicability than any of this research crap I'm supposed to be reading. I'll probably never be the CEO of a multi-billion dollar corporation on the verge of achieving media monopoly, but there is a chance I'll someday have a husband who will want things spicy in the bedroom (fingers crossed I get to dress up like Princess Leia). So, I must prepare for the future that lies before me...and that evidently means spending an afternoon at the local sex toy shop.

I may not be a very good grad student, but I'll make a fine lova one day.

Much love.

I suggest you keep your distance, sir.

2009-02-02T12:01:00.008-06:00

Grouchy.
I am grouchy.
I am sick as a dog. After a full week of doing everything right (ie drinking fluids, sleeping 89 hours a day, and drenching myself in Zicam/Nyquil/Vitamin C), I've surrendered to that fiend known as the Common Cold. She is a backstabbing beast of an illness...and she has taken me down for the count. Thus: grouchy.

I was very tolerant and optimistic the first few days of misery (largely because they were snow days that I could spend snuggled in my duvet), but now I'm just pissed at the world: for being cold, for having germs, for not stopping time when I don't feel well enough to function. That might be the most frustrating thing about being sick; people all around still expect you to think/talk/act normal, when all you want to do is curl up in the fetal position and whimper and eat oreos. Just now I had a student ask if we (we=Hot Librarians) have an industrial-strength stapler. I looked at her, fighting the instinct to feel very put out that she was bothering me, and said, "no, we don't." I couldn't even muster the strength to say "no, we don't...I'm sorry." Because I'm not sorry; go get your own damn stapler and leave me to wallow in my grouchiness.

(Come to find out we do have an industrial-strength stapler. I'm not only grouchy; I'm also a bad librarian.)

To top it off I find it nigh impossible to be funny when sick. Instead of coming off as a kidder I keep coming off as...well, as a psycho-bitch. Things that I say in jest keep falling flat, and I'm pretty sure I've hurt at least 3 people's feelings today. This morning I told a guy I blamed him for my sickness, because he was the last ill person I saw before my body began to sabotage me. And instead of laughing and saying something obnoxious back (which was the reaction I sought), he leaped into a drawn-out explanation as to why it couldn't be his fault. I just sat there, weighing the pros and cons of explaining my joke (pros: not look like a psycho-bitch, cons: expend precious energy and be lame (because explaining one's jokes is lame)). I eventually mumbled something about "no of course, it couldn't be your fault," and resigned myself to be being purposefully droll for the remainder of my illness so as to avoid awkward moments like that one. I then coughed unattractively and left his office with just a scoche less will to live than when I entered it...if there's one thing I hate more than being sick, it's being serious. And now I have to be both.

So for today, and for tomorrow, and for the near future in general (or until I break down and go to the doctor), I suggest you keep your distance from me. I go right, you go left, I go to Target, you go to Wal-Mart (spitspit)...it's better this way. Oh, and avoid eye contact with me if you can, because I'm pretty sure I'm just glowering at everybody these days. If you cannot stand to tear yourself from my presence, you must agree to take everything I say or do with a grain of salt - I will not be held accountable for my behavior when sick. It's bad enough I've lost this week in the prime of my life; I refuse to lose my dignity as well. For without my dignity, I am nothing...now look the other way, because I've got to spray Afrin up my nose.

Much love (and phlegm).

Thou Shalt Have No Other Facebook Gods Before Me

2009-01-29T06:07:00.013-06:00

It has come to my attention that our society is suffering greatly in the realms of etiquette and appropriate behavior. Gone are the days of prim and proper women, and don’t even get me started on what’s left of the gentleman; if a guy manages to not let a door slam in my face as he pushes through in front of me, I’m absolutely floored.

But by far the most atrocious offense is taking place in the form of internet stalkerdom…specifically in the Wonderful World of Facebook. As anyone who is my friend (or at least, my Facebook friend) can tell you, I am a guru of this modern innovation of communication and creeping. To put it simply, I am the Facebook Queen. Therefore, I find it both fitting and vitally necessary that I make this Call for Change in what can only be described as a complete and utter breakdown of the respect for Self and Fellow Man.

THE TEN COMMANDMENTS OF FACEBOOK
(I was a bit torn about this title at first…thought of paying homage to my journalism roots and knocking off the SPJ Code of Ethics, but as a general rule people ignore those and make a mockery of them (or perhaps you’ve seen local news?). Therefore, I chose to use the subtle hints of Hellfire and Brimstone to scare you sober. This is serious business, people…and I ain’t kiddin, neither.)

1. Thou shalt cherish thy Facebook account. Just as a basic and introductory statute, do not get Facebook if you’re not ready to commit to it. Hardly anybody likes the blue-fake-man-in-lieu-of-real-profile-picture, and absolutely no one enjoys writing something witty and clever on a wall only to be ignored for 17 weeks. At least check the damn thing bimonthly and write a “haha you’re funny” here and there….it’s the least you can do. Facebook is a little bit like a puppy; it seems like a fun idea at first, but it’s actually a lot of work. And if you pansy out and abandon it, it’ll eventually curl up and die and people will hate you…actually, Facebook is very much like a puppy.
2. Thou shalt respect The Wall. In the back of our minds we all know what walls really are; they’re an opportunity to be a smart-aleck in a public forum, thus attracting the awe and respect of one’s Peers Unknown. Therefore, there is a right way to compose a wall-post…and that is to notate a cute quip, briefly articulate an inside joke (making you seem lofty and mysterious), ask a question that subtly hints to an awesome upcoming event (ie “we still on for tonight? I can’t believe we got backstage passes...totally stoked!!!” Okay, maybe don’t say “stoked.”), or express affection in the most delicate of manners. “I miss your face” or “thanks for being you” are adequate; there is no place for “baby I luv u so much ur sooo amazing and ur so sexy and I just think ur awesome!!!!!” You write something like that on my wall and I will promptly delete it…and then absolutely never acknowledge your existence again.
3. Thou shalt not over-upload. I’m not going to sugarcoat here; I struggle with this one a lot. I actually consider myself a recovering over-uploader, which is why I feel qualified to tell you that, by and large, over-uploading makes you look like a major douchetard. This is not to say you can’t share your exciting and enviable life events with your Facebook Fellows…but unless there is an actual occurrence being documented (ie vacation, party, new manfriend, new pet), the urge to upload should be resisted. This especially applies to self-portraits; as of late I’ve seen several albums that were literally nothing but self-portraits, documenting what the posters must have erroneously assumed to be an attractive variety of thoughtful/emo/sexy facial expressions. This is bad. Do not do it.
4. Thou shalt not LOL. Pretty much self-explanatory; if you have above an 8th grade education, consider your LOL rights officially and irreversibly revoked.
5. Thou shalt not send application invites. Thou. Shalt. NOT. I don’t care if we’re blood-relatives or if we shared a foxhole in Nam…if you send me even just one of those “scarily accurate” Which Sex and the City Character are You invitations, I will deduct 72 points from your overall tolerability meter (and I’ll also click that “ignore all invites from this friend” button. I make no empty threats, my dear…I double-dog-dare you to try me).
6. Thou shalt honor thy Facebook status. Facebook statuses are gems in the world of internet stalking; if used for good, they can alert others to one’s poetic inner thoughts, or share and receive feedback on a conundrum one is battling inwardly. Used for evil, however, and statuses can once again make you look like a major douchetard. Therefore, when next updating your Facebook status, please keep these guidelines in mind:

-you get one status update per day. ONE.
-do not give us a play-by-play of your routine events (ie “Joe the Plumber is going to the store,” then “Joe the Plumber is deciding what chips to buy,” then “Joe the plumber decided what chips to buy and is now deciding what dip to buy.”) ←if you’re guilty of this you most likely own an iPhone…and as you’re using said minirobot to commit Facebook blasphemy, you should probably just give the little stumbling block to me. It’s like your iPhone is the ring and I’m Frodo (and you can be Gollum, I guess); I can handle the pressure of Power and Greatness. You, unfortunately, cannot.
-use the third-person. Nothing makes you look like more of a tool than a status that says “Joe the Plumber thinks Texas is my favorite football team” (actually, that makes you look like a tool for a variety of reasons).
-periodically LOOK AT your page. If it’s covered with big black “Joe the Plumber is” statements, then chances are you’re updating too much…and chances are also good that you’ve been verbally ridiculed and later defriended because of this on none-too-few occasions. Truth hurts, don’t it?
-try very, very hard not to get all emo with your statuses. "Joe the plumber is struggling"?? d-o-u-c-h-e-t-a-r-d. The only acceptable emo-status comes in the form of "Joe the plumber is." Go beyond that, and you're officially a sissy-weepy-gurly-man (or woman).
7. Thou shalt not be an over-sharer. Via status, via photos, via wall-posts…don’t become a victim of Facebook TMI. As a general rule, we don’t want to know. And absolutely never, everevereverever over-share someone else’s information! A person’s Facebook is probably their most treasured tool of personal BS (ahem, I mean PR); keep that in mind the next time you go to write “hey so I saw you called me 9 times last night…sorry to hear Josh dumped you again!!! Btw, how’s your rash?” on somebody’s wall.
8. Thou shalt relish thy tagging rights. As the proprietor of Facebook photos and videos, it is your Internet-God-given right to tag said media. However, please think twice prior to tagging your friends in socially deconstructive images…although it is your aforementioned right to do so, it is also your friends’ right to never speak to you again afterwards (and to tell sexy singles that you’re a eunuch). Also, once a picture has been detagged, A) don’t tag it back and B) don’t get pissy. People do not untag themselves in your pictures as a personal offense to you; they do so because they’ve decided the photos make them look fat/uncomfortable/drunk/gay. So man up and get over it.
9. Thou shalt resist the random friend-request. For reasons I won’t divulge, this is not a hard-and-fast rule. However, the quickest way to look like a Creepster is to add someone you do not know, so I suggest withstanding the temptation. Enjoy your stalkie’s profile from a safely anonymous distance…that is, unless you stumble across your own homegrown local version of Heath Ledger. Aaand moving on.
10. Thou shalt know the power of the relationship status. We’ve all made the joke that “it’s not official until it’s on Facebook.” And the funniest thing about that joke is that it’s not a joke at all…in Facebook terms, it is Absolute Truth. Therefore, do not change your status unless you’re ready for the onslaught of nosy “OMG, I need details!!!” feedback…and absolutely NEVER change your status before first discussing it with your belle/beau. Changing a status prior to holding a DTR with your significant other (especially if the status is going from “in a relationship” to “single”) is the epitomic definition of t-r-a-s-h-y. So I pray you, do not do it. Oh, and it my personal opinion that there is no real place for “in an open relationship” and/or “it’s complicated.” Here Facebook is being an enabler for TMI over-sharers. Either you’re in a relationship or you’re not, and knowing anything beyond that makes me (and countless others) remarkably uncomfortable.

And there you have it, folks: the Top 10 Most Unforgivable Facebook Faux Pas. I could have gone on (and on, and on)…but I figure if God feels Man is incapable of obeying more than 10 rules, then I’d better stick to a similar format (plus, to be honest with you I’m kind of bored of this project). If you come across a quandary not addressed in the 10 Commandments above, don’t hesitate to Facebook me with your question; you can even random-friend-request me if you like. Just make sure you say vague and complimentary things on my wall…and absolutely do not tag me in those pictures from City Walk. You do, and mark my word: the God of Facebook will lay Her vengeance upon thee.

Much love.

The Feds are going to confiscate my Bic

2009-01-21T17:42:00.006-06:00

Today is a weird day. I've officially begun my new graduate assistantship (the reasons why I have a new one are both mysterious and ominous to me), and I'm therefore now sitting in the grand Gaylord library, gazing upon the football stadium across the street and wondering how in the blue blazes I ended up here. I mean, if a year ago you'd told me I'd soon become a librarian.........but then, my life has never had much organizational structure so I shouldn't be surprised. I will say that I've already been referred to as the "hot librarian," and this nickname has made me at least 30% happier about my new job. He who originated said title will not be named (as I have no desire to make him stop saying nice things about me), but let it be known that I give serious brownie points for clever nicknames that are also complimentary. Anonymous Man has already mastered the skill, but you should probably keep that in mind.

Today is also weird for a second reason: it's day 2 of the semester, and I've yet to decide what classes I'm taking. I mean, I know that I'm having coffee with Kris tomorrow and that I'm going shopping for vintage clothes on Saturday, but as for my graduate course schedule....yeah, that's pretty much up in the air. Sigh, I can no longer deny that I suck at being a grown-up. In my defense, however, I tried my damnedest to be responsible and pre-enroll over the holiday. Unfortunately that meant choosing classes all by me oncey - something a 24.93-year-old should theoretically be able to accomplish without much bloodshed or trauma. Not for me, however...I am the queen of getting myself into the wrong place at the wrong time (and of just generally making dumb decisions), and yesterday's class meeting was certainly no exception.

So, some background: I found this class via OU's enrollment website. It was outside of my department but similar enough to intrigue me, and the course description seemed both relevant and highly academic. Sure it was a doctoral level class, but I'm a smart girl, right? (I find that, while on holiday and therefore removed from reality, I am far too educationally ambitious for my own good). But I hadn't been to school in weeks, and I'd almost entirely forgotten how much of my self-professed "love of learning" is total BS. I don't love to learn; I love to think. And I love to choose what I think about, and I would never choose to think about the theoretical frameworks of multicultural communication studies....but I digress.

Point being I was stupid, and I picked a class so far out of my league that I blame OU for not saying "uhhh, no" and refusing to let me enroll in it. Approximately 3 days before the first class session I began to have that "hmmm, I think I may have really screwed myself" feeling. But to my cred I'm remarkably good at believing my own lies, so it wasn't until I actually attended the class that I realized exactly how much of a toolbag I am.

Just picture it: I walk into Territory Unknown, and the warm-welcome I receive from my professor includes the phrase "I think you're really courageous." Umm, never a good sign. Then, I come to notice the (5) other students in the class are staring at me with both awe and trepidation. A few blissfully clueless moments pass before I realize it's because they think I must be a genius...for what other person would strut, unaware and unphased, into a PhD-level course in a foreign department? (A genius or a fool, and they kindly (and incorrectly) gave me the benefit of the doubt.) So 5 minutes in and I'm already battling my fight or flight instincts.

Then I'm given a syllabus, and I have to call upon my pride to keep from running out the door at a breakneck speed. The reading list is, simply put, insanity incarnated. The assignments are utter madness, and the sheer volume of formal presentations strikes fear and horror to the depths of my soul. I keep my eyes trained on the paper and my head down (as I know the colorless nature of my face will give me away), and I begin reasoning with myself as to why I can't flee the scene.
"You got yourself into this, you moron. Be a woman and keep your butt in the chair."
"If you leave now and can't enroll in another class, you'll be even more effed than you are right now."
"Your schoolbag's too heavy for you to get far and the Prof will catch you before you're out of the building."
"Everyone here thinks you're brilliant, and if you run away they'll probably figure out that you're not."
That final argument gave me the strength to stay, because let's face it; it feels good to have people believe you're awesome...even when they're completely wrong. So, I stifled the scream rising in my throat and committed myself to 2 hours of torture.

And torture it was.

I won't burden you with all the details, but let me just say that after that class I will not live as long as God originally intended. For the first hour I fought the urge to cry out in terror, and for the second hour I fought the urge to cry out in soul-crushing boredom. I underestimated the course in more ways than one...not only was it waaay more of a Smart Kid Class than I could handle; it was also taught by one of the most monotonously droll people the Earth has ever known. (Lovely woman, remarkably intelligent, could kick my butt at just about any standardized IQ test. But oh my sweet baby Jesus - THE DROLLDOM.) I kid you not; the entire class period was dedicated to reading the syllabus. Reading it. You know, out loud. Then, if we weren't reciting verbatim that "articles A1, A2, and A3, and subarticles a1-17 are to be read for class on March 19th," we were pondering the cyclical and identical natures of research proposals and presentations. WHY GOD WHY. I mean this in all seriousness, a violent part of me that has been made dormant by millions of years of meticulous evolution began to resurface over the span of that class period. I actually imagined taking my Bic and stabbing her in the eyeball with it...and when I became disturbed by this sadistic desire to hurt a sweet little woman, I turned the daydream inward and thought about stabbing the Bic in my own eye. And then I began once again fantasizing about running away (in all honesty, that fancy never fully left my mind). By the end of the class my thoughts were roaming about somewhere in Nor-Eastern OK, but even my best attempts at imaginative escapism could not ease the misery of those two hours. I have been scarred by the events of yesterday, and I'm only partially kidding when I write that.

So, needless to say I dropped that course like a vicious snapping turtle (...what?). I implored my Academic Advisor to help my wayward, wandering soul, and she agreed to look into some classes that are less likely to make me want to hurt myself or others. But until then I'm sittin' pretty with not enough hours and no real idea what to do about it. So I guess it makes sense that I go vintage-clothes-shopping this weekend; because if I get kicked out of school for not being a full-time, responsible, grown-up grad student, I'm going down with fierceness and style. God have mercy on my soul.

Much love.

No Justin, I will NOT cry you a river.

2009-01-14T22:32:00.000-06:00

Recently I was asked what the last movie was to make me cry (I cannot remember how this came up in conversation, but it made perfect sense at the time). And despite my innate female/sentimental/hormonal tendencies, I struggled to arrive at an answer. After several moments of hemming and hawing my conversationalist and I finally came up with The Notebook, and we quickly left the topic for equally random and ingenious subject-matters.

But ever since then, I’ve been thinking. Thinking about crying, tearing up, weeping inconsolably, having emotional breakdowns…you know, normal girl stuff. And I’ve come to the conclusion that, although I’ve engaged in all the aforementioned activities, I am not a normal girl (you needn’t add a sassy comment in response to the “normal” thing, because I will cut you).

Seriously though…not normal. I am not a crier. I did not cry when Jack Dawson froze to death, I did not cry when Hedwig died, I did not even cry when my sister got married (although that may have had something to do with the panic attack I was experiencing, being the Maid of Honor and having had forgotten her to-be-husband’s wedding band). And on that occasion when I do cry, I become tremendously uncomfortable and pissed off at myself. I am not that friend who cries, then buries her head in your understanding arms for a good long “shh…everything’s gonna be okay” hug. I am that friend who cries, makes a horrified face, and unceremoniously walks out of the room while you’re still thinking of nice things to say. Yeah……sorry about that.

But after giving this psychological weirdism of mine extensive mulling-over, I now know who is to blame for it all (you didn’t think I was at fault for my own problems, did you?? Hogwash!). The responsible party is, without doubt or hesitation, my oldest-only-sister Rachel.

Do let me explain how I’ve come to the conclusion of said sister’s utter horribleness. Rachel is amazing. She’s brilliant, and articulate, and her skin is flawless and she’s skinnier than I’ll ever be. Rachel is also the most competitive human being you’ve ever met in your existence. If she can beat you at it she will try…and probably succeed. Example: every year as chillens Sister and I went to our grandfolk’s home for an Easter egg hunt, and every year Sister found more eggs than me. Every. Year. And, Sister also managed to find all the eggs with money in them, whereas I found only those containing partially-melted-lime-green-duck-shaped-marshmallows. If by chance Sister did not beat me at something immediately off the starting block (and those moments were painfully rare), she would manage to catch up with my humble victory and squash it into the ground by being Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger at whatever I had done. I will again provide you with an example: one epic day I very innocently (and probably accidentally) learned how to blow a bubble with my chewing gum. Before Sister. We were on some sort of family road-trip, and both Sister and I were busy entertaining ourselves in the backseat (her by reading classic literature, me by doodling in the margins of my Where’s Waldo). Then “pop!” I’d blown a bubble. My parents oooh-ed and aaah-ed while Sister looked on…and by the end of that very day she had not only taught herself my newfound skill, but had learned to blow bubbles twice as magnificent as mine. True story.

But throughout this blockbuster case of sibling-rivalry, there has always been one thing Sister cannot do; Sister cannot not cry. Sister cried when she went to camp, she cried when she got her blood drawn and she cried when a Junebug flew up her shirt. She cried when her goldfish started swimming upside-down, and she cried when our father said the vision of God was under her bed (this was after watching Raiders of the Lost Ark, and she feared her face would melt off upon seeing Our Lord Jesus). And in my little demure, soft-spoken baby-sister world where I was constantly overshadowed by Rachel’s fabulousity (and by her loudness), I saw a golden opportunity.

I could win at crying.

More accurately, I could win at not crying; whenever Sister cried, I would not. When our mother greeted us after school by announcing “its flu-shot day!” and Sister’s bottom lip began to tremble, I swallowed my own rising hysteria and acted disinterested in the prospect of a giant scary needle piercing my flesh. When Sister and I were both shipped off to Kanakuk (her with her two friends, me with my no friends), I bravely climbed the stairs of the Missouri-bound bus while Sister wailed uncontrollably and made promises to “be extra good if she could just stay home.” And when our gerbils endeavored to murder each other and almost succeeded (the bloodbath began when my rodent (coincidentally named Jezebel) tried to steal her rodent’s babies), Rachel bawled at the sight of the carnage while I remained the stoic one…the brave one…the WINNER.

Unfortunately for me, being a non-crier is not a very marketable skill in the universe of grown-ups. Nobody’s going to hire me or date me or ask me onto their TV show because I didn’t cry when Edward disappeared for 366 pages of the second Twilight book. That kind of achievement is productive absolutely not at all, and in fact means to some that I am dead inside (ahem, Kristina). Simply put, nobody cares about crying when you’re an adult. Somewhere along the maturation process crying stops meaning you’re a baby and starts meaning you’re emotionally available. And just in typing that last sentence, I realized something so traumatically demoralizing that I struggle now to articulate it; in the world of mature, human relationships, being a crier is often better than being a non-crier.

Sister. Wins. AGAIN.

So here I stand, a 24.9-year-old non-crier (who is dead inside and/or emotionally unavailable), having just lost the ultimate and final battle in my lifelong war with Sister. It is a dark and dismal day. So dark is it in fact, that I may retire early and dramatically bury my face in a pillow. But let there be no doubt; said pillow will remain dry.

Much love.

Bare Naked Lady

2009-01-08T16:18:00.000-06:00

For those of you who’ve known me as a grad student, you’re familiar with my near obsessive dedication to The Huf (OU’s sweet action gym, for my wayward non-Sooner readers). I’m pretty sure Kristina worried I would exercise myself to death last semester, as I’d spend hours each day pedaling and stretching and lifting and running (boo, hiss). But fear not, World-with the alleviation of all things school I quickly abandoned my workout regime. My break has consisted of sleeping, peeling oranges, and checking Facebook every 4-8 minutes. I am lazy, I am a bum. I am watching my sexy biker muscles atrophy before my very eyes, and I’m loving every second of it.

But I did take one Huf-ism home with me for Christmas, and today I would like to share it with you. As I am technologically challenged and did not until recently own an iPod (and now I still can’t operate said iPod, so…fail), I made a beeline to the magazine stash at the start of every workout. Typically I opted for the latest InTouch Trashazine so as to keep up on the marital status of Heidi and Spencer, but one fateful day the tabloid supply was woefully depleted. Shooting eye-daggers at the Debutant Sorority Princess next to me (who had been on the stair-stepper far past the 30 minute mark and was hording all the good pop-culture literature), I drearily resigned to reading Self Magazine: a publication filled with pro-women, pro-health, pro-positive articles that I find boring and ridiculous. I don’t care how to sustain my bone density; I want to know why Whitney really left The Hills. But this day I had no choice, and I headed to the stationary bike with my Self in hand.

Trying not to be a cynic and knowing I had 45 laborious minutes of cycling to kill, I started with the uber flowery Love Yourself section (for you men out there, all chick magazines have this section. I completely hate it). But this one was different. This one suggested an activity so syrupy and absurd that it peeked my interest, and I did something I’ve never done before: I tried it. That night I went home, and preparing for my post-sweaty-grossness shower, I stripped. Then, remembering back to the aforementioned article, I took a deep breath…and stepped in front of the mirror.

Self Magazine claimed every female should spend 5 nek-ed minutes in front of the mirror each day. Apparently women are overly-critical of themselves and need to accept and love their bodies (what. an. epiphany). So, I was to look at my birthday suit and declare one fabulous thing about my body before every shower. Out loud. The article even had some suggestions, like “I love the graceful curvature of my lower back” or “the definition of my clavicle makes me feel feminine.” So incredibly stupid…am I right? And yet I was intrigued.

That was a month ago. Although I sometimes ditch the self-esteem exercise when I’m running late (which is most always), I’ve surprised myself by keeping up with Naked Time since that day in the Huf. “Hark!” you say. “Self Magazine is a Godsend!” And indeed I have heeded their advice, making the article a not-total-failure. But my daily affirmations are just a tad more….weird, for lack of a better word, than I believe the author intended.

So far I’ve yet to run out of nice things to think about my buck-nakedness. However, that’s not to say I accept my body any more than the next self-deprecating female. Far from it. I still hate my scraggly chicken legs and I’m no fonder of my boyish frame than I was in November. But I have discovered some odd Frankie-isms that I proudly declare each morning during Naked Time:

“I love how, if I hold reeeeal still, I can see my heartbeat in my stomach.”

“The scar on my neck makes me feel edgy.” (If you don’t know what it’s from, don’t be scurred. Ask me.)

“I’m proud of how square and misshapen my feet are from their days in pointe shoes.”

“My weirdly defined external oblique (tummy) muscles make me look like Pink.” (umm… those are gone now.)

“I like my small and unbendy ears.” (Can you bend the top of your ears down? Yeah, I can’t.)

“My elbows are super sharp and would probably make awesome weapons.”

As you can see, I’ve wildly distorted the article’s advice and intentions. If that author only knew what I’d done with her work, she’d likely up and quit her job (as well she should, because COME ON. What a dumb idea.) But in my own way, I’ve benefitted from the magazine. I’ve grown. I’ve matured. And if not those things I’ve at least learned how to creatively insult my body. And that’s a valued skill for any insecure, under-confident, self-loathing woman like myself.

So thank you, Self Magazine. Thank you for the gift of Naked Time and innovative self-criticism. For without it, I never would’ve noticed the chicken pox scar on my leg that is kind-of-sort-of shaped like Snoopy.

Much love.

Frankie Avenger: Take 1

2009-01-06T10:57:00.000-06:00

It has, for many moons, been my intention to start (another) blog. I am getting my MA in Journalism after all, and the vast majority of my close allies already have to endure my self-indulgent prose via email and Facebook messages. Therefore, it’s logical and indeed considerate for me to put my ramblings here; this way, you can ignore them without feeling bad.

As it is now the start of yet another year (my 25th in fact, which is troubling), I will begin by enumerating my New Year’s Resolutions:

1. start another blog (done)
2. stick to said blog (umm…check back in 6 weeks)
3. learn guitar
4. finish reading through the bible, cover to cover (it was last year’s resolution to read it over the course of a year, and then grad school started and it all went to pot)
5. learn Photoshop (a gem of photo-editing genius that currently abides unused on my desktop)
6. be a better person in general

Number 6 is likely my most favorite resolution, as it is entirely vague and therefore a rather difficult one at which to fail. Who can say I haven’t been better? I’m sure in some ways I’ll be better this year than I was last – I’ll probably learn from some past mistakes (God help me if I don’t), and in doing so I’ll be improving my immortal soul. Flawless. The others are less fluffy; I could indeed not learn guitar, and by doing so make myself feel lame. I’m hoping that by putting this out on the WWW for…dozens…of people to see, I will internally obligate myself to finish what I start. We’ll see though; I’m not known to succumb to pressure, even when it’s my own.

So there you have it. It is my wish, at the end of 09, to be able to write about me, play songs for me, edit pictures of me, be a better me, and know a fact or two more about God. Good thing I included that last one…otherwise, you might get the wrong impression that I’m self-involved.

If you’re curious to see if I uphold resolution 2, check back in 5-7 business days. It’s my plan to blog once a weekish, but I’m a right-brained-fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants kind of girl, and as a rule I do not commit myself to unnecessary scheduling. I do hope you’ll pop in from time to time; if nothing else, you can use my entries to embarrass me later in life. And trust me…I will embarrass myself on here.

Much love, and to be continued (God willing and the creek don’t rise).

Frankie