Tuesday, September 23, 2008

Flip-Flops and a Fun Run... Take That Adventurous AJ!

While my baby brother is off climbing glaciers and mountains and swimming naked in New Zealand’s finest waterfalls, I am here.

Watching TV.

Scanning.

With my clothes on.

I walked a 5K on Sunday, though.

And in under an hour (59 minutes and 47 seconds, to be exact).

Mike walked the whole thing in flip-flops, which pretty much sums up why boys are silly.

The 5K was for the Boy’s and Girl’s Club of America, so there were a whole lot of kids there.

They all beat me.

We walked with some co-workers, and one of them brought her two little boys. Her four year old kicked our collective ass. Granted, he got to ride in a stroller for half of the race, while flip-floppy and I had to walk the whole thing, but the kid flat out ran the last half mile.

The plan was to stay behind him until the last little bit and then sprint in front, pushing him to the ground if need be, to finish before him…

But he was way faster than us, so that whole plan sort of failed.

Her one year old even beat us. But he was in the stroller the whole time, and only beat us because his pusher was hauling… but still.


There are always a lot of sponsors at these things, and they usually hand out free stuff. This is why I participate. Sure, the organization is a good one and all. And sure, the walking can only help my tiny-lung syndrome (Hey! We should have a 5K to benefit my condition! Sort of like a Rabies Fun Run…), but it’s really all about the free crap.

I got a few of those reusable grocery bags, which I love. I always forget them in the car when I go to the grocery store… but it’s the thought that
counts.

I also got two water bottles, one from Sports Authority, and from Westwood College.

Me: Mike, do you want a water bottle from Westwood College?
Mike: Nah, we have enough water bottles at home.
Me: Yes, but these have a number 1 on the bottom… ours all have 7s on the bottom and are slowly killing us from the inside.
Westwood College Rep: Well, at least you’re hydrated.
Me: Yes, we may be infertile and we may die, but at least we’ll die well hydrated.

I also took my fair share of free samples of Lara Bars and smoothie drinks.

They were also handing out bike helmets for free to kids. I tried to get Mike one, but he has a man head (read: large), and they didn’t fit.

One of the other free things was a magic eight ball. In an effort to not bring too much useless crap home with me, I left that there, but the speedy little four year old got one. He kept asking it if he would win the race, and asking his mom what it said.

When it kept saying to ask again later, he lost interest.

Oh, for a visual of said kid, see here.

And by the way, we walked the whole thing around a lake, and did I have any desire to take my clothes off and jump in? No.

Would my baby brother?

Not only would he have the desire… he would flat out do it.

Even after the four year old told everyone that he was pretty sure that there were alligators in there.

Again… boys = silly/kinda disturbing individuals.

Monday, September 22, 2008

I did NOT write this...

My dad sent me this, and I loved it, and think that everyone should read it (again, I take NO credit for this awesome piece of writing... although I wish I had written it first):

*************************************************************************************
This is Your Nation on White Privilege By Tim Wise

For those who still can't grasp the concept of white privilege, or who are constantly looking for some easy-to-understand examples of it, perhaps this list will help.

White privilege is when you can get pregnant at seventeen like Bristol Palin and everyone is quick to insist that your life and that of your family is a personal matter, and that no one has a right to judge you or your parents, because 'every family has challenges,' even as black and Latino families with similar 'challenges' are regularly typified as irresponsible, pathological and arbiters of social decay.

White privilege is when you can call yourself a 'fuckin' redneck,' like Bristol Palin's boyfriend does, and talk about how if anyone messes with you, you'll 'kick their fuckin' ass,' and talk about how you like to 'shoot shit' for fun, and still be viewed as a responsible, all-American boy (and a great son-in-law to be) rather than a thug.

White privilege is when you can attend four different colleges in six years like Sarah Palin did (one of which you basically failed out of, then returned to after making up some coursework at a community college), and no one questions your intelligence or commitment to achievement, whereas a person of color who did this would be viewed as unfit for college, and probably someone who only got in in the first place because of affirmative action.

White privilege is when you can claim that being mayor of a town smaller than most medium-sized colleges, and then Governor of a state with about the same number of people as the lower fifth of the island of Manhattan, makes you ready to potentially be president, and people don't all piss on themselves with laughter, while being a black U.S. Senator, two-term state Senator, and constitutional law scholar, means you're 'untested. '

White privilege is being able to say that you support the words 'under God' in the pledge of allegiance because 'if it was good enough for the founding fathers, it's good enough for me,' and not be immediately disqualified from holding office--since, after all, the pledge was written in the late 1800s and the 'under God' part wasn't added until the 1950s--while believing that reading accused criminals and terrorists their rights (because, ya know, the Constitution, which you used to teach at a prestigious law school requires it), is a dangerous and silly idea only supported by mushy liberals.

White privilege is being able to be a gun enthusiast and not make people immediately scared of you.

White privilege is being able to have a husband who was a member of an extremist political party that wants your state to secede from the Union, and whose motto was 'Alaska first,' and no one questions your patriotism or that of your family, while if you're black and your spouse merely fails to come to a 9/11 memorial so she can be home with her kids on the first day of school, people immediately think she's being disrespectful.

White privilege is being able to make fun of community organizers and the work they do--like, among other things, fight for the right of women to vote, or for civil rights, or the 8-hour workday, or an end to child labor--and people think you're being pithy and tough, but if you merely question the experience of a small town mayor and 18-month governor with no foreign policy expertise beyond a class she took in college--you're somehow being mean, or even sexist.

White privilege is being able to convince white women who don't even agree with you on any substantive issue to vote for you and your running mate anyway, because all of a sudden your presence on the ticket has inspired confidence in these same white women, and made them give your party a 'second look. '

White privilege is being able to fire people who didn't support your political campaigns and not be accused of abusing your power or being a typical politician who engages in favoritism, while being black and merely knowing some folks from the old-line political machines in Chicago means you must be corrupt.

White privilege is being able to attend churches over the years whose pastors say that people who voted for John Kerry or merely criticize George W. Bush are going to hell, and that the U.S. is an explicitly Christian nation and the job of Christians is to bring Christian theological principles into government, and who bring in speakers who say the conflict in the Middle East is God's punishment on Jews for rejecting Jesus, and everyone can still think you're just a good church-going Christian, but if you're black and friends with a black pastor who has noted (as have Colin Powell and the U.S. Department of Defense) that terrorist attacks are often the result of U.S. foreign policy and who talks about the history of racism and its effect on black people, you're an extremist who probably hates America.

White privilege is not knowing what the Bush Doctrine is when asked by a reporter, and then people get angry at the reporter for asking you such a 'trick question,' while being black and merely refusing to give one-word answers to the queries of Bill O'Reilly means you're dodging the question, or trying to seem overly intellectual and nuanced.

White privilege is being able to claim your experience as a POW has anything at all to do with your fitness for president, while being black and experiencing racism is, as Sarah Palin has referred to it a 'light' burden.

And finally, white privilege is the only thing that could possibly allow someone to become president when he has voted with George W. Bush 90 percent of the time, even as unemployment is skyrocketing, people are losing their homes, inflation is rising, and the U.S. is increasingly isolated from world opinion, just because white voters aren't sure about that whole 'change' thing. Ya know, it's just too vague and ill-defined, unlike, say, four more years of the same, which is very concrete and certain.

White privilege is, in short, the problem.

*************************************************************************************

That pretty much sums it all up.

It's not irrational liberal crap (as some people are bound to lable it as)... it's common sense.

And it's a perfect example of applying all of the things that I have studied during the last 5 years and have my degree in (in case anyone is still confused about what Women and Gender Studies is).

Tuesday, September 16, 2008

Nothing Special

I'm eating a donut. I know that I shouldn't eat it... but I am.

It calls to me.

Ok, that was depressing... so I just threw the half-eaten donut away.

I need a new job.

A woman just came over and asked me to scan something for her, because I have the only working scanner in the company.

I said no problem.

Looked in the file... and she had already scanned it!

She did it and forgot.

I scan a million things a day... and I've never tried to re-scan something because I forgot that I did it.

Wow...
You know, I should have known that today wouldn't be very good...
A fly flew into my mouth this morning while I was asleep.
Yep, I woke up with an effin fly in my mouth.
I feel like this is now my destiny.
I have nothing to write... I just felt like I should write something.




Sunday, September 7, 2008

If only I could pee standing up...

You know what's worse than having to pee really bad but not being able to go to the restroom...?

Being in line behind 40 plus women.

Relief is in sight, yet so impossibly far away.

Plus, it's intermission, so you only have 15 minutes or less to reach nirvana.

This is the situation that my mother and I found ourselves in on our recent trip to NYC. We were at a beautiful, old, historic, famous theater, The Gershwin, seeing the most amazing show, Wicked.

I had had two vodka cranberries within the previous 2 hours (one before the show, and a big gulp size one during the show... vodka is very low in calories... and cranberry juice prevents urinary tract infections... except when you have to hold it all in you bladder for too long...).

We ran out of the theater as soon as the curtains closed, and ran right into a wall of faster women (seriously, how did they get there so fast?). So we thought that we would go downstairs to find another, less crowded bathroom.

Yeah... there isn't another bathroom downstairs. So we climbed back upstairs, and got in the huge line.

Meanwhile, men were just waltzing right into their bathroom and right out. A girl in front of us asked the usher if there was another bathroom, and then joked that maybe we should just go into the men's room.

The usher said that women do that all of the time.

My mother then took that as an invitation to get a pack of women to commandeer the men's room.

We stood outside in line, and had a nice young man check to make sure that the coast was clear. Meanwhile, the little ding-dong noise went off to tell us we had five minutes to return to our seats for the second half of the show.

Finally, the coast was clear... sort of. One poor guy got stuck in the middle of our line, and, like us, couldn't hold it. Maybe he was also a fan of the vodka-crans. He apologized, asked us to avert our eyes, and went for the furthest urinal.

The dude had to overcome some major stage-fright... peeing in front of 8 female strangers.

Bravo sir. Bravo.

Finally, it was my turn (only 3 stalls in the men's room...), and it was wonderful...

A little dirty... but wonderful.

The whole trip my grandmother was saying things like: When I was a little girl, I used to ride my bike here all the time. Or: When we were young, your grandfather and I would come here...

Now I can tell my grandkids: When I was young, I peed in the men's room of the Gershwin.

I highly recommend the musical, Wicked. I finished the book about 15 minutes before leaving for the show. Although the musical is based off of a novel, the two are really too different to be compared. The book was good, especially the second time... but singing makes everything better.

**********************************************************************************

My cousin, David: So, life after college... it's not such a bed of roses, huh?
Me: No... not really... not yet.
David: Well, do you want the good news or the bad news first.
Me: Bad.
David: There are no roses.
Me: What's the good.
David: There are no roses.


PS: I know that the picture isn't anything funny, but I'm exhausted... and it's really hard to find an appropriate picture on the Internet that goes well with this story... don't try typing "need to pee" into Google images... trust me.

Monday, August 18, 2008

The Adventures of Lightning Legs and Tiny Lung Girl!

Yesterday Diane and I went to the Jack Johnson concert at Red Rocks.

I love Red Rocks, because no matter where you're sitting, or how cold you are, or if the girl next to you spills water on your ass, you will usually see a great show.

Jack did not let down.

But let's start at the beginning. We got to the venue just before 7, when the first of two openers went on. We had to park on the street. Not bad in itself, but we parked at the bottom of this huge, fairly muddy, hill.

Me: Are you sure you can climb up there in your flip-flops?
Diane: Sure (as she sprints up the first few feet).
Me: Well, you are a mountain woman.
Diane: I haven't been anywhere in almost 2 months.
Me: Well, that's much better than my 22 years of not doing anything.

Secret conversation in my head:
PLEASE DON'T MAKE ME GO UP THAT EFFIN HILL!!!!

But Diane just ran right up the hill. I, on the other hand, tried to keep up, and failed miserably.

Diane: I'm kinda winded.
Me: Yeah, me too.

Secret conversation in my head:
Yep, this is how I'm going to die.

When I started seeing dots and my foot started to cramp, I turned around like I was casually checking out the view. A bunch of people were behind me, so I thought it best to let them pass, lest I fall on top of them (I like to fall by myself). These two guys started chanting "go, go, go!" when they walked ahead of me.

Secret conversation in my head that I would have said out loud if I could catch my breath:
Unless you want to carry me the rest of the way... get outta my face.

So I made it.

But it did not end there.

After a lot of VERY fast walking, we came to the stairs. Those god damn stairs. Why they don't put in escalators is beyond me. Or at least Oxygen tanks every few feet.

So I could see the ticket takers (scanners? They stopped actually ripping and taking them a long time ago); and then the ticket takers/scanners went blurry.

Me: Diane, I am so sorry, but I have to sit down.

Secret conversation in my oxygen deprived head:
AMBULANCE PLEASE!!!

So I sat down on the steps behind a kid with really bad asthma from New Orleans... yes, he had a much better excuse than me. (Actually, Mom and I talked, and we are pretty sure that we have what I have dubbed "Tiny Lung Syndrome". Symptom: no lung capacity. We blame: my father... just because. A.J. is immune because: his torso is freakishly long, so he was able to grow abnormally long lungs. That is why I cannot breath... and my excuse for having to pass out on the stairs.)

After a few minutes I finally peeled myself off of the step and we entered Red Rocks. We cut through the first row and went to the t-shirt stand. While Diane stood in the line, I decided I needed some calories before I actually blacked out.

Well, the closest stands that did not have me hiking up the stairs was cash only. All I had was $5. All I could get was nachos with only "cheese" (notice that this is not real cheese... I'm pretty sure it's molten plastic from old playground equipment). I couldn't even get water, as that was three full dollars over my budget.

But I could feel my blood sugar reaching dangerously low levels, so I settled for the stale chips and carcinogenic dip.

When I returned, Diane was still 3 feet behind the t-shirt counter, so I went and found seats.

Yeah, there were NO seats. This place was packed, which I was not expecting so early before Jack went on. So I'm wandering through the rows, dodging one guy who was asking questions about my nachos ("How are those?" and "Bet you'd like a beer with those. *wink*"), holding my neon colored food, when someone said my name.

It was none other than Miss Day 7.

I casually said, "Yeah, I'm looking for a seat for me and my friend".

Secret conversation in my head:
PLEASE LET ME SIT WITH YOU!!! :)

And she must be very intuitive because she allowed us to squeeze in with her and her friends. (I was introduced to one of her friends... as A.J.'s sister... and she has been to The Big House before... and made eggs there. My life in the shadow of my baby brother is nothing if not consistent).

The seats weren't amazing, but it's tough to find a bad seat in that place, so all was good.

The concert was great, and here are a few highlights:

- My favorite part was when Jack inserted a verse from "Just What I Needed" by The Cars into one of his songs. That song is, perhaps, one of my favorite songs of all time. So that blinded me with awesomeness.

- I love how people shout the artist's name... from the 54th row. Like, sure, he wasn't going to come out on stage, but because you yelled "JACK" in my ear, he'll hurry on out. And yeah, he's totally playing one more song because you yelled, "Jack Johnson, play one more song!" Thanks for the help.

- Who goes to a JACK JOHNSON CONCERT and thinks, "Yeah! Let's get wasted!" Apparently, most of the audience.

- People who close their eyes and move around like their in the womb when a song comes on freak me out. Good for them for being all into the music... but I feel like I'm watching them naked in the shower or something... and it makes me feel uncomfortable.

- But I also don't like people who just stand there are don't get into it at all. I participated in the obligatory soft-pop-rock-shuffle: bounce up and down at the knees, bob the head, tap the toes, and mouth along the words. But people who just stand there also make me uncomfortable... I'm very hard to please, I guess.

When the concert was over, we began our hike down. I made Diane promise that we would be doing no off-roading with our feet, but we ended up on a very dark trail. I'm pretty sure that there was poop on that trail and snakes and rabid coyotes... and Diane is SO FREAKING FAST. I mean, I was hauling, and we could have carried A.J. on a gurney between us (meaning we were about 6 feet apart... but that is what I kept picturing: us caring A.J. between us like the queen of sheba/New Zealand on this trail...).

Conversation with Mike when I got home and told him about how fast she is:
Mike: But she's got short little legs.
Me: But they're quick as lightning.
Mike: But you have longer legs.
Me: But I take teeny-tiny steps.
Mike: Oh.

Anyway, I practically rolled my ankle about 30 times, but we finally made it to the car, and then home.

I was thinking throughout the concert that it would be nice to have someone write love songs about you. Jack kept saying, "This song embarrasses my wife, but I think that she also likes it," or "I dedicate this to my wife".

I came home aching and tired around midnight. And hungry, as stale nachos can only hold off hunger for so long. Mike made me a fresh batch of ramen noodles.

And I thought: I may not have love songs, but I have a man who will fix me noodles at 12:30 AM... and that's perfect.

In yo' face Jack's Wife.

Saturday, August 16, 2008

Rain: A Love/Hate Relationship


I love rainy days.

Granted, these sorts of days do have the tendency to make me even more lazy and even less productive than before.

Actually, scratch that. I'm always lazy and rarely productive. Rainy days just give me the feeling that it's OK to be lazy and unproductive because it's so dreary out. Even if it were sunny outside, I'd probably still be sitting here at noon in my pajamas with the doggies watching crappy TV.

But since it's all rainy out, I don't feel guilty about doing it.

Now, yesterday it was all rainy and stuff... but it was Friday. And I have to go out into the world and go into work on Friday. So on days when I have to leave the house... rain sucks.

Also, tomorrow I'm going to a concert at Red Rocks. If it's still raining then, I'll really hate it.

So I guess the rain is a conditional thing. Great for Saturdays when you have nothing you need to do. Crappy when you actually have to be a functioning member of society and/or your life.

I've been scanning a lot. My focus at work is to scan all of the hard copy files that we have in my department so that we can move the 4,000 files off site.

And this week I worked 4 ten hour days... so that's ten straight hours of scanning.

I know what you're thinking:

Ally, how do you get to do such amazing, life altering, fun things?

The answer: god loves me.

So I sit at my desk and scan documents one at a time until I want to kill myself. Sometimes my scanner also wants to kill itself.

At a certain point, it tries to fight back.

I'll stick a document in it, and it will literally choke itself on copies of licenses and insurance policies. It makes this terrible noise that sounds like a dog coughing up a week old rawhide.

And just like a dog, I have to reach in a fish out the offensive piece of rubbish that has caused the near death experience.

How rude am I? I have called my scanner "it" the entire time. It's a she, her name is Samantha, and Samantha is a bitch.

Saturday, August 9, 2008

To Ktel and Back

It's been exactly one month since my last post...

Well, you can all breath again: I'm back from sabbatical.

Anywho, I have not written anything sooner because the whole cloud of GREECE has been hanging over my head and is just too overwhelming. I keep waiting to be struck with a sense of purpose and inspiration. I then thought, screw it. If I'm really a writer, than I should just write.

So this may not actually be about Greece... there's so much to talk about. Maybe I'll just start with some highlights.

- It's hard going to a country where the alphabet is different. I can see than this restaurant has Delta Nu Epsilon Pi for breakfast... but I can't even sound it out, yet alone pretend to know what it is. Thankfully, though, they have most things in English, too. I think that it would be weird living in a country where billboards have a combination of alphabets... but I guess you would get used to it.

- In Crete they give you this alcohol called Raki for free after dinner. It's the kind of booze that hits you in the spine when it goes down and leaves your lips tingling. I decided that it's the STD of the alcohol world: It's free and leaves a burning sensation. (Thanks to all who helped me with that definition... you know who you are.) Write that down.

- Mike told me that he is glad for me that I found him because he is so attractive and my past relationships have been with men who were not nearly as cute as him. He thinks that he adds a lot of credibility to my taste. So, thanks, Kevin.

- I had a fungus under my toenail (I know... too much info), and I got black sand from Santorini stuck in it. It's like a cheap souvenir... and I am a bargain shopper.

- We had to be in a hotel that did not have a shower head holder... so we had to hold the shower head while we bathed. And there was no shower curtain, so I also washed to trashcan, sink, toilet, and floor. We thought that maybe it was a culture thing. Then we walked past an open window to another bathroom... and there was a shower curtain. Damn.

- When Mike washed his clothes in the sink he made washing machine noises.

- I read. A lot. That's what we do. See Recently Finished if you are interested.

- The only television that they have over these that is in English (with Greek subtitles) is Beverly Hills, 90210 and Baywatch. SO, this trip was fun and educational. I learned how ugly Tori Spelling was and how dreamy David Hasslehoff was and why he was obviously responsible for the fall of the Berlin Wall. College schmollege.

- You can only eat so many Greek salads, moussaka, and frappes... but you can never have too much Fanta.

- BUSES/KTELS SUCK!! I don't want to go on another bus ride for a long time. Read Mike's posts for the details, but you heard it here: Ktel=Hell. And they smell. Oh well.

- Regardless of what anyone might expect about two people spending three weeks together non-stop, I still like Mike. In fact, this trip just proved to me that we are meant to be together forever... especially since he's so very attractive.

I'll probably think of other things to write about... but for now, that's all about Greece.

Now, for the important part.

The fourth and final book in the The Twilight Saga, Breaking Dawn came out the day before we returned. I was talking about it the entire trip; I even used some of our most expensive internet time to check Meyer's website.

So, after customs in Atlanta, we booked it (haha... no pun intended) to a store to buy the book.

After that... it was a lost cause. Mike couldn't talk to me... I wouldn't let him. Not on the plane ride home, not for the next 24 hours. Now I feel kinda bad because he needed some attention on the plane because he didn't feel good... but I was in too deep.

I LOVED it... so that is all I'll say... except that I heart Edward and Bella.

OK, that's it.

Really.

Other than that, nothing has really happened. Oh! We went out to dinner the other night, and as we were getting up Mike said, "Are you going to be OK in the rain, baby?"

I was so touched, and I said in an equally sappy voice, "Oh, I'll be OK, thanks, sweetie."

He wasn't talking to me.

He was talking to his camera bag...

Again, at least he's attractive.

Dork.