Mrs. Robinson

So, yesterday was my Grandma's 90th birthday party. My Aunt planned a big open house and invited basically everyone that my Grandma has ever known her entire life. Then she had the whole family working like slaves for two days, making flower arrangements, decorating tables, hanging balloons and streamers and crape paper. It really did look nice in the end, and my Grandma didn't stop smiling the whole day.

We hired a caterer to bring in some appetizers and finger foods for the guests to eat. The food was excellent, but even better was the caterer's son - a delicious specimen of man-meat, complete with an apron. I don't know what it is about a guy who can cook. Maybe it's just me, but damn. Either way, everyone at the party was noticing him. Even my Grandma was like, "Mmm, I'll have a slice of him along with my cake."

I figured it would be pretty hard for him to hit on me at my family party, plus I had no idea if he was even available or not, so I decided that the ball was pretty much in my court. I have to say that it was pretty fun to flirt again, especially with the cute caterer, on the sly, at my family party. And it was even more fun to be victorious and have him hang around to help us clean up just so that he could ask for my number at the end of the day.

Ah, sweet victory.

My cousin Krista happened to overhear the exchange and we all started talking about how I got the cute caterer's number. "You know he's like 6 years younger than you, right?", my Mom said. "What are you talking about?!", I asked her. "Well, I heard his Mom tell someone that he graduated from high school in 2004."

Holy fuck.

So, apparently I'm into jail-bate these days. At least (I'm pretty sure) he's 21. Plus, I don't know if I mentioned this before, but he's freakin hot. And who cares if he graduated from high school two years after I graduated from college. And who cares that when I graduated from high school he was like 12.

Wait - 12? ... Dude.

Well, anyway, he was freakin hot.

This is your brain on tequila shots

At Costco this morning, I reach out to hand the cashier my money and in the process end up dropping all the coins on the counter.

Me: Sorry, it's been one of those days.
Him: Big party?
Me: Bachelorette party last night. It was pretty crazy. I didn't get much sleep.
Him: ... Gotcha

I think we're being all conspiratorial when it suddenly occurs to me that he's talking about the fact that I am in the process of paying for 2 birthday cakes and 5 boxes of cream puffs. And I'm wearing a skirt. And heels.

Me: Oh, and my Grandma's turning 90 today!
Him: Yeah. Okay. Gotcha. Have fun with that.

I am the smoothest girl ever.

An open letter

Dear Red Bull Energy Drink,

I don't think I tell you often enough, but I love you. You make nights out at the bar so much more interesting. It's like I'm drunk, but I just never get tired. What - it's 2 am already? No, it can't be! I want to keep dancing! I could dance all night, in fact! Maybe I'll just go home and dance in my living room all by myself, with no music, because who can sleep already?

Come to think of it, you make the work-day better, too. I've never been so productive! I can do the work of 10 of me. Maybe I'll clean my entire desk from top to bottom. And do the same for everyone in my office. I'll admit that it is hard to write anything when my hands are shaking like this, but the upside is totally worth it. I'm like a superhuman version of myself.

I'm sure my boss and co-workers love me better, too. The way I won't shut up. Or sit down. Or let anyone finish a presentation without interjecting every 5 seconds with my own brilliant insights. They love how spontaneous I can be. You sure do bring out that side of me.

Sometimes, late at night, when I can't sleep no matter what I try, and I've cleaned every room in my house, and I've begun pulling out strands of my own hair just to see if I can still feel anything, I think that you might be pure liquid evil.

But mostly, I just love you.

Thanks again,
Carolynne

NaBloPoMo

Why is it that as soon as I agreed to post every single day for an entire month, nothing seems to be worth posting about? Moreover, it seems that life in general has become rather boring.

Must work on that.

Feel This Book

I was at my Mom's house this evening, trying to help her sort through some clutter and get organized before she gets the house painted. I came across this book written by Ben Stiller and Janeane Garofalo back in 99 - an "essential guide to self-empowerment, spiritual supremacy, and sexual satisfaction". My Mom didn't even remember purchasing it. I'm guessing it was in one of those 25-cent bins at the back of the library or something.

I had to take it home with me.

Let me give you a few chapter titles from the Table of Contents:
Why Do I Hate You So Much?
Eight Dumbass Ways We Fuck Ourselves Up
Do You Even Deserve a Relationship?
Why Can't I Sleep Around and Still Love You?
How to Fake an Orgasm to Show Your Love
Maybe I'm So Psychologically Damaged That I Need Professional Help That a Book Won't Solve

The best part is that they don't even correspond to actual chapters in the book.

I can't wait to read it.

Ode to a Holiday Dedicated to the Pursuit of Sugar

I can't believe that it's November already. Where did 2006 go to? It doesn't feel so long ago that I was ringing in the New Year, and now it's about time to do that all over again.

Yesterday was Halloween, and although not many kids showed up at my door, I carved pumpkins and passed out candy and pretended I was twelve years old again. I baked pumpkin seeds and ate too much candy and laughed until my face hurt. And then I curled up on my couch with all the lights out to watch scary movies.

I miss being twelve.

Hearts akimbo

This picture pretty much sums up my evening:



Me and you and a bottle makes three tonight.
... Well, three if you count my dog as the "you" part. Which I totally do.

I suppose I should be watching the Tiger's game, but as much as I love that my town's team is in the World Series, baseball just can not hold my attention. Now basketball; there's a game I can sink my teeth into. And don't even get me started on all those tall, sweaty men running up and down the court. That's much more my kind of sport. But I digress.

My boyfriend moved out a few weeks ago and I feel like I'm kind of drifting right now. Everything feels different, yet the same. I feel like I'm stuck in a rut, yet totally lost, all at the same time.

Part of me wants a family and a home, warm with children and the smells of good food and full of love. A safe haven. A place to grow old.

But part of me feels like I haven't lived enough yet. Part of me wants to see the world - to just load my car and leave. Head west. Just drive until I find whatever it is I'm looking for. Take lots of pictures and eat in lots of little diners, meeting interesting people. To just experience life in a raw, real way.

I look around my house - a house that I bought myself, and that I painted and decorated, and that I love - and I feel trapped. Claustrophobic. I suddenly feel like I did it all backwards. Like I was so desperate for some kind of a place to feel like a home - like the home I never had but always wanted - that at 23 I set down roots. As deep as I possibly could.

And now I'm waking up to realize that I never really had a chance to experience anything else but this.

A part of me wants to get in my car tomorrow and spend 2 months just driving across America, soaking it all up. Or buy a plane ticket to Europe and hike around, spending every last dime I have on hostels and bottles of good Italian wine.

Why does it feel like everything great is just something I read in a book. I'm sick of just reading about it. I want to live it. I want to experience it.

The last visage of my youth

I know that I'm old now and I've been living on my own (not counting the college dorms) for over 6 years, but I'm sort of sentimental from time to time about growing up. See, I have this spoon holder that sits next to my stove. My Mom gave it to me when I got my first apartment. It was kind of that first "grown up" item - the first thing I got that really made me feel like an adult.

Yesterday it broke.



It has broken before and Ken repaired it, but I think that it might be time to retire the poor dear.

*sigh*

Rainy day blues

Today is one of those days where I wish I were still a nanny, like in college. It's one of those chilly, rainy days where I can think of nothing better than going on a field trip to an art museum or a science museum. Maybe somewhere with a big planetarium where you can sit and watch the constellations move. Or maybe someplace with an interactive display of a village from the 1800s, with actual cobblestone streets that you can stroll down.

Afterward we could go to grab lunch at the museum cafe, sitting in the covered courtyard to consume our deli sandwiches and individual bags of potato chips. Then we'd head to the gift shop to look around. Maybe buy one of the books or stuffed dinosaurs or silly postcards to take home.

The price is wrong, bitch

Deal-breakers. You know, those little things that in-and-of themselves are enough to kill any future potential with someone? I've been thinking about mine today.

Aside from the obvious 'he calls me/his mother/any woman standing nearby a bitch' or 'he has a serious drug problem' or 'he beat the crap out of me that one time', here are my personal deal-breakers:

* fussy eater - if you won't even try that california roll or won't pick up your chicken tenders with your fingers, then we have issues. I mean what else won't you eat or touch with your fingers? One has to wonder.

* fussy about my dog - if you're too worried about getting hair or drool on your pants to get down and pet my dog, how are you going to be with your children someday? I mean seriously. A girl's got to think about these things.

* fussy about my friends - yes, I have a lot of guy friends. Just becuase I have male friends does not mean I am having sex with them.

* fussy around people - I am very social. If crowds scare you or make you uncomfortable, then you and I can probably not party together.

* fussy, in general - I like the sensitive type just as much as the next girl, but if you cry along with me when we're watching The Notebook, it's just not going to work out.

I'm surrounded by morons

Ken and I were driving home last night with my cousin, Bryan, from the MSU football game, cruising down the expressway, when some guy came out of nowhere and side-swiped us. He just veering right into our lane and tore of the driver's side mirror on my brand new Envoy and kept right now going.

My brand new Envoy. The one I've had for less than 2 weeks. The really pretty new white one that I practically just drove home from the dealer. Yeah, that one.

Ken sped up to catch the guy, honking and flashing his lights, but the guy was going over 100-miles an hour, weaving in and out of traffic to lose us. I'm white-knuckling the dashboard, yelling at Ken, "That son of a bitch! Can you see his license plate? Fuckmotherfuckingfuck!".

My poor cousin. He had to learn the hard way that his supposedly good-natured cousin has the mouth of a truck driver when she's pissed off. Or the mouth of Samuel L. Jackson, perhaps.

Finally we get his plate number and give up, deciding to call the police and have his drunk-ass hauled into jail and dealt with in the proper manner. The dispatcher tells me that they will put an APB out right away, and that we should come into the station to file a police report. "Absolutely! We'll be there as soon as we can!", I tell him, picturing the wheels of justice turning already.

By the time we drop off Bryan, grab some food for dinner, and head into the police station it's been almost and hour and a half. I'm picturing him already caught by the police, sitting in the cell at the station, miserable and alone, where I can taunt him for thinking he could get away from us. Or else, the police and I will have a conspiratorial chat about the dangers of drunk driving and the beauty of the criminal system.

I mean, it's like a really big deal to drive away from the scene of an accident, right?

Yeah, right. The police at the station patiently listened to our account of the evening's events. They had us fill out a stack of forms and give them copies of our driver's licenses. They confirmed the make an model of the SUV that hit us with a quick look-up of his license plate number that we had so diligently written down, and, oh, ha ha! he must have been on his way home judging by the direction he was headed when we last saw him.

The cop looks at me, smiles, and says, "So, what happens now ... ". I'm figuring they're going to send out like 4 cop cars to surround his house, throw a can of tear gas in his window, and drag his ass in to jail. ... "is that we are going to send him a letter. Which he has 10 days to respond to. "

OK, but then they issue a warrant for his arrest, right?

"If he does not call or come in to the station within that time," (for this part he actually rises out of his seat and leans toward me, like this is when he means business), "then we will send him a second letter."

What? Are you kidding me? A second letter? Just in case the problem was that the post office screwed up and he didn't receive the first one?

"And then what?", I ask him, totally dumb-founded at this point. "Well, if he still doesn't respond, then it will go on his permanent record".

Oh good. Because he seemed like someone who really cared about his permanent record.

Revenge is sweet.

So I guess the moral of the story is, if you drive drunk and you hit someone/something/some person, just keep driving. In fact, go home! Or even better, go back out to the bar and drink some more!

But just watch out for the strongly worded letter that will be arriving in your mailbox any day now.

Apocalypse Now

My Mom and I are going to walk in the up coming Breast Cancer 3-Day Walk here in Detroit, which consists of us raising $2200 each and then walking 60 miles over the course of three days to raise money for breast cancer research. So yes, that basically means that they are charging us money and then torturing us. Sounds good right?

And in this heat, no less. Record temps! In the words of the illustrious Lewis Black, if you walk outside in weather like this and don't say the word fuck OUTLOUD, then you have anger issues.

Well, people, fuck, it's hot out there.

And my Mom and I are still trying to finish raising the last of our money, so last weekend we decided to have a garage sale. I have to tell you, it's too hot right now to even look out the window, let alone sit outside for two full days trying not to melt like Frosty the Snowman.


Luckily we set up what I like to call a high-tech"sun shelter".

Equally as luckily, I had friends and family who were willing to subject themselves to the harsh elements just to help me.

However, the cupcakes that we made didn't fair quite as well as we did.

We took turns going into the air-conditioned house to cool off and at one point we even ran to the market to buy a giant box of popsicles. We started selling cold bottles of water to the garage-salers, and you would have thought they were liquid heaven. It was a surprisingly fun couple of days, actually. And we raised almost $500 towards our cause.

But seriously, fuck. It was hot out there. Yes, I know that in one weeks time I plan on not only being outside for three days straight, but also WALKING 60 MILES, but I'm praying for one of those rare mid-August Michigan snowstorms.

Keep your fingers crossed for me.