“I have got to get one of those!” my boyfriend excitedly states from the other room as he overhears a commercial that the almighty Mickey-D’s is now offering the “McRib” sandwich nationwide once again since 1994. “Why?” I said, “What’s the big deal?.” “You don’t know? He says, “McRibs are this huge pop cult thing. You should read up on it.” “You’re kidding, right?” I flatly state. He responds, “Not kidding, Google it.”, as he giggles at my reaction.
So I take him up on his challenge.
What I found was astounding. Several stories announcing the McRibs limited reappearance beginning on November 2nd and lasting until December 5th have been posted on The Christian Science Monitor, The Huffington Post, and amazingly enough, The Wall Street Journal. Heck, it even has a Facebook page. I bet the Big Mac is pretty McJealous, never mind the bitter McAttitude of the Quarter Pounder.
It’s more like give me a break today instead of ‘deserving one.’
So after getting by the Wikipedia description (as if we needed one) and images of the sandwich I find a link to a website called “The McRib Locator.” Here is where anyone can document which McDonalds they claimed their sandwich and also pinpointed which McDonalds’ around the country that others have successfully found the barbeque slathered piece of pork-particle-mystery-meat-on-a-bun.
After doing some research, I decide that in order to write about the McRib, I will have to eat one. Take one for the team, so to speak.
Suddenly, I break out in a cold sweat.
Since I don’t make it a habit of eating anything processed, I at least wanted to know what I was going to clog my arteries with. I found an image of a “naked” piece of McRib. It looked like a piece of shriveled up flesh that had been sitting in formaldehyde waiting to be dissected.
Oh yummy.
Then I made the mistake of reading up on exactly what the “McRib” is made of. Sometimes ignorance is bliss. What I found, in my opinion, was truly disgusting. Directly from the McDonalds website are the ingredients of the rib “meat”. Ingredients: Pork, water, salt, dextrose, BHA and BHT and propyl gallate and citric acid (preservatives).
Attached to the saturated fat ingredients are the equally ugly nutrition stats; 24g Fat, 10g Sat Fat, 70g Cholesterol, and 44g Carbohydrates for a whopping 500 calories per sandwich.
Personally, I think the McRib, is McGross to be McHonest.
Ok, I’ll stop.
I found myself procrastinating to purchase the sandwich. Every day, I told myself, “Today’s the day.” Before I knew it a week went by and I hadn’t consumed the sandwich that has people visiting McDonalds sometimes twice a day.
However tempting, I just couldn’t do it. The pictures were too horrifying. The nutritional stats were equally disturbing. I let down my team.
Or did I?
I wanted to know what others on the Northern Essex Community College campus thought of the McRib so I sent out a blanket e-mail to 70 of my fellow students requesting any and all comments they had on the McRib phenomenon.
Surprisingly, I had only received one lengthy and descriptive e-mail from classmate, Peter Piantigini. I feel his e-mail is indicative of exactly why nobody cared to bother with a response to my original e-mail.
Peter commented, “I just want to urge the people out there thinking about what a great deal they are getting on a $3 rib sandwich, that they could go to a legitimate barbeque restaurant and get something that costs roughly $10 that tastes 30 times better.”
I totally concur with you Peter.
I could only gather that people think the McRib is just gross and not worth commenting
on never mind consuming.
With that being said, I will leave you with something else to chew on. While researching the McRib, I stumbled upon a story about Sally Davies, a New York photographer who left out a burger and fries from McDonalds for 180 days. The burger and fries did not mold or turn color in any way shape or form. To see this, go to
http://today.msnbc.msn.com/id/39656461.
Enjoy!
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Friday, October 29, 2010
Misunderstood Puppets?
I can’t believe the news actually wasted 90 seconds of my life broadcasting that Bert from Sesame Street could actually be gay.
Seriously?
I look over at my boyfriend and flatly state to him, “You have got to be kidding me.” He lets out a giggle and shrugs his shoulders at me. I continue my rant. “Seriously, they have got to be joking. Who the hell cares if Bert is gay? He’s a puppet!”
Honestly people. Get a grip. Is there nothing else more important to report on than the non-existent, hypothetical sexual preference of a puppet? I’m sure they could have at least dug up some new information on Whitey Bulger or Jimmy Hoffa.
Anything would have been better than a story on a puppet who switched teams.
But hey, since they opened that can of worms why stop there? If they’re going to start dissecting Sesame Street characters why not take a look at the other puppets?
Yes. Let’s do that.
How about starting with Big Bird?
He has a pretty, effeminate voice and loves teddy bears. You never see him with a female Big Bird, and is always with his male pal, Mr. Snuffleupagus.
Hmm. Very interesting.
Oh, then there is Grover. He’s a silly little blue creature that constantly flails his arms around in a panic. Could he be gay too?
Ridiculous, isn’t it?
To be honest, I’m pretty ticked off about all of the talk about the twitter comment that was left on the Sesame Street page on October 25, 2010 that was supposedly left by Bert himself.
The comment was in reference to an upcoming A-Team re-make. Bert tweeted, “Ever notice how similar my hair is to Mr. T’s? The only difference is mine is a little more ‘mo’, and a little less ‘hawk’".
This single comment actually sparked the LA Times to do a three page story on whether or not the executives at Sesame Workshop are consciously trying to appeal to gay viewers and how PBS may not be so eager to embark on such a topic.
Personally, I couldn't care less if the Sesame execs are trying to do just that. However, if they are, I say Kudos to them! Sesame Street has always tried to be as diverse as possible with their puppets and their actors.
If you were an avid Sesame Street watcher as a child, take a moment and think about the characters. I bet there was at least one you could relate to in one way or another.
When I was a child, I remember Linda, the adult actor who was deaf and taught us all sign language. The way she communicated fascinated me and still does to this day. Aside from her disability, she was projected as a warm, funny and kind person. Had I not been exposed to her uniqueness, and educated on it, she could have been someone that I viewed as scary, odd, or even could have been prejudiced of.
Mr. Hooper was the grumpy but lovable store owner. He was a person that most of us could relate to as an elder, grumpy relative. C’mon, admit it, we've all had one.
Then there was Louis and Maria, the married Latino couple who raised a child on the show. Admittedly, I saw my own father in Louis even though I am full blooded Italian.
Then there was Bob. Bob was everyone’s confidant and buddy. He was a safe and secure person who always had it together. A sort of mother figure, but never paired up with anyone.
I think that as the years go on, and families change, so should children’s shows. Same sex marriages are now legal and couples are forming and raising families of their own. They are fantastic, conscientious, parents who only want the best for their children as we all do, and they are exposing their children to such great shows as Sesame Street. So why not show those children that there are other families just like them?
Currently on television there are two shows that promote gay parenting. ‘Modern Family’ and the other is ‘Glee’. According to the UCLA Williams Institute there are currently 1 million lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender parents raising about 2 million children in the U.S.
Hardly a drop in the bucket if you ask me.
There is so much left to be discovered with the statistics on children who are raised in same sex homes. I could only hope that there are lots of positive outcomes in the coming years. Only time will tell.
However, presently there are still many people that will never agree. There will always be people who will never believe that same sex couples should have children or raise them. No matter what the statistics positively conclude or how many studies have been conducted.
Some things we just can’t change. However, the one thing we can do is surround ourselves with people who love and accept us for who we are and try to educate the ones who don’t.
Just like Bert and Ernie.
Seriously?
I look over at my boyfriend and flatly state to him, “You have got to be kidding me.” He lets out a giggle and shrugs his shoulders at me. I continue my rant. “Seriously, they have got to be joking. Who the hell cares if Bert is gay? He’s a puppet!”
Honestly people. Get a grip. Is there nothing else more important to report on than the non-existent, hypothetical sexual preference of a puppet? I’m sure they could have at least dug up some new information on Whitey Bulger or Jimmy Hoffa.
Anything would have been better than a story on a puppet who switched teams.
But hey, since they opened that can of worms why stop there? If they’re going to start dissecting Sesame Street characters why not take a look at the other puppets?
Yes. Let’s do that.
How about starting with Big Bird?
He has a pretty, effeminate voice and loves teddy bears. You never see him with a female Big Bird, and is always with his male pal, Mr. Snuffleupagus.
Hmm. Very interesting.
Oh, then there is Grover. He’s a silly little blue creature that constantly flails his arms around in a panic. Could he be gay too?
Ridiculous, isn’t it?
To be honest, I’m pretty ticked off about all of the talk about the twitter comment that was left on the Sesame Street page on October 25, 2010 that was supposedly left by Bert himself.
The comment was in reference to an upcoming A-Team re-make. Bert tweeted, “Ever notice how similar my hair is to Mr. T’s? The only difference is mine is a little more ‘mo’, and a little less ‘hawk’".
This single comment actually sparked the LA Times to do a three page story on whether or not the executives at Sesame Workshop are consciously trying to appeal to gay viewers and how PBS may not be so eager to embark on such a topic.
Personally, I couldn't care less if the Sesame execs are trying to do just that. However, if they are, I say Kudos to them! Sesame Street has always tried to be as diverse as possible with their puppets and their actors.
If you were an avid Sesame Street watcher as a child, take a moment and think about the characters. I bet there was at least one you could relate to in one way or another.
When I was a child, I remember Linda, the adult actor who was deaf and taught us all sign language. The way she communicated fascinated me and still does to this day. Aside from her disability, she was projected as a warm, funny and kind person. Had I not been exposed to her uniqueness, and educated on it, she could have been someone that I viewed as scary, odd, or even could have been prejudiced of.
Mr. Hooper was the grumpy but lovable store owner. He was a person that most of us could relate to as an elder, grumpy relative. C’mon, admit it, we've all had one.
Then there was Louis and Maria, the married Latino couple who raised a child on the show. Admittedly, I saw my own father in Louis even though I am full blooded Italian.
Then there was Bob. Bob was everyone’s confidant and buddy. He was a safe and secure person who always had it together. A sort of mother figure, but never paired up with anyone.
I think that as the years go on, and families change, so should children’s shows. Same sex marriages are now legal and couples are forming and raising families of their own. They are fantastic, conscientious, parents who only want the best for their children as we all do, and they are exposing their children to such great shows as Sesame Street. So why not show those children that there are other families just like them?
Currently on television there are two shows that promote gay parenting. ‘Modern Family’ and the other is ‘Glee’. According to the UCLA Williams Institute there are currently 1 million lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender parents raising about 2 million children in the U.S.
Hardly a drop in the bucket if you ask me.
There is so much left to be discovered with the statistics on children who are raised in same sex homes. I could only hope that there are lots of positive outcomes in the coming years. Only time will tell.
However, presently there are still many people that will never agree. There will always be people who will never believe that same sex couples should have children or raise them. No matter what the statistics positively conclude or how many studies have been conducted.
Some things we just can’t change. However, the one thing we can do is surround ourselves with people who love and accept us for who we are and try to educate the ones who don’t.
Just like Bert and Ernie.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Workouts, Painkillers, and Porno Doctors
It was Tony Horton's P90x's"Ab Ripper". A workout routine that consisted of 340 sit ups. Just one in a series of nine DVD's that was supposed to shred you in weeks.
After noticing that my once firm; well, moderately firm; okay, my stomach that was once almost totally flat has now started looking like a bowl of Jell-O, I decided it's time to 'make time' and get back to working out.
After taking a look at my daily schedule, I find that I had two opportunities to workout; 5 AM or 9 PM. So I pick 5 AM because by 9 PM I'm comatose, whether I want to be or not.
The next morning I'm up and in front of the TV getting my abs ripped. Impressed that I completed workout by performing 315 out of the 340 sit ups, I felt pretty good that day. I could feel my stomach shrinking as the day went on.
Oh, Hail to the almighty P90x man!
This was it, I could see myself becoming just like the women in the video.
Except, I would have to get a tummy tuck, a boob lift, and possibly grow about five inches.
Ah, to dream the impossible dream. Alas, being the eternal optimist that I am, I set the alarm for 5 AM, and go to sleep, pumped for the morning workout.
The alarm rings and I turn over, hitting the buzzer. When I go to sit up, I realize exactly what I have done to myself. I am now the proud owner of an abdominal charlie horse and have to roll out of bed. My abdominal muscles are screaming at me. Seriously, I heard them. They were saying, "What the fuck were you thinking?! Do you even remember the last time you even did a hundred sit ups? Let me remind you bitch, it was last November!"
Then, as I was getting into the shower, I faintly heard the left oblique say to the right oblique, "Oh, just wait, the lower abs have a plan. They're not done with her yet". After the minor bodily confrontation in the shower, my abs did feel pretty tight. They were convulsing; however, they were tight.
Yayyy P90x man.
As I wait for the pain to subside in my abs, I try the arms, legs, and full-body core workouts. All were very good, however, there is nothing like the Nazi regime of the Ab Ripper.
A week later, I decided to try the 'ripper again, now that I was able to laugh, stand erect, and lift a fork, I turn on the TV, watch my beloved P90x man, Tony Horton get into position. As I begin, I complete two crunches when something goes "POP!" and makes me immediately go "WOWOUCH!" and curl up into the fetal position (which by the way I haven't been in since my divorce, but that's a story for another time).
I hold the lower part of my abdominal flab and wait a moment for the pain to subside. Since I still haven't learned my lesson, I continue.
I couldn't even lift my leg without yelping in pain.
FUCK! I'm screwed. I've never heard anything go POP on me before, and the only thing I could think of is that I opened my 8-year-old c-section scar or I just received my first hernia.
Damn me and my stubborn behavior.
Well, I was down, but I was far from out. Determined as I am, I quickly pop in the arms and shoulders DVD and finished what I could. Rocky, eat your heart out.
Since the pain failed to subside, I made a visit to my general practitioner. After pushing on the injured area and making me do more sit ups, she suspected a hernia. She advised me to not work out until I saw a surgeon.
Surgeon?! Oh, beautiful.
I call the surgeon that she recommends and am given a three-week waiting period. The earliest time they have available is the day after my daughter's tonsillectomy. Begrudgingly, I take it. I figure I will sort things out when the time gets closer.
My daughters "day surgery" turns into a hospital stay, so the plans I had for my appointment were quickly dashed. Thinking fast on my feet, I called the doctors office to see if they could move up the appointment for later that day or possibly the next day. The conversation goes like this:
"Hi, I was wondering, if it was possible to reschedule my appointment for later today. My daughter was in surgery yesterday and ended up staying the night, so I'm not going to be able to make my 10:30 AM appointment. I know it's last minute, but I wasn't expecting her to stay. Anything you have for today, or possibly tomorrow, would be great."
"Oh, um...hmm. I'm sorry but there isn't any time today or tomorrow. She is booked solid, so you'll have to reschedule, and she is scheduling out three weeks."
Now, this receptionist either has #1, no children, #2, no mercy, #3 no experience working with people, and me, already being grumpy, worried and tired due to lack of sleep, picked the wrong woman to say "No" to.
"Umm .. Noo. I don't think so, I said. I've waited three weeks already, and I am not about to reschedule another three weeks when I have an injury that is already three weeks old. I need to be seen within the next couple of days.
"Hold please." I wait approximately five minutes when I get an older and more experienced woman on the phone.
"Hi, can you come in at 3:45 this afternoon?"
"Absolutely."
"Okay, great, see you then!"
"Thank you very much for squeezing me in. I appreciate it!"
I bring my daughter home and settled. I head out to the doctors office early just in case I get lost, or some meathead decides to cause a traffic jam. I want to make sure I am on time since I caused such a ruckus earlier. I don't know why, but the minute I stepped into the office, I got this overwhelming feeling that this was not the right doctor for me. I approach the window and a snobby 17 year- old receptionist is on the phone completely ignoring me for about three minutes. Somehow her social calendar was much more important than a prospective patient.
Priorities, you know.
When she hangs up, she hardly glances at me. I tell her my name, and we do the usual "first-time patient" dance. You know the one, the receptionist hands you the paperwork, you hand her your insurance card and your co-pay, then tells you to have a seat. Cha-cha-cha.
I am filling out the paperwork when I notice that the waiting area that was supposed to be 'completely booked' is completely empty.
I hand the receptionist my paperwork, grab a magazine and sit down. As I sit, a young female medical assistant calls my name.
As I approach her I am shocked at the way she greets me.
"Hi, how's your daughter?" "I heard she was in the hospital."
"Um.. yeah, She unexpectedly stayed overnight."
As I entered through the door heading towards an exam room, she continued to discuss my daughter's tonsillectomy. Three things ran through my head as I'm talking with her. One, why would she comment on my daughters surgery in front of others in the waiting room. Two, why I felt the need that I had to explain myself to this young assistant, and, three, how the hell did she know in such detail? I mean, I'm sure they discuss reasons for pushing patients around but, did she feel the need to discuss it in full? The last one made me the most uneasy. It made me think what exactly were they talking about that allowed the medical assistant to know what was going on with my daughter.
She leads me to an exam room and begins to take my vitals. She then tells me to unbutton and unzip my jeans then tells me to scootch both my underwear and jeans down around my hips so the doctor can access the hernia area. So I am sitting on the exam table, with my waistband pinching my ass and a little paper blanket to cover myself up. Feeling extremely awkward, it was like I was waiting for something very creepy to happen.
I tried to reassure myself that since she was a female doctor, she would be the most gentle of the sexes. However, I was about to have that theory shattered.
The doctor comes in wearing sneakers, a pair of jeans, a Red Sox t-shirt, and a nylon zip-up sweat jacket with racing stripes down the arms. My first thought was, did I pull you away from something, Doc? She's kind of masculine looking, not that I mind, just be competent. Again, my hopes would be quickly dashed.
The first thing she says to me -without making eye contact- is, "So, your daughter was in the hospital, huh?"
What the fuck?! Is this a test? Does this whole office think that I just made this up in order to get an appointment without waiting three more weeks? I wanted to show her my daughters discharge papers to prove to her that I wasn't lying.
She washes her hands, and asks - no, demands- me to lie down.
So I do.
She pokes and prods in my popped area, and again demands me to stand up.
So I do.
Now, remember, I have my pants unzipped and half way around my hips. She stands there watching as I try to hop off the exam table, fight with the paper blanket trying to keep my pants up around my hips. Then, something comes out of her mouth, that in a million years would I ever expect a doctor to say,
"Drop 'em."
I can't believe she just told me to "drop 'em". Feeling very uncomfortable, and even a little scared, I 'drop em'. I'm standing there, pants around my ankles and paper blanket hanging off the exam table. Needless to say, I'm humiliated. She says she can't feel anything then goes and sits on one of the chairs and tells me to come stand in front of her.
Awkwardly, with my pants around my ankles, I shuffle over to her. I felt like it was the beginning of a bad porno. I'm expecting Ron Jeremy to walk in the exam room at any moment and "assist" in my exam. As I am standing there, she sitting in front of me, head in my crotch (so to speak) poking around, she says, "I don't feel anything."
"Really?", I said afraid to rebut her. "Because now that you've poked around there, it's quite tender."
She states, "Yeah, well, you don't have a hernia, well, you could possibly have a small one, or you could possibly have a muscle pull, either way, there is no need to do surgery right now."
Umm...ok, so it's either I don't have a hernia, or I have a small hernia or it's a muscle pull. Jesus, which is it, Porno Doc!
All this in a grand total of three minutes.
She then continues to prescribe me 800 mg of Motrin three times a day for six weeks. Wait, what?!
As I'm doing the math in my head, I'm thinking, wow, this is so wrong. That would be 2,400 mg of Motrin a day! For six weeks!
Doesn't she know what that would do to someone's stomach? I wonder quickly if she is in 'cahoots' with a GI doc in the office.
I leave with a follow-up appointment even though I had absolutely no intention on going back. The next day, I called my general practitioner for another referral. The next doctor's office was very accommodating, friendly, and took me within a week. The appointment goes very well. This doctor was kind, soft spoken, and most of all very conscious of being discreet while examining me. I state the reason why I was there, and that he was a second opinion. When I tell him the Motrin that was prescribed, I got a very validating raised eyebrow. We decide together that the surgery was the way to go, and it gets scheduled. I knew I made the right decision to get a second opinion.
As I am getting prepped for surgery, I have a slew of doctors and medical students coming in and asking my name and birth date several times, while poking and prodding me. I'm lying there getting my IV started and in walks a student doctor who introduces herself. Behind her is my doctors assistant. He introduces himself and tries to make a cute remark about removing my belly button ring (which I do not have). He looked exactly like Ron Jeremy, 70's porn mustache and all.
I took one look at him and thought HELL NO! I'm not having the porn king of the 80's down in my 'area' assisting with my surgery. It'll turn into some kind of kinky operating room group sex session! I try to fight off the 'happy shot' they gave me to relax, without success.
Damn drugs.
The surgery was a success. They removed a lump within my abdominal muscle and put me in the recovery room. As one nurse passes me off to another rotund nurse that sees me lying in the corner, and states, "Nobody puts baby in the corner." She giggles at her own joke then pushes my bed into one of the recovery room stalls continuing her impromptu stand-up act, advises me not to do any sit ups for a long time.
"Pretty ironic, that's how I ended up here," I said.
She laughs and says, "See, this is where exercise will get you."
I think to myself, Yeah, yeah, everyone's a comedian. Just give me the drugs lady, and keep your jokes to yourself.
As I'm discharged, the doctor tells me that I am not to work out for several weeks in order to give my incision time to heal, and ordered me not use the P90x workout sessions.
I listen to his advice and dump the routine and go back to running.
However, I think there is a bootleg video out there of my exam with Porno Doc.
If you find a copy, please, let me know.
Monday, January 4, 2010
My New Beginning
The subject of this blog was going to be about my recent break up, how devastated I am of having lost what I thought was the love of my life, how it has ripped my heart out and left me an empty shell, just existing for weeks on end eating way too little and sleeping way too much.
But then I thought, Fuck that.
Out with the old, in with the new, I say.
So as the old man is out I would rather discuss the new men in my life.
Let me introduce you to:
Guy #1.
A very cute, self-made, successful, and funny man. Great qualities, right? I thought we got along great. Somehow he started calling me "Bubba", which I found cute, and returned the sentiment by calling him "Gus". It was fun. Just us, Bubba and Gus. We had these great conversations on the phone, but whenever we got together, all we could talk about was the weather.
Two dates into it, and it's not looking good. (red flag #1)
I also noticed that both times we went out, somehow I would end up ordering items on the menu like Meg Ryan did in "When Harry Met Sally". You know, the scene where she orders her meals with special instructions like; the salad dressing "on the side" or about how she wants her pie heated and the ice cream either strawberry or vanilla, and if they have neither, she wants whipped cream but only if it's real whipped cream and if it's not then nothing. Kinda like that.
What's funny is I never order my meals like that, and it makes me wonder why in the world does that happen every time I'm with him? I explain my embarrassment to him and chuckle about absurdity of it all and how this is not the way I usually order my food.
He smiles, gives me a look of disbelief, and no matter what I say, it still makes me look like a neurotic wacko.
Which of course, I'm not. I'm just saying.
So that's Red Flag #2, and I haven't heard from him since.
So, on to Guy #2.
Out of the blue, I receive a text from a guy I met over nine months ago, saying that he wants to test my memory skills by seeing if I remember him. His text sounds like we had this long courtship and he's my bestest buddy. (red flag #1)
Annnd, here we go.
Here's the condensed version. We first met while I was on my morning run and he was driving by on his Harley. We chatted for a bit after I finished, and exchanged numbers. He said, "Give me a call the next time you want a running buddy. So, I let four days go by before I gave it the old college try (twice), and he never called me back. Figuring he had a change of heart, I tossed his number and actually forgot about him.
Until his text showed up on my phone.
By the way, women never forget guys who don't follow through.
So, I humor him and agree to talk. I want to know the reason he never called me back.
This ought be good, I think to myself.
We exchange a couple of texts and talked on the phone one night. First, I tell him that I'm flattered that he had my number all this time and remembered me, then in the same breath, ask him, why he never returned my calls.
This was his answer and I quote, "Um, well, in all honesty, I was kinda in a relationship at the time."
Kinda? Wow. Not only did he hit on me while in a relationship, he kept my number for future reference! That flag can't get any redder now, can it?
I didn't think that guys actually had little black books anymore. I felt like a slip of paper in a Rolodex and he was up to the letter L. I begin to imagine if he had notes on me. Little adjectives jotted down next to my name that would spark his memory. "Cute runner"or "Big Boobs"or maybe "Townie".
I also wonder, when I didn't call him back this time around, if he crimped the corner of my note card, or put an "X" after my name in his blackberry.
Like the amount of licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop, somethings I will never know.
Let's move on to:
Guy #3
Cute, sensitive techie that cries at the drop of a hat.
Right-o. Onward to:
Guy #4
Hot. Ok. not just hot, but H-O-T kinda hot. Africa hot. We met in a snowstorm for some coffee and great conversation. He could have talked about his colonoscopy and this guy would have made it sound sexy.
Yeah, he's that kind of hot.
Twist my arm, but I'm willing to play this one out too. Ah, the things we do for love.
There are flags, they are yellow in color, but my God, did I mention? The man is hot.
Lastly, an odd thing started happening couple of months ago. Every week, I put my trash and recycling out like every good standing citizen. When I would return home at night, my barrels would be neatly placed back in its respective place, and not thrown across the lawn like everyone elses in my neighborhood.
Weird, I thought.
At first, I thought it was one of my neighbors being thoughtful. But then, I noticed that hers would still be on the sidewalk. I took a look around the neighborhood to see if anyone else had their barrels put neatly back.They hadn't.
Mine were the only ones placed back. Even if it was one of the other neighbors being, well, neighborly, they didn't take the time to bring their own in.
I was perplexed about who was doing this. Eventually, it became a game. Every Wednesday I would wait to see if my barrels were placed neatly back into their rightful spots, and every Wednesday, they were.
Until one day, I was telling my mother this story, and when I got to the part of not knowing who was doing it, my daughter chirps up and says, "Oh, the garbage man puts them back for us".
"Really?" I say, stunned, flattered, and bit creeped out all at the same time.
I quizzed my daughter. "What do you mean the garbage man puts them back"? "How do you know?" She responded, "Yes Mommy, He puts them back after he empties them." "I've seen him do it."
Oh. My. God. Could it be? Could the garbage man have a crush on me? Why else would a garbage man take the time out to neatly place back my barrels and recycling bin to the side of my house?
Besides the fact that it's entirely possible he's a lunatic stalker, why else?
I'm not definite on which one he is exactly, but I have a feeling. I've seen him a couple of times when I was playing "Beat the Clock" with bringing my barrels curbside. He would look and laugh at me, and I would just smile, wave and head back in the house. I never really gave him a good look, I mean, who really looks at the garbage men, right? Unless its the summer, and they are totally ripped (smelly or not) we sort of look past them, and really don't pay much attention to them.
Then one day, we were home when they came by, and I asked my daughter to point him out.
We sat in front of the window, peering outside from a distance. We didn't want to be noticed.
She looked at them. I said, "Which one do you think it is?" As one of the men came forth to grab our barrel I said quietly as if he could hear us, "Is that him?" She said, "Oh, yes, I think that's him!" I said, "Are you sure?" I leaned a bit closer toward the window to get a better look. Then with her next breath, said, "Oh, um, well, I don't know. Maybe not, Mum."
Argh.
On that day, the barrels were not put back. They were thrown on my lawn just like every other garbage man handles our barrels.
It was not him. Or maybe it was and didn't want his cover blown. I may never know who is doing this, however, to this day, my barrels are still getting neatly put back every week in their rightful spots, and I am still trying to figure out who he is.
So there it is.
The old.
The new.
The twisted.
Here's to the new year.
But then I thought, Fuck that.
Out with the old, in with the new, I say.
So as the old man is out I would rather discuss the new men in my life.
Let me introduce you to:
Guy #1.
A very cute, self-made, successful, and funny man. Great qualities, right? I thought we got along great. Somehow he started calling me "Bubba", which I found cute, and returned the sentiment by calling him "Gus". It was fun. Just us, Bubba and Gus. We had these great conversations on the phone, but whenever we got together, all we could talk about was the weather.
Two dates into it, and it's not looking good. (red flag #1)
I also noticed that both times we went out, somehow I would end up ordering items on the menu like Meg Ryan did in "When Harry Met Sally". You know, the scene where she orders her meals with special instructions like; the salad dressing "on the side" or about how she wants her pie heated and the ice cream either strawberry or vanilla, and if they have neither, she wants whipped cream but only if it's real whipped cream and if it's not then nothing. Kinda like that.
What's funny is I never order my meals like that, and it makes me wonder why in the world does that happen every time I'm with him? I explain my embarrassment to him and chuckle about absurdity of it all and how this is not the way I usually order my food.
He smiles, gives me a look of disbelief, and no matter what I say, it still makes me look like a neurotic wacko.
Which of course, I'm not. I'm just saying.
So that's Red Flag #2, and I haven't heard from him since.
So, on to Guy #2.
Out of the blue, I receive a text from a guy I met over nine months ago, saying that he wants to test my memory skills by seeing if I remember him. His text sounds like we had this long courtship and he's my bestest buddy. (red flag #1)
Annnd, here we go.
Here's the condensed version. We first met while I was on my morning run and he was driving by on his Harley. We chatted for a bit after I finished, and exchanged numbers. He said, "Give me a call the next time you want a running buddy. So, I let four days go by before I gave it the old college try (twice), and he never called me back. Figuring he had a change of heart, I tossed his number and actually forgot about him.
Until his text showed up on my phone.
By the way, women never forget guys who don't follow through.
So, I humor him and agree to talk. I want to know the reason he never called me back.
This ought be good, I think to myself.
We exchange a couple of texts and talked on the phone one night. First, I tell him that I'm flattered that he had my number all this time and remembered me, then in the same breath, ask him, why he never returned my calls.
This was his answer and I quote, "Um, well, in all honesty, I was kinda in a relationship at the time."
Kinda? Wow. Not only did he hit on me while in a relationship, he kept my number for future reference! That flag can't get any redder now, can it?
I didn't think that guys actually had little black books anymore. I felt like a slip of paper in a Rolodex and he was up to the letter L. I begin to imagine if he had notes on me. Little adjectives jotted down next to my name that would spark his memory. "Cute runner"or "Big Boobs"or maybe "Townie".
I also wonder, when I didn't call him back this time around, if he crimped the corner of my note card, or put an "X" after my name in his blackberry.
Like the amount of licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop, somethings I will never know.
Let's move on to:
Guy #3
Cute, sensitive techie that cries at the drop of a hat.
Right-o. Onward to:
Guy #4
Hot. Ok. not just hot, but H-O-T kinda hot. Africa hot. We met in a snowstorm for some coffee and great conversation. He could have talked about his colonoscopy and this guy would have made it sound sexy.
Yeah, he's that kind of hot.
Twist my arm, but I'm willing to play this one out too. Ah, the things we do for love.
There are flags, they are yellow in color, but my God, did I mention? The man is hot.
Lastly, an odd thing started happening couple of months ago. Every week, I put my trash and recycling out like every good standing citizen. When I would return home at night, my barrels would be neatly placed back in its respective place, and not thrown across the lawn like everyone elses in my neighborhood.
Weird, I thought.
At first, I thought it was one of my neighbors being thoughtful. But then, I noticed that hers would still be on the sidewalk. I took a look around the neighborhood to see if anyone else had their barrels put neatly back.They hadn't.
Mine were the only ones placed back. Even if it was one of the other neighbors being, well, neighborly, they didn't take the time to bring their own in.
I was perplexed about who was doing this. Eventually, it became a game. Every Wednesday I would wait to see if my barrels were placed neatly back into their rightful spots, and every Wednesday, they were.
Until one day, I was telling my mother this story, and when I got to the part of not knowing who was doing it, my daughter chirps up and says, "Oh, the garbage man puts them back for us".
"Really?" I say, stunned, flattered, and bit creeped out all at the same time.
I quizzed my daughter. "What do you mean the garbage man puts them back"? "How do you know?" She responded, "Yes Mommy, He puts them back after he empties them." "I've seen him do it."
Oh. My. God. Could it be? Could the garbage man have a crush on me? Why else would a garbage man take the time out to neatly place back my barrels and recycling bin to the side of my house?
Besides the fact that it's entirely possible he's a lunatic stalker, why else?
I'm not definite on which one he is exactly, but I have a feeling. I've seen him a couple of times when I was playing "Beat the Clock" with bringing my barrels curbside. He would look and laugh at me, and I would just smile, wave and head back in the house. I never really gave him a good look, I mean, who really looks at the garbage men, right? Unless its the summer, and they are totally ripped (smelly or not) we sort of look past them, and really don't pay much attention to them.
Then one day, we were home when they came by, and I asked my daughter to point him out.
We sat in front of the window, peering outside from a distance. We didn't want to be noticed.
She looked at them. I said, "Which one do you think it is?" As one of the men came forth to grab our barrel I said quietly as if he could hear us, "Is that him?" She said, "Oh, yes, I think that's him!" I said, "Are you sure?" I leaned a bit closer toward the window to get a better look. Then with her next breath, said, "Oh, um, well, I don't know. Maybe not, Mum."
Argh.
On that day, the barrels were not put back. They were thrown on my lawn just like every other garbage man handles our barrels.
It was not him. Or maybe it was and didn't want his cover blown. I may never know who is doing this, however, to this day, my barrels are still getting neatly put back every week in their rightful spots, and I am still trying to figure out who he is.
So there it is.
The old.
The new.
The twisted.
Here's to the new year.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Ahhh vacations...
You know it's going to be a bad flight when you spot a guy taking a picture of you from across the waiting area at the gate.
Oh yes.
It started off like just any other morning, being dropped off at the airport, checking my bags, and going through security.
As usual, I was on time.
I was excited for my mini vacation to begin. I haven't had one in 3 years. Still trying to switch into 'vacation mode', I splurge for a Starbucks Apple Chai Tea only to find that they were out of apple juice.
What? How could Starbucks be out of apple juice? They are the almighty Starbucks.
The end all be all of coffee shops.
Sigh.
So it begins. The pattern for a memorable beginning to my vacation.
So instead, I splurge for a tall CAFFEINATED English Breakfast Tea. Since I don't drink caffeine, this was quite the party for me.
Whoopee.
I find my gate and plop myself down, arranging my belongings and settling in. I was claiming my territory, so to speak.
I begin to chat away between my Yahoo instant messenger and Facebook sites. I'm about thirty minutes into the fun and banter when I notice couple eating ice cream at roughly 10 am.
Ew.
I decide to comment about it on Facebook. Pizza is much more appropriate for morning vacation food.
But that's just me.
I enjoy the witty comments back and fourth about the ice cream eating couple, when I notice a flash in the corner of my eye.
I look up.
I notice a man looking straight at me from across the way; he ever so nonchalantly slides his camera under his jacket and continues to look at me.
I give him a look. A long, intimidating look. A look that says, I know you took a picture of me, and you know that I know you took a picture of me and I'm NOT happy.
Sicko.
So far, I don't have the tea I wanted and some whack job is snapping photos of me like I'm frigging J-Lo.
A banner day for me so far and it's not even 7 a.m.
A few minutes later, out of the corner of my eye, I notice across the room a man with a briefcase who walks over to an attractive blonde woman who was talking on the phone and waiting to board her flight to Martha's Vineyard. He leans over, drops his briefcase next to her seat, and whispers something in her ear. She looks at him quizzically, slowly nods, then he walks away.
Hmmm...interesting, I think to myself. So I decide to eavesdrop on the situation.
Because I can be nosey like that.
Nobody else noticed what I just witnessed. As I watch the man walk away I catch her eyes. She has a slightly concerned look as if she is regretting having agreed to what he asked of her. I mouth the words - "Do you know him?" She slowly shakes her head and mouths back, "No." I instantly turn to watch him walk down the airport corridor to see if he breaks out in a run. He is slowly walking further and further away until I can hardly see him.
My heart races, the pit of my stomach drops, and the hair on the back of my neck stands up.
This can't be good.
I look back at her. I give her a "what the fuck" look and she gives me a worried "what the hell did I just agree to" look back. I look at the airline crew at the check-in desk and contemplate telling them that some strange man just left his briefcase unattended with a woman to whom he doesn't know.
I am torn. Should I get involved? What happens if I don't? What happens if I do? I sit and continue to argue with myself trying to assess the situation.
I look back over to the woman. She begins to make another phone call. I can read her lips. She's talking to someone about what is going on. I can only assume it's in case she just happens to blow up. While she is talking, her eyes dart between me, and the area to where she last saw the man.
She is just as nervous as I am and we are both sort of waiting for the briefcase to explode. Yep. That would be my luck. I can't win the fucking lottery, but damn, I can pick the ONE airline that a wacko would choose to blow up.
I'm scanning three areas. The airline crew at the check-in desk, the woman with the briefcase, and the area where I last saw the man. I anxiously await his return. Seconds feel like hours.
I do this pattern over and over, contemplate if I should tell someone.
Call me crazy, but my gut says no. Lord knows the last thing I want to do is delay my flight.
A long agonizing fifteen minutes go by and I am still contemplating telling the crew. I tell myself two more minutes. If he's not back in two minutes, then. Then I'll cause total havoc on Gate 6.
The man returns just in time. The woman with the briefcase is pretty freaked out at this point, but trying to keep her cool. She is texting and making calls nervously. He saunters back and doesn't even stop to say thank you to the woman. He just walks up next to his briefcase, bends down, and in one swoop, takes the bag and keeps on walking.
Christ.
People these days. I wanted to walk up to him poke him in the chest and say, "Hey buddy, what the hell was that?!" "Do you not hear the annoyingly redundant recording about leaving your bags unattended or with strangers??" "You should be damn grateful that I didn't say something to security and had your stupid ass hauled off to be questioned by the authorities!!"
It's amazing how brave my inner being can be sometimes.
But instead I stew in my own juices. I am actually very relieved that he was just a stupid, arrogant, asshole.
I sit in my chair and think; This is gonna be a hell of a day. I can feel it.
We board the plane. It's actually a great flight. I get my own TV, watch hours of Law and Order and forget about where I am.
It's almost like being at home.
Until....
We begin to land. Or should I say begin landing attempt number 1.
Oh yes.
It was smooth flying up until the time we had to land. I'm guessing the pilot was absent during the "How to Land 101" lesson in flight school, because he SUCKED at it.
He did it so badly that if he hadn't pulled up, we probably would have been on the six o'clock news in Ft. Myers.
It went like this;
We are in preparation for landing. Tray tables and chairs are in the upright positions.
Seat belts were on. We were descending onto the runway. I'm preparing myself to feel the pull back from the wheels hitting the ground. As we were coming in, the plane was a bit "wobbly." By wobbly I mean the plane was rocking left to right a bit more than what it usually does. This has me a little nervous, but I've experienced something like this before.
We touch the ground, and for a split second I am relieved. However, instead of being pulled forward from the landing, I am being pulled back suddenly with force due to the plane taking off again!
What the FUCK!?!?
I turned to the man in the next seat over and shot him a look. I must have looked panicked because he said calmly to me, "It's going to be alright."
The plane shoots up, does such a sharp bank, I am able to see the area where I was certain would be my final resting place. I'm waiting for the plane to flip. My hands grip the arm rests.
Yeah, like that's gonna save me.
I always wanted to plant myself permanently in Florida someday. Just not like this.
I am alternating between looking out the window and closing my eyes. After a few arguments with myself, I decide to shut the window shade and not see my impending death.
It's eerily quiet on the plane.
After what seemed like an eternity, the plane levels out and comes around again. Descending once more, the plane is not rocking as severe as the first time. I hear the wheels being put into place and the wings adjusting.
Let's try it again Ace.
The plane successfully lands and like an actor giving a poor performance; there is weak and staggered applause for the pilot. I get the feeling however, that most would have rather punched him in the mouth.
I can hear sighs of relief being expressed within my area of the plane.
Once we are able to stand and gather our belongings there is some angry mutterings and nervous laughter. Mostly just silence. I glance around the plane and wonder what is going through everyone's head. I look at the family who were seated in front of me. They hold a seven month old on their lap, and still obtained the lovely shade of pure panic white on their faces. I mention to them sarcastically what a brilliant landing it was and the man replies, "That was not supposed to happen." "He was in trouble and HAD to go back up." He continued with, "This has happened to me three times in my life, and all were dangerous landings."
I knew this was going to be a hell of a day.
To sum up my vacation so far, I've encountered a creepy man taking pictures of me, a man who thought that leaving his briefcase with a stranger was OK, and a male pilot who didn't know how to land properly.
Interesting common denominator here. But I digress.
I get off the plane to meet my best friend. She is dressed nicely and laughing at me. She has already heard about the ridiculous landing and finds it funny.
I however, think otherwise and I'm still shaking.
She asks me if I want a coffee. I stop walking, shoot her a look and say are you fucking kidding me?!? Did you SEE that landing?!? then reply with, "Hell NO!" I need alcohol!"
She laughs as if I was kidding.
As we walk out of the airport and into the warm Florida air, my mind is still reeling from the morning events. Trying to make sense of it all, I can't help thinking;
I should of had the ice cream.
Oh yes.
It started off like just any other morning, being dropped off at the airport, checking my bags, and going through security.
As usual, I was on time.
I was excited for my mini vacation to begin. I haven't had one in 3 years. Still trying to switch into 'vacation mode', I splurge for a Starbucks Apple Chai Tea only to find that they were out of apple juice.
What? How could Starbucks be out of apple juice? They are the almighty Starbucks.
The end all be all of coffee shops.
Sigh.
So it begins. The pattern for a memorable beginning to my vacation.
So instead, I splurge for a tall CAFFEINATED English Breakfast Tea. Since I don't drink caffeine, this was quite the party for me.
Whoopee.
I find my gate and plop myself down, arranging my belongings and settling in. I was claiming my territory, so to speak.
I begin to chat away between my Yahoo instant messenger and Facebook sites. I'm about thirty minutes into the fun and banter when I notice couple eating ice cream at roughly 10 am.
Ew.
I decide to comment about it on Facebook. Pizza is much more appropriate for morning vacation food.
But that's just me.
I enjoy the witty comments back and fourth about the ice cream eating couple, when I notice a flash in the corner of my eye.
I look up.
I notice a man looking straight at me from across the way; he ever so nonchalantly slides his camera under his jacket and continues to look at me.
I give him a look. A long, intimidating look. A look that says, I know you took a picture of me, and you know that I know you took a picture of me and I'm NOT happy.
Sicko.
So far, I don't have the tea I wanted and some whack job is snapping photos of me like I'm frigging J-Lo.
A banner day for me so far and it's not even 7 a.m.
A few minutes later, out of the corner of my eye, I notice across the room a man with a briefcase who walks over to an attractive blonde woman who was talking on the phone and waiting to board her flight to Martha's Vineyard. He leans over, drops his briefcase next to her seat, and whispers something in her ear. She looks at him quizzically, slowly nods, then he walks away.
Hmmm...interesting, I think to myself. So I decide to eavesdrop on the situation.
Because I can be nosey like that.
Nobody else noticed what I just witnessed. As I watch the man walk away I catch her eyes. She has a slightly concerned look as if she is regretting having agreed to what he asked of her. I mouth the words - "Do you know him?" She slowly shakes her head and mouths back, "No." I instantly turn to watch him walk down the airport corridor to see if he breaks out in a run. He is slowly walking further and further away until I can hardly see him.
My heart races, the pit of my stomach drops, and the hair on the back of my neck stands up.
This can't be good.
I look back at her. I give her a "what the fuck" look and she gives me a worried "what the hell did I just agree to" look back. I look at the airline crew at the check-in desk and contemplate telling them that some strange man just left his briefcase unattended with a woman to whom he doesn't know.
I am torn. Should I get involved? What happens if I don't? What happens if I do? I sit and continue to argue with myself trying to assess the situation.
I look back over to the woman. She begins to make another phone call. I can read her lips. She's talking to someone about what is going on. I can only assume it's in case she just happens to blow up. While she is talking, her eyes dart between me, and the area to where she last saw the man.
She is just as nervous as I am and we are both sort of waiting for the briefcase to explode. Yep. That would be my luck. I can't win the fucking lottery, but damn, I can pick the ONE airline that a wacko would choose to blow up.
I'm scanning three areas. The airline crew at the check-in desk, the woman with the briefcase, and the area where I last saw the man. I anxiously await his return. Seconds feel like hours.
I do this pattern over and over, contemplate if I should tell someone.
Call me crazy, but my gut says no. Lord knows the last thing I want to do is delay my flight.
A long agonizing fifteen minutes go by and I am still contemplating telling the crew. I tell myself two more minutes. If he's not back in two minutes, then. Then I'll cause total havoc on Gate 6.
The man returns just in time. The woman with the briefcase is pretty freaked out at this point, but trying to keep her cool. She is texting and making calls nervously. He saunters back and doesn't even stop to say thank you to the woman. He just walks up next to his briefcase, bends down, and in one swoop, takes the bag and keeps on walking.
Christ.
People these days. I wanted to walk up to him poke him in the chest and say, "Hey buddy, what the hell was that?!" "Do you not hear the annoyingly redundant recording about leaving your bags unattended or with strangers??" "You should be damn grateful that I didn't say something to security and had your stupid ass hauled off to be questioned by the authorities!!"
It's amazing how brave my inner being can be sometimes.
But instead I stew in my own juices. I am actually very relieved that he was just a stupid, arrogant, asshole.
I sit in my chair and think; This is gonna be a hell of a day. I can feel it.
We board the plane. It's actually a great flight. I get my own TV, watch hours of Law and Order and forget about where I am.
It's almost like being at home.
Until....
We begin to land. Or should I say begin landing attempt number 1.
Oh yes.
It was smooth flying up until the time we had to land. I'm guessing the pilot was absent during the "How to Land 101" lesson in flight school, because he SUCKED at it.
He did it so badly that if he hadn't pulled up, we probably would have been on the six o'clock news in Ft. Myers.
It went like this;
We are in preparation for landing. Tray tables and chairs are in the upright positions.
Seat belts were on. We were descending onto the runway. I'm preparing myself to feel the pull back from the wheels hitting the ground. As we were coming in, the plane was a bit "wobbly." By wobbly I mean the plane was rocking left to right a bit more than what it usually does. This has me a little nervous, but I've experienced something like this before.
We touch the ground, and for a split second I am relieved. However, instead of being pulled forward from the landing, I am being pulled back suddenly with force due to the plane taking off again!
What the FUCK!?!?
I turned to the man in the next seat over and shot him a look. I must have looked panicked because he said calmly to me, "It's going to be alright."
The plane shoots up, does such a sharp bank, I am able to see the area where I was certain would be my final resting place. I'm waiting for the plane to flip. My hands grip the arm rests.
Yeah, like that's gonna save me.
I always wanted to plant myself permanently in Florida someday. Just not like this.
I am alternating between looking out the window and closing my eyes. After a few arguments with myself, I decide to shut the window shade and not see my impending death.
It's eerily quiet on the plane.
After what seemed like an eternity, the plane levels out and comes around again. Descending once more, the plane is not rocking as severe as the first time. I hear the wheels being put into place and the wings adjusting.
Let's try it again Ace.
The plane successfully lands and like an actor giving a poor performance; there is weak and staggered applause for the pilot. I get the feeling however, that most would have rather punched him in the mouth.
I can hear sighs of relief being expressed within my area of the plane.
Once we are able to stand and gather our belongings there is some angry mutterings and nervous laughter. Mostly just silence. I glance around the plane and wonder what is going through everyone's head. I look at the family who were seated in front of me. They hold a seven month old on their lap, and still obtained the lovely shade of pure panic white on their faces. I mention to them sarcastically what a brilliant landing it was and the man replies, "That was not supposed to happen." "He was in trouble and HAD to go back up." He continued with, "This has happened to me three times in my life, and all were dangerous landings."
I knew this was going to be a hell of a day.
To sum up my vacation so far, I've encountered a creepy man taking pictures of me, a man who thought that leaving his briefcase with a stranger was OK, and a male pilot who didn't know how to land properly.
Interesting common denominator here. But I digress.
I get off the plane to meet my best friend. She is dressed nicely and laughing at me. She has already heard about the ridiculous landing and finds it funny.
I however, think otherwise and I'm still shaking.
She asks me if I want a coffee. I stop walking, shoot her a look and say are you fucking kidding me?!? Did you SEE that landing?!? then reply with, "Hell NO!" I need alcohol!"
She laughs as if I was kidding.
As we walk out of the airport and into the warm Florida air, my mind is still reeling from the morning events. Trying to make sense of it all, I can't help thinking;
I should of had the ice cream.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Cynicism meets Susan Boyle
I've just listened to Susan Boyle on YouTube and I have to say, I am utterly ashamed of myself.
Let me explain.
I log on to my Yahoo and there is a picture of her and a snippet of news about her surprise performance on "Britain's Got Talent" show. Now, I'm not one to check out the hottest gossip or the most popular searches on YouTube, so I had no idea of what I was in store for. However, what sparked me to click on this article I have to say, was her level of beauty.
Or, lack thereof.
I wanted to see what all the commotion was about. I was curious to see why America was making such a big deal over this rather unattractive middle-aged woman. I assumed that since it was a talent show, that she must have bombed miserably and the media was turning her into a national laughing stock.
William Hung comes to mind.
I am ashamed to say that my voyeuristic tendencies got the best of me.
I click on the link and what I get is a pre-recorded song of "Cry me a River" from ten years ago. That didn't satisfy me. I wanted to see the actual clip of what the hub-bub was all about.
So I type in "Susan Boyle" on YouTube and up pops this link : http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RxPZh4AnWyk
I watch.
I hope you do too. It will change your perspective. It will bring you to tears. Hopefully it will make you ashamed of yourself as well.
She comes out, looking kinda dorky, a bit clumsy, but at the same time; confidant. Strong.
The audience laughs. She is undisturbed by the laughter. I can tell she believes in herself.
She gives her name and her age. Does a silly little dance. The audience laughs and rolls their eyes. Simon Cowell, turns to the other judges and makes a bit of a gagging face.
She says that she wants to be like a famous singer of whom I'm not familiar with. The judges and audience snicker. I snicker.
She is still undeterred. Calm even.
She then tells the judges what she will be singing. Everyone including me is waiting for her to fail.
How cynical.
What happens next is what I feel is a miracle. A higher power slapping us all in the face with the old saying "Don't EVER judge a book by its cover."
They cue the music. It's a beautiful song from Les Miserables.
She begins.
My jaw drops.
It is the most beautiful voice that I have ever heard. And certainly never in a million years would have expected it.
Nobody does.
She hits every note effortlessly. Perfect pitch, even tempo.
Flawless.
I am blown away. I begin to well up, amazed at what I am seeing and hearing.
The expressions on everyones faces are just like mine. Incredibly shocked and in total disbelief.
There is a influx in my emotions. I am ashamed of myself and proud of her at the same time.
I can't remember when I've had an experience that has given me such an emotional reaction.
Then I find myself being proud of her as if she is someone I am friends with. I am screaming inside, "GOOD FOR YOU! YOU SHOW THEM!" "How dare they judge you!"
But then I think, I am one of those who judged and scoffed as the audience did when she walked on stage. I am ashamed of myself for judging her on her looks alone. I thought I was above that.
She showed me. She showed the entire world, damn it.
I can't hold back the tears. She is magnificent. I watch as the video shows the faces of the judges, the audience. Every single one of them in complete awe and on their feet.
She continues to sing, unaffected by everyones reaction. It's like she doesn't see anyone. she is enthralled with her own performance.
She is whole. Satisfied. At home.
She finishes, thanks them and immediately starts to walk off stage as if they were going to kick her off anyway.
She is modest. She thanks the judges and is even shocked by their comments on her performance.
Amazing.
With one act of just going out and trying, with no sense of insecurity or self-doubt, going after what she wants with total disregard to what anyone has to say about her.
How lucky is she? Very.
She is lucky because she went after what she wanted regardless her age, looks, body shape, or style. She disregards anyone who snickers or gags at her or her dream. She stands strong in her beliefs.
How many of us have the strength to do that? Not many. We are cynical. We tell ourselves we are too old, or too fat or thin, too ugly, or not intelligent enough. We listen to the nay-sayers and the people who snicker at us. We believe them. We cower in fear. Believing that they are right, and we are wrong, we stop trying to persue our dreams for surely they must know better, right?
Wrong.
Susan Boyle defied all of that. She stood before us tall and strong and proved all of us wrong.
It's amazing how much of an impact one person can make on a nation. Good or Bad.
This time, it's good.
Real good.
Let me explain.
I log on to my Yahoo and there is a picture of her and a snippet of news about her surprise performance on "Britain's Got Talent" show. Now, I'm not one to check out the hottest gossip or the most popular searches on YouTube, so I had no idea of what I was in store for. However, what sparked me to click on this article I have to say, was her level of beauty.
Or, lack thereof.
I wanted to see what all the commotion was about. I was curious to see why America was making such a big deal over this rather unattractive middle-aged woman. I assumed that since it was a talent show, that she must have bombed miserably and the media was turning her into a national laughing stock.
William Hung comes to mind.
I am ashamed to say that my voyeuristic tendencies got the best of me.
I click on the link and what I get is a pre-recorded song of "Cry me a River" from ten years ago. That didn't satisfy me. I wanted to see the actual clip of what the hub-bub was all about.
So I type in "Susan Boyle" on YouTube and up pops this link : http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RxPZh4AnWyk
I watch.
I hope you do too. It will change your perspective. It will bring you to tears. Hopefully it will make you ashamed of yourself as well.
She comes out, looking kinda dorky, a bit clumsy, but at the same time; confidant. Strong.
The audience laughs. She is undisturbed by the laughter. I can tell she believes in herself.
She gives her name and her age. Does a silly little dance. The audience laughs and rolls their eyes. Simon Cowell, turns to the other judges and makes a bit of a gagging face.
She says that she wants to be like a famous singer of whom I'm not familiar with. The judges and audience snicker. I snicker.
She is still undeterred. Calm even.
She then tells the judges what she will be singing. Everyone including me is waiting for her to fail.
How cynical.
What happens next is what I feel is a miracle. A higher power slapping us all in the face with the old saying "Don't EVER judge a book by its cover."
They cue the music. It's a beautiful song from Les Miserables.
She begins.
My jaw drops.
It is the most beautiful voice that I have ever heard. And certainly never in a million years would have expected it.
Nobody does.
She hits every note effortlessly. Perfect pitch, even tempo.
Flawless.
I am blown away. I begin to well up, amazed at what I am seeing and hearing.
The expressions on everyones faces are just like mine. Incredibly shocked and in total disbelief.
There is a influx in my emotions. I am ashamed of myself and proud of her at the same time.
I can't remember when I've had an experience that has given me such an emotional reaction.
Then I find myself being proud of her as if she is someone I am friends with. I am screaming inside, "GOOD FOR YOU! YOU SHOW THEM!" "How dare they judge you!"
But then I think, I am one of those who judged and scoffed as the audience did when she walked on stage. I am ashamed of myself for judging her on her looks alone. I thought I was above that.
She showed me. She showed the entire world, damn it.
I can't hold back the tears. She is magnificent. I watch as the video shows the faces of the judges, the audience. Every single one of them in complete awe and on their feet.
She continues to sing, unaffected by everyones reaction. It's like she doesn't see anyone. she is enthralled with her own performance.
She is whole. Satisfied. At home.
She finishes, thanks them and immediately starts to walk off stage as if they were going to kick her off anyway.
She is modest. She thanks the judges and is even shocked by their comments on her performance.
Amazing.
With one act of just going out and trying, with no sense of insecurity or self-doubt, going after what she wants with total disregard to what anyone has to say about her.
How lucky is she? Very.
She is lucky because she went after what she wanted regardless her age, looks, body shape, or style. She disregards anyone who snickers or gags at her or her dream. She stands strong in her beliefs.
How many of us have the strength to do that? Not many. We are cynical. We tell ourselves we are too old, or too fat or thin, too ugly, or not intelligent enough. We listen to the nay-sayers and the people who snicker at us. We believe them. We cower in fear. Believing that they are right, and we are wrong, we stop trying to persue our dreams for surely they must know better, right?
Wrong.
Susan Boyle defied all of that. She stood before us tall and strong and proved all of us wrong.
It's amazing how much of an impact one person can make on a nation. Good or Bad.
This time, it's good.
Real good.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Age sets in...
Okay. I give up. I'm forty-two and it's starting to show. Not from the outside perhaps, but certainly from the inside. I know this because I recently became injured by simply trying to complete a normal bodily function.
Around 2 PM, I notice that I'm acquiring a rather sharp pain in my...um, well, to put it bluntly; ass. By 5 PM I'm quarantined to the couch in the fetal position as the pain becomes more intense. As 9 PM approached, there is no position that is comfortable enough for me, and tears are starting to run down my cheeks.
At midnight, I'm now writhing in pain and turning from one side of my bed to the other, and crying uncontrollably. I call my mother and ask her in between wails and pants to hit the nearest twenty-four hour Walgreens for some of that "H" cream. Like all good mothers, she says, “Of course!” asking me where the nearest one is.
Around 2 PM, I notice that I'm acquiring a rather sharp pain in my...um, well, to put it bluntly; ass. By 5 PM I'm quarantined to the couch in the fetal position as the pain becomes more intense. As 9 PM approached, there is no position that is comfortable enough for me, and tears are starting to run down my cheeks.
At midnight, I'm now writhing in pain and turning from one side of my bed to the other, and crying uncontrollably. I call my mother and ask her in between wails and pants to hit the nearest twenty-four hour Walgreens for some of that "H" cream. Like all good mothers, she says, “Of course!” asking me where the nearest one is.
"On Route 1 southbound", I say through my gritted teeth.
“Well, how do I get there?” She says as if she lives in another town.
“Well, how do I get there?” She says as if she lives in another town.
I snap at her with a very whiny, “You want me to give you directions!? I hardly know my own name right now".
Now, before you raise an eyebrow on how unappreciative I am being, think about it. I am sorry. How can I be more accommodating when the feeling of a hot, searing pirates’ sword is being shoved up my ass?
She arrives with the cream; I hobble up the stairs and ask her to wait a minute since I have a feeling that no "H" cream is going to solve my little 'problem'. It actually ends up making my pain worse. Now in addition to the searing pirates’ sword, I have a burning, itching feeling.
Oh, lucky, lucky me.
We head to the hospital, I donned in my most fashionable pajama's, a winter jacket and Birkenstock clogs. I am lucky I have shoes at all. Making a fashion statement is not a priority at this point.
I hobble into the ER and find no one. It's dead and empty. “Where the HELL is everyone?!” I say under my breath. The only person I see is a man in scrubs in the distance mopping the floor. "Where are all the nurses?" I ask in a frustrated tone.
The man shrugs his shoulders and shakes his head, then continues to mop the floor.
Yeah, thanks a lot, buddy.
By this point, mom notices the sign next to the phone and points to it. It reads - "During the hours of 11PM-7AM please dial 3300 for assistance".
She arrives with the cream; I hobble up the stairs and ask her to wait a minute since I have a feeling that no "H" cream is going to solve my little 'problem'. It actually ends up making my pain worse. Now in addition to the searing pirates’ sword, I have a burning, itching feeling.
Oh, lucky, lucky me.
We head to the hospital, I donned in my most fashionable pajama's, a winter jacket and Birkenstock clogs. I am lucky I have shoes at all. Making a fashion statement is not a priority at this point.
I hobble into the ER and find no one. It's dead and empty. “Where the HELL is everyone?!” I say under my breath. The only person I see is a man in scrubs in the distance mopping the floor. "Where are all the nurses?" I ask in a frustrated tone.
The man shrugs his shoulders and shakes his head, then continues to mop the floor.
Yeah, thanks a lot, buddy.
By this point, mom notices the sign next to the phone and points to it. It reads - "During the hours of 11PM-7AM please dial 3300 for assistance".
What the fuck?! What ER does that? My mother picks up the phone and in a very motherly tone says, “Ah, Yes, Can SOMEONE PLEASE come out here and assist my daughter, she thinks she has hemorrhoids!”
Even with the extreme pain that has me bent over and in uncontrollable tears, I am still mortified. “MOM! Jesus! A little louder, I don't think the third floor heard you.” “Well,” she snaps, “What do you want me to do?!”
Christ. Shoot me, now.
After being led into an exam room, I wail for thirty-five minutes before a woman shows up and gives me a cheery “Hello!" as if no one heard me screaming in pain through the sheer hospital curtain. I am on my side, in the fetal position gripping the bed rail with my ass hanging out of my opened-back hospital gown.
Even with the extreme pain that has me bent over and in uncontrollable tears, I am still mortified. “MOM! Jesus! A little louder, I don't think the third floor heard you.” “Well,” she snaps, “What do you want me to do?!”
Christ. Shoot me, now.
After being led into an exam room, I wail for thirty-five minutes before a woman shows up and gives me a cheery “Hello!" as if no one heard me screaming in pain through the sheer hospital curtain. I am on my side, in the fetal position gripping the bed rail with my ass hanging out of my opened-back hospital gown.
Without introducing herself, she goes over to my area of ‘concern’ to take a look. I turn and say, "Um, are you the nurse or the doctor?" She stops smiles, and says, “I'm the PA. The Physicians Assistant." and starts to begin to examine me. She never tells me her name. But writhing as I was, “PA” was good enough for me. Knock yourself out, honey.
She lays a single touch on me and I'm about to show her my right hook. She steps back, chuckles a bit and says, “Do you want a pain med?”
She lays a single touch on me and I'm about to show her my right hook. She steps back, chuckles a bit and says, “Do you want a pain med?”
I think to myself, Are you fucking kidding me!? Nah, let's do the examination Au natural just for shits and giggles. But instead, I let out a wailing “YEEEAASSSS!”
Again, she seems to think that this is all very funny then says in a condescending Donna Reed tone, “Well, I think THAT was a yes! I'll be right back with the shot.”
Twenty minutes later still in pain, my mother is starting to huff and puff in her seat about why it's taking so long for them to bring the shot. Five minutes after that she is looking out of the curtain mumbling to herself.
Twenty minutes later still in pain, my mother is starting to huff and puff in her seat about why it's taking so long for them to bring the shot. Five minutes after that she is looking out of the curtain mumbling to herself.
“It shouldn't take THIS long to get a shot”. I get the feeling that she's about to break out in a Shirley McLaine scene from the movie Terms of Endearment. You know the one, Debra Winger is in the bed all writhing and dying, and Shirley McLaine is screaming to the nurses, “Give my daughter the SHOT!”
Me, not wanting to bring any more attention to us than I already have, I say, “Please Ma, don't do anything, she'll be here.”
Me, not wanting to bring any more attention to us than I already have, I say, “Please Ma, don't do anything, she'll be here.”
My mother shifts in her seat and retorts with disgust, “Well, I just think this is RIDICULOUS! It shouldn't take this long!”
A few minutes later a male nurse comes in, who was kind of cute until he smiles, revealing teeth that just look all confused about where their correct placement in the mouth should be. He gives me the shot and says “It's going to burn a bit.”
So, now my ass and my arm are burning, but it is a small price to pay for comfort. It takes a while for the med to take effect, but when it does, Wow, am I loopy. They may have stuck a fist up there and I wouldn't have cared in the least. For the record, I am not into any kind of kinky anal action- there is a reason for this disclosure.
The male nurse comes back and asks me how I'm doing. I turn my head to look at him and I must have given him a pretty whacked-out look because he starts to giggle and then makes a statement that makes even me under my drug induced haze stop and say, “Huh?"
He leans on the bed rails, gives me a quirky smile and says; “Now, you know, if your mother wasn't here, I would be asking you some pretty sensitive questions about what you were doing back there.”
I think to myself, Oh no He dit-n't!! Oh, Yes. Yes, he did.
He implies -in front of my mother no less- that I must be having some sort of freaky, sick anal sex before my arrival in the ER.
If I had my wits about me I would have given him a piece of my mind about professionalism in the workplace and personally UN-confused his teeth.
But, instead, this is what comes out. “Umm... I'm NOT that kind of girl.”
With that, he giggles, picks up a "Tell us how we are doing?" questionnaire, turns to me and says, “Don't forget to fill one of these out before you leave!”
I’m totally flabbergasted. Between the P.A. with whom I still have no idea what her name is and the S&M male nurse, I'm thinking the shot of Demerol is the safest bet so far.
A few minutes later a male nurse comes in, who was kind of cute until he smiles, revealing teeth that just look all confused about where their correct placement in the mouth should be. He gives me the shot and says “It's going to burn a bit.”
So, now my ass and my arm are burning, but it is a small price to pay for comfort. It takes a while for the med to take effect, but when it does, Wow, am I loopy. They may have stuck a fist up there and I wouldn't have cared in the least. For the record, I am not into any kind of kinky anal action- there is a reason for this disclosure.
The male nurse comes back and asks me how I'm doing. I turn my head to look at him and I must have given him a pretty whacked-out look because he starts to giggle and then makes a statement that makes even me under my drug induced haze stop and say, “Huh?"
He leans on the bed rails, gives me a quirky smile and says; “Now, you know, if your mother wasn't here, I would be asking you some pretty sensitive questions about what you were doing back there.”
I think to myself, Oh no He dit-n't!! Oh, Yes. Yes, he did.
He implies -in front of my mother no less- that I must be having some sort of freaky, sick anal sex before my arrival in the ER.
If I had my wits about me I would have given him a piece of my mind about professionalism in the workplace and personally UN-confused his teeth.
But, instead, this is what comes out. “Umm... I'm NOT that kind of girl.”
With that, he giggles, picks up a "Tell us how we are doing?" questionnaire, turns to me and says, “Don't forget to fill one of these out before you leave!”
I’m totally flabbergasted. Between the P.A. with whom I still have no idea what her name is and the S&M male nurse, I'm thinking the shot of Demerol is the safest bet so far.
Notice I say "so far." Wait, it gets better.
I am now supposedly ready for the exam. The PA gets into position and proceeds to tell me to "relax". Yeah, right.
I am now supposedly ready for the exam. The PA gets into position and proceeds to tell me to "relax". Yeah, right.
I try; however, I'm almost positive that the entire hospital hears me scream. I'm not proud. She gives me some Nitroglycerin cream after the exam so it will be completely numb. Numbing cream after an examination? Again, What the fuck?? Suddenly I'm not feeling so confident about the medical professionals in this hospital.
She straightens up and she tells me that it is not Hemorrhoids. I say, “It's not? Well, what is it then?” She pauses for a split second to contemplate making something up or just telling me the truth. She decides the latter and tells me she doesn't know. Then follows up that brilliant statement with, "Let me go look it up".
What? C'mon. Are you serious?! What friggan online Physicians’ Assistant degree do you have? What are you going to do? Google the phrase "ASS ON FIRE" and see what pops up?! These are the thoughts that run through my foggy, drug-induced mind. I look at my mother. She rolls her eyes.
This is my luck. I get Ms. Junior PA for a doctor, a masochistic nurse, and now the Demerol is making me nauseous. Beautiful.
Nurse S & M comes cheerfully back into my room and I ask for some water. My tongue is sticking to the roof of my mouth and I tell him I feel nauseous.
He leaves and immediately comes back with a 'quick dissolving' tablet that is supposed to calm my stomach. It’s funny how quickly people move when you imply that you are going to vomit.
He says, “Here, take this.”
She straightens up and she tells me that it is not Hemorrhoids. I say, “It's not? Well, what is it then?” She pauses for a split second to contemplate making something up or just telling me the truth. She decides the latter and tells me she doesn't know. Then follows up that brilliant statement with, "Let me go look it up".
What? C'mon. Are you serious?! What friggan online Physicians’ Assistant degree do you have? What are you going to do? Google the phrase "ASS ON FIRE" and see what pops up?! These are the thoughts that run through my foggy, drug-induced mind. I look at my mother. She rolls her eyes.
This is my luck. I get Ms. Junior PA for a doctor, a masochistic nurse, and now the Demerol is making me nauseous. Beautiful.
Nurse S & M comes cheerfully back into my room and I ask for some water. My tongue is sticking to the roof of my mouth and I tell him I feel nauseous.
He leaves and immediately comes back with a 'quick dissolving' tablet that is supposed to calm my stomach. It’s funny how quickly people move when you imply that you are going to vomit.
He says, “Here, take this.”
I said, “I need water.”
He says, “It will dissolve in your mouth”.
I said, “But my mouth is dry.”
He returns with, “But you're nauseous.”
I retort with. “But I NEED water.”
We lock eyes and pull a power stare down.
Don't fuck with me, boy. It's 3 AM and I've had just about enough.
We lock eyes and pull a power stare down.
Don't fuck with me, boy. It's 3 AM and I've had just about enough.
His hand is still holding the little chalky pill out to me, while smiling- his crooked teeth are mocking me.
I take the tablet. It sticks to the back of my throat. It doesn't dissolve. It does exactly what I am afraid of. I tell him it's stuck and I need water. Why doesn't anyone listen to me?
He comes back with about one tablespoon of water, sweetly smiles and says, “This is all you're getting.”
Masochistic indeed.
Like a person who's been in the desert for months, I take the water and guzzle it down. Now I can taste the horrendous fruit flavored chalky pill sticking to the back of my throat. I made a face, because Nurse S&M says, “You like that? Fruity, isn't it?”
Damn him and his confused teeth.
So now I'm waiting for Junior PA to come back with her internet discovery. I'm nauseous, have a screaming migraine from the nitroglycerin cream they put on me, and my ass still hurts.
A swift twenty minutes later she comes back saying that the doctor on duty who has not seen me, says that what I may have is called a spastic colon.
"A what?" I say.
I take the tablet. It sticks to the back of my throat. It doesn't dissolve. It does exactly what I am afraid of. I tell him it's stuck and I need water. Why doesn't anyone listen to me?
He comes back with about one tablespoon of water, sweetly smiles and says, “This is all you're getting.”
Masochistic indeed.
Like a person who's been in the desert for months, I take the water and guzzle it down. Now I can taste the horrendous fruit flavored chalky pill sticking to the back of my throat. I made a face, because Nurse S&M says, “You like that? Fruity, isn't it?”
Damn him and his confused teeth.
So now I'm waiting for Junior PA to come back with her internet discovery. I'm nauseous, have a screaming migraine from the nitroglycerin cream they put on me, and my ass still hurts.
A swift twenty minutes later she comes back saying that the doctor on duty who has not seen me, says that what I may have is called a spastic colon.
"A what?" I say.
“A spastic colon.” she says.
“How do you know that?” I asked. I'm sure she must have Googled it. She then began to explain how she came up with the diagnosis.
"I spoke to the doctor and described to him what it felt like when I did the examination, and he said immediately, "Oh, that's a spastic colon," said Jr. PA.
“What do you mean?” I said.
“Well, she says, “When I had my finger in there, it was – well, please excuse me being graphic - like a Chinese Finger toy. You know, how it grabs on to your finger and you can't get it out?”
Jr. PA now begins to demonstrate by wrapping one finger in the other hand and pulling.
You're kidding me, right?, A Chinese Finger Toy!? Are you fucking kidding me?, I think to myself. The only way she knew how to explain my medical diagnosis was by referencing an ethnic toy?! Am I being Punk'd? C'mon out Ashton because this shit just does not happen in such an upstanding hospital that I thought I was in.
What do you say to that? Do you respond with questions that reference other ethnic toys that don’t grab your finger like a Chinese finger toy for what your asshole should really feel like?? For example, I could say, “So Doc, you're saying that my ass should feel more like one of those American Water Snake toys? You know; the ones that you try to hold on to but they just slip through your fingers. Like one of those?”
After some discussion about if she is sure she is right, and maybe it is something else, she gives me instructions, any prescriptions that she has written, and before leaving, she closes with the generic, “You will need to follow up with your GP since this is not my area.”
REALLY!? Thanks for clarifying. I would have never guessed.
Nurse S&M hands me my discharge papers and I say to him, “Will she be back?” he gives me a weak smile and says “No.”
With that, I slowly get dressed. But before I go, I use a little plastic pink basin and vomit a chalky paste that stuck to the back of my throat which leaves me with one thought -if only I had more water.
You're kidding me, right?, A Chinese Finger Toy!? Are you fucking kidding me?, I think to myself. The only way she knew how to explain my medical diagnosis was by referencing an ethnic toy?! Am I being Punk'd? C'mon out Ashton because this shit just does not happen in such an upstanding hospital that I thought I was in.
What do you say to that? Do you respond with questions that reference other ethnic toys that don’t grab your finger like a Chinese finger toy for what your asshole should really feel like?? For example, I could say, “So Doc, you're saying that my ass should feel more like one of those American Water Snake toys? You know; the ones that you try to hold on to but they just slip through your fingers. Like one of those?”
After some discussion about if she is sure she is right, and maybe it is something else, she gives me instructions, any prescriptions that she has written, and before leaving, she closes with the generic, “You will need to follow up with your GP since this is not my area.”
REALLY!? Thanks for clarifying. I would have never guessed.
Nurse S&M hands me my discharge papers and I say to him, “Will she be back?” he gives me a weak smile and says “No.”
With that, I slowly get dressed. But before I go, I use a little plastic pink basin and vomit a chalky paste that stuck to the back of my throat which leaves me with one thought -if only I had more water.
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