Mar

That time I crowd surfed

Back in the 90’s there was a phenomenon of dancing called “Moshing”. This is where you get with a group of people who would randomly bump into each other for no other reason than releasing pent up aggression and hormones. This was predominantly done in the teenage and young adult circuits.

One day at the beginning of senior year my friend had just announced that there would be a group performing at her church across the street. We were all excited and loved live music. There couldn’t have been a more fitting beginning to last year of high school. The night of the concert, we assembled with many local teenagers in the church parking lot to hear some grunge music. Well; Christian grunge music.

When I told my boyfriend at the time about the concert, he agreed he was going as well with his group of friends. In conversation with him leading up to the concert he had joked that I could go in the “baby” mosh pit which “is next to the actual, much larger mosh pit.” He made the comment away from me, chuckling with his friends. Unbeknownst to him this irritated me to my very core. There is nothing more I don’t like than being told I can’t do something.

When I arrived at the concert with my friends, it was hot, the sun was about to set and we were waiting for the band to come out on the stage. We began to cheer when four young men clad in orange shirts with the word “Juda” on them appeared. By the time they were in their second song, a small crowd of moshers began stomping, ramming into each other with their shoulders.

I had just been told I couldn’t do something because I’m a girl and I wanted in.

I didn’t blink when I fled from my boyfriend’s side. I ran into the sweaty cesspool of teenagers and began ramming myself against strangers. It was a strange freeing experience feeling like a pinball being struck against others who were going through their own angsty rebellion. In that brief moment running from being a spectator in my life I became a mover and shaker. We did what we did because we could. Nobody could stop us and it was incredible.

The crowd then started to give way from moshing to surfing people through the crowd on a sea of teenaged phalanges. It was very much like the scenes you see in movies where hippies, metal heads, or hair band fans are frenetically dancing and begin passing people over their heads while the person being surfed has an epiphany. In the movies the scene plays out over some poignant music of that decade in an arena or an open farm field like Woodstock. This scene played out in four to ten parking spaces.

When I looked to my left, the people launching others into the crowd were my boyfriend’s friends. He was standing in front of me to the left of them, just watching me. Not looking at him, I sensed his disapproval at what I was about to accomplish. I smiled at his friends as they put their hands down and we gave each other the signal. I ran full force, stepping into their grasp in my beloved brown Doc Martens as they launched me into the air.

I flew. In that moment I had no fear and was full of trust. I landed on a bed of fingers, with nails of metallic blue, gently rolling me through the crowd as I screamed all the air out of my lungs.

Photo courtesy of Mindy C.

The crowd gently set me back down on the ground as the music began to pick up. When I was placed on the ground, I hadn’t quite found my footing yet. The rush from being carried by a crowd full of adrenaline quickly stopped when two moshers accidentally knocked me to the ground. When I tried to get up their buttocks hit my head on the left and right side knocking me down again. I crouched in a Spider-man stance getting a whiff of something rancid. One of the gluteus maximuses had passed gas. I got up again only to be struck repeatedly by the pair of posteriors. I was able to perfunctorily wiggle my way out of the permeated labyrinth of derrieres when one of the owners of said derrieres lended a hand pulling me up. A few moments later a church official called out saying there would be no more crowd surfing.

They should have been more specific. We still moshed.

What is something you were discouraged from doing but did anyway? What did/do you do as an act of rebellion?

Mar

Oatmeal vs. Pizza

My husband has recently, in the last few months, been getting back into his faith. He is Catholic and therefore can not eat meat on Fridays. This is the catalyst of what lead to the the minor skirmish known as “Oatmeal vs. Pizza”.

photo credit craveonline

It all started when we realized we both worked Valentine’s day. We decided to delay our Valentine’s date until the Friday we were both off of work. We had always wanted to go to this revamped bowling alley nearby. We heard the rumors of virtual reality video games and food there being top notch.

Then we checked the prices.

Twenty bucks for one game of bowling. We were stuck.

We didn’t know what to do for our date until the next day I went to work and my boss asked me what we had planned to do for Valentine’s day and she jokingly said, “Work?” When she discovered what we had originally wanted to do, she gave us tickets to two free games of bowling. I couldn’t believe it, it was kismet.

Everything was set in motion, we would wake up, go bowling, play some video games, eat some great food and let off some steam while acting like a bunch of oversized children.

On the 16th, we arrived at our destination, tickets in my wallet ready to play. We walk in the door to be greeted by a huge abstract sculpture of a bowler. Immediately on the right was the virtual reality we heard so much about, to the left was the restaurant. We didn’t realize, this wasn’t just traditional bowling alley food. This was a definite upgrade and worthy of a Valentine’s date.

We sat down, and admittedly our eyes were bigger than our bellies. The menu had options for someone like me, who is gluten free but misses the gluttony of being able to consume a whole pizza. They had items for him who needed to be meat free on Fridays.

We both ordered pizza, mine gluten free with my usual black olive, pineapple and chicken. His; a large veggie pizza. His pizza was glorious, it had every vegetable imaginable on it from artichoke, to peppers. Mine was presented on a flat pizza pan. His was presented on a metal stand, much like a trophy worthy of the winner of the Triple Crown, gleaming in the dimly lit restaurant, light reflecting off the greasy cheese.

As I was finishing the last few bites of my pizza, I looked up to realize he had only eaten half of it before he was full. This is abnormal for him. I started to not feel well, throat sore and beginning to ache all over my body. Suddenly I didn’t feel up to playing a round of bowling. I looked up badly wanting to join the baby-boomers listening to oldies and celebrating strikes in the alleys. We somehow managed to make it to the gaming area. There I knew I could sit and rest while he had fun playing some of the more physically intense games. We had fun but my body was tired. I was tired. It was time to go home.

His pizza was in the fridge for a couple of days. I was at home sick. It just sat there, tempting me to eat it, but I knew better. The gluten would send my already dizzy head from the cold into a further downward spiral. Avoiding it, I had to look for other options.

Oatmeal and soup.

Because oatmeal is relatively inexpensive I sometimes use it as a treat or eat it when I’m hungry before bed because it doesn’t weigh so heavy on my stomach. Needless to say I consumed a lot of the oatmeal as it was soothing my throat and warming me up while I was running a fever and having chills.

My husband came home from his job hungry. He heated up some slices of his illustrious bread dripping with marinara and veggie goodness. I was sitting on the bed watching some unimportant show on my tablet. Suddenly I couldn’t take my eyes off the pizza. He sat down and when both of his hands were occupied trying to settle in to eat I snagged a piece of artichoke.

It was delicious.

My eyes were on the screen of the tablet again, with me keeping visuals on the location of his pizza in my peripherals. When both of his hands were occupied once more, one holding the plate, the other feeding himself, I stole a black olive slice. He then uttered the words I will never forget.

“HEY! I don’t go dipping my fingers into your oatmeal when you’re eating!”

Yes, because oatmeal is the equivalent to a piece of Italian-American artistry conceived out of convenience and genius.

Yes, because you can walk into any restaurant and they will have entire menus written on their hipster chalkboards about how their oatmeal has components that were free range and raised in a good home.

Yes, because there are hordes of restaurants dedicated to the many various ways you can prepare oatmeal inventively and consistently make new and traditional dishes from it.

Yes, because oatmeal is America’s sweetheart.

NOT pizza.

What is something you and your significant other have had a disagreement or funny moment over?

Dec

An Open Letter to Ronda Rousey

Dear Ronda,

First and foremost, I want to say I’m a huge fan. You have singlehandedly put women on the sports map for MMA. However, from recent articles it seems you are in need of a pep talk from a female friend. Let me be that friend.

There was an article published online where you told your mother your new mantra was “FTA”. (For frequent readers of this blog who might be under 18, we will just say that stands for “Forget Them All”). I agree with your mom. You don’t need to use this mantra.

Look, I know you are dealing with a lot on your shoulders with your upcoming fight against, “what’s-her-face”. You are angry from your loss in November of 2015. You are angry because people tried to put you down or tried to steal your shine. Let me put things in perspective for you for what it’s worth.

Nobody will really know the name of the person you fought 15 years from now. Heck, I don’t even remember her name now and would have to google it. Look at what happened after that loss; you fulfilled one of my long time dreams of being on Saturday Night Live. Note who they asked…YOU. Not the other gal. You.

You performed a skit in which you stood against bullies. You know what it is like to be bullied, and I don’t see anyone else performing that skit better than you. That skit was so funny, I showed it to the kids I help teach.

After your loss you admitted to depression and facing a lot of dark areas. You opened up a lot of minds with that statement. You could have kept it secret, but instead you let it out there into a world where there is still a stigma attached to it. You helped others to see it is okay to be dealing with stuff in a dark way, which is completely normal even though society tells us it isn’t.

You say your new mantra is for your nieces, family and fans who haven’t given up on you. Ronda, I haven’t given up on you. I will say this though; if you hadn’t had the backlash from “haters”, would you have had the anger to fuel you for this next bout? By saying, “FTA” to te opposition, you are only proving them right. You are proving hate is a way of life. You are feeding into what the other teams want; which is you getting angry enough that you sabotage yourself. They are betting on the false hope that your anger will open up any weaknesses they can exploit. Don’t let them do this.

In a strange way, anger can get you through some tough times (trust me, I’ve had some). Be thankful for the anger, but don’t let that anger dull anything that makes you happy. Don’t let the anger get in the way of your passion for the sport. Ultimately this is why you are still in. Not just any woman would voluntarily train as hard as you do to get a few licks to the face. You obviously are putting yourself at risk because there is something you love about the sport.

Prove the others wrong. You aren’t fueled just by anger. You are also fueled by love. Love for the sport, love for your family, love for your friends and your loyal fans. Never give up, never give in.

Merry Christmas and Sincerely yours,

Quirky Girl

7 years ago Short URL 2 Comments

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Sep

The Naked Eye

In Mark Twain’s time they must have not had women comparable to the Kardashians.

Bear in mind, I am all for women feeling comfortable in their own skin. I’ve not felt comfortable in mine since I was a teenager. Most women can wear yoga pants to the gym without feeling self conscious, I on the other hand wear them with shorts over them. Sure people might giggle, but I’m at the gym to work out, not to catch someone’s eye.

It is this uncomfortableness with my own body that has led me to this post. That and the issue of regard for self-respect.

At my second of three jobs, I generally work the photo equipment. Invariably there is always a vacation pic of someone pretending to pick someone’s rear at a distance, people who are too tall to climb tiny sculptures, babies, babies, babies and naked pictures.

Unfortunately, if something is an Internet order, we can’t always catch the pictures to censor them. They slip by, with the purchaser hoping it goes unnoticed. Here’s my thing, if you have to submit it over the internet because you can’t put it on the large screen in the store, then maybe you shouldn’t print it at all. Our printers are out in the open where anyone can see them; two key groups, children and perverts.

Recently last week a woman apparently went to a professional studio to have naked pictures done of herself. In terms of nudity, the pictures didn’t make sense. She was waist deep in a creek, wearing a blue jean shirt which she purposely pulled behind her so you could see her chest. A fully made up older woman, with perfect make up and hair, waist deep in a creek. The last time I was in a creek or around any body of water I face planted and had snail shells stuck in my crack; definitely not sensual.

Last night was a doozie. We had printed off a booklet of boudoir pictures. No big deal. We usually print these off at Valentine’s for women sending them to their boyfriends who are in the service. Usually the women are covered sensibly. Last night, the woman was covered, but then by the time the 4th page printed out, it looked like maybe her butt was starving and ate her underwear.

I couldn’t take it. I immediately posted my frustrations on Facebook saying, “Please, no more…”

Then as if to taunt me the machine then printed out two 8×10 pics of a woman who looked like a real estate agent in a company van flipping off the viewer. I was definitely not happy.

In the past someone has been sneaky and printed pictures of him and his girlfriend doing inappropriate things, men have told me I can take off the inappropriate pictures on their order if I want (when they are trying to save all of the pictures on their phone), and women printing off pics and using the big screen then saying, “Oops” and looking at me.

By all means I am not a prude, I have drawn many naked people. There is a huge difference between art and pornography. If you go to my Etsy page you will see tons of naked drawings, but none of them are nefarious.

If you are going to take pictures for your significant other, send it to them via text or e-mail, then quickly erase it from your phone so you don’t have to worry about anyone seeing it who shouldn’t. If anything think of the photo booth ladies, spare our eyes.

What is something you have had to do in the name of public service that bothered you?

8 years ago Short URL 1 Comment

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Aug

Stop the toots

Have you ever heard the expression, “Not to toot my own horn…”? For whatever reason the other night I was thinking about this and how much it doesn’t really seem to make sense. How did this start? Whose horn? Why are they tooting? Why is this positive?

I woke up from a deep slumber pondering this question. The only thing that came to mind was a bunch of chambermaids in medieval times having a good laugh impersonating a boastful, flatulant queen.

Why is the horn used to draw reference to oneself for a good deed or job well done? What makes it more annoying is if the person is a trumpet player because they can toot their own horn twice. This brings no satisfaction for the person whose ears were just singed with the sounds of a humble brag. If the person was not a member of the brass section then there would be some relief they couldn’t complete the often used expression. The brass instrument sections almost always get too much satisfaction because they can make this true even if there isn’t anything worth telling everyone about.

So I did a little digging. Where did this start? According to the US Herald this is how it all began:

United States about 1776 (a “declaration of self-independence”?) in the “Warren-Adams Letters” as “I think modesty is highly overrated as a virtue — my motto is ‘Toot your own horn lest the same never

The truth is, if you have to toot your horn, chances are you can’t even play a reveille. You’re drawing attention to yourself to make it look like you’re doing something. Instead of tooting that you’re awesome, just be awesome instead. Save your breath and your toots. Get to doing and stop tooting.

Photo credit queenofyourownlife.com

If you’re going to toot, aim it in the other direction. Nobody likes a braggart.

When someone has tooted their horn around you, what happened?

8 years ago Short URL 2 Comments

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Aug

Worst Fear: Things my cat ate

Everyone has their worst fears. I have several. If you went through our pantry you might find a lack of carb related foods. This is because my cat ate them all. Before we talk about how she likes to carb load before a healthy run around the house after a successful bowel movement (who wouldn’t?) let’s talk about some enviable attributes.

First off, she has guts. This isn’t referencing her literal tater tot filled innards. She takes and asks forgiveness later. Often times I’m too careful and have a tendency to wait and see if things pan out. My cat’s approach is something like this, “Life is short, learn how to open Tupperware” or “Spare their meat and steal the bun.”

As a kitten I swore she was part raccoon, she was always attracted to shiny things and I would wake up to find my jewelry I was too lazy to put up the night before, hidden. She was a literal cat burglar. Since then, she has grown up some, and has progressed from shiny things to Bobby pins. She would rush to find them (even if they were out of sight) and point at them like an Irish Setter who has found a hunter’s duck.

The weirdest thing though, is her love of carbs. Almost everyone has seen the viral video of cat’s afraid of cucumbers. She has no fear of cucumbers. She will however, chase a potato. After realizing one had fallen out of the bag in the pantry we heard a noise and suddenly we see her wrestling the spud, kicking it with her hind legs and biting it. We experimented and rolled one down the hallway, she barreled after it, attacked it and sat on it as if she were in a match for the ages.

She is a master manipulator. Several times, she has crawled into mine or my husband’s lap only to feign affection to peep her head between our hands and take bites of our cereal…or take the bread from our sandwiches. She waits until we aren’t looking before she hops up on the counter to eat our left over tater tots. She’s usually very quiet, and often times she takes more than she can fit and takes off running licking her chops.

Here is why I’m jealous. She already knows she will be forgiven, so she takes the momentary “shooing” for a moment of palatable starchy goodness. She is spontaneous. I like to make plans weeks in advance. She sees opportunities and takes them. She sees an opportunity for a piggy back ride and she takes it. It doesn’t matter if you’re naked and fresh out of the shower, sitting on the toilet or at the computer. Sometimes I feel like I’ve missed opportunities and I wish I had the eyes to see them. She does not lack in this area. If it isn’t apparent from the drawing, she lives a full life, literally and metaphorically.

What is your worst fear involving your pet? Do you envy them?

Aug

Snapchat Hypocrite

A few months ago you may recall a piece I wrote titled, “Obligatory Selfie” where I poked fun at people taking selfies as a part of an everyday mundane practice that has currently become socially acceptable.

I recant this piece. Although I compare the obligatory selfie to yoga pants being accepted as full fledged pants, I have seen the worthiness of an appropriately timed selfie.

Steven Tyler eat your heart out!

Sure, at first I was smug. Why would a 36-ish something like myself want to have a phone full of pictures of myself? Who would want them?

Then came an evening spent with my in-laws and niece. When my sister-in-law and husband stepped outside for a moment, my niece came back into the room with a blanket, we snuggled up together on a bench and she showed me this “new” thing called “Snapchat”. She snapped a picture and showed me how you can transform yourself into a dog. Once finding out she and my other nieces were using this app, I immediately signed up to stay in touch with them.

On the way home I was researching how to work snapchat, how to use filters and how in general to “Snapchat”. Do I take 5 seconds in public by myself to pucker my lips and pose for the camera? No. However I do wait till’ I’m on lunch break at work or at home and snap a few selfies to catch up with my nieces, cousins, sister-in-laws and friends. Only once has anyone been in the break room with me when this was going on, but he was completely aware of what was happening. I didn’t leave my behaviors an unknown mystery to him like our customers have done in the past.

There is no joy greater than being able to send the ugliest selfie possible to those you love to receive one equally as horrible back. In fact, there was a fun competition my niece and I had one night. If you are ever down or feeling blue, this is the best thing ever. Try to make the goofiest face possible and just hit send. It is the greatest feeling not caring what you look like because the worse, the better.

Here is an example of one I sent, it’s like Steve Martin meets Frankenstein’s monster.

Or the selfie aptly titled, “I woke up like this…”

However, you want your family and friends to remember you in a good light. Not to get too dark but one of my worst fears is something bad will happen and they will have to submit a photo to the news for a story. Ensuring it won’t be driver’s license photo, or worse an outdated glamour shot you occasionally have to send them one of you as a butterfly queen. This way the recipients remember you are a real person and won’t be shocked (or disappointed) you don’t have 3 mouths in your face the next time they see you.

What is your favorite “Snapchat” lens or filter? Why do you gravitate toward that one?

Jun

I toad you so…

The other day my husband and I were off from work when my dad came into the room and asked, “Okay, so who can get rid of a snake and a toad?”

My husband and I looked at eachother and we leapt into action. While we were putting our shoes on I asked dad what his deal was with the toad. Ever since I was a kid he made it very clear he didn’t like snakes. The toad phobia however, was new to me. I questioned him about it.

“Oh, it’s that old wives tale that toads give you warts.”

“You know that isn’t true dad, right?”

“Yeah, I know but I still can’t help it.”

The snake was in the garage, the toad was on the front door thus trapping my father inside keeping him from doing gardening.

My husband and I went into the garage to extricate the snake. Secretly while all of this was going on I was fulfilling a life long dream of becoming Ace Ventura. Armed with a bucket, a stick to gently scoot it out of the way, gloves and tenacity we were able to coax it out. Then it would get scared and go back in the garage.

While our circus was going on my mom came out to get back to gardening. We kept telling her to stay back (we knew we had irritated the snake) when she calmly said, “I know,” unfazed by the snake trying to figure out what she needed.

My dad was staying his distance behind us.

My husband’s patience wore out with the snake so he finally picked it up, it promptly bit him on the glove and he released it into the driveway. He created some new dance moves while trying to keep the snake from going back.

Mission completed. Next we had to get the toad. Since he handled the snake, I figured I could get the toad.

The toad had wedged itself in the crevice between the door and the frame. It looked bored. So I spiced up it’s life by talking to it and gently trying to scoop it into my hands. It used to be so easy when I was 7, but in my older years, animals tend to be less receptive to me. Then again maybe that’s my perception giving way to the magic of childhood. The toad was stubborn. Like the snake, it too, had enough.

The toad performed a body slam to my nose, landing in the middle of my face with its crotch dangling by my mouth. A guttural shout came from the bowels of the defiant part of myself that thinks it’s the animal whisperer.

I flung my face down and to the left where the toad splattered itself by the nearest flower pot. Though it was unharmed it still made a satisfying sound for a creature that had the audacity to attack me with it’s nether region.

Meanwhile my parents were working on the garden, laughing, while my husband gave a sympathetic look and said, “Go wash your face.”

Now I know the real reason dad didn’t want to catch the toad.

Has anything like this happened to you? What did you do?

Jun

Worst fear: Mold ingestion

At night when I get home from my second job around 11:00 pm, usually I’m too tired to do anything but put left overs from lunch in the fridge. This includes beverages. Apparently I was so tired I didn’t realize what my hands grabbed in the dark from my car’s cupholder.

In a few days when rushing to work I grabbed the tea I had previously put in the fridge. On my way to work I barely took a few sips. Once clocked in I started chugging to hydrate and caffeinate. Instead when I chugged something weird slid down my throat. Meanwhile I was trying to listen to my boss and co-worker when suddenly the texture was too much. Luckily he thought I was laughing at his joke and thought it was funny enough that I almost did what’s known in the comedy world as a spit-take.

While he continued what he was saying I did everything I could to be polite, hang on until I could get a paper towel. When he finished, I bolted to the front register as we had just run out of some at mine.

My new co-worker at the front thought I ran up to barf in her trash can so I wouldn’t have to clean it up. When I wiped away the weird earthy texture from my mouth she was relieved all I needed were her paper towels.

Once I got back to my department, since no one was around, I took a better look at the contents of the bottle. You could barely see it, but it was concealed in the dark depths of the black tea. When I promptly threw away the bottle (don’t ever do that, always recycle if you can) a little bit of the mold had splashed up into the clear plastic.

“I’m never buying this tea again,” I thought.

I’m not sure if I found a cure for something by accidentally ingesting the tea. Considering good things come out of mold; like…penicillin and…cheese, I’m not too worried at the moment.

What is something you accidentally ate one time? Do you still purchase or make this food to be consumed or do you avoid it altogether?

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May

Coffee flashbacks

I woke up late the other morning. It was one of the first days off this summer from all three jobs in a long time.

My husband had long since gone to work and left the morning’s coffee grounds in the basket residing in the coffee-maker. A normal person would replace the grounds, but my stomach and nerves no longer tolerate strong java. I filled the coffee-maker’s reservoir with fresh water and moved the steam spigot over the grounds hoping the coffee would be a bit more diluted.

As I was moving the spigot, a case of deja vú washed over me. This simple act felt happily familiar.

Images of my childhood, waking up on Christmas morning to a new Monkees record with their picture pressed in clear vinyl made a smile appear on my face. It made me think of the first 45 that was officially mine aptly titled “The Curly Shuffle”, written in honor of The Three Stooges. It reminded me of getting excited on birthdays because new music was usually waiting for me between the grooves of the compressed lines concealed in a 12 inch by 12 inch cardboard sleeve. It reminded me of when the best songs were gifts.

It reminded me of when things were meant to be experienced. It reminded me of when music was like an art exhibit, you had to stay in the same room to be immersed in it. It reminded me of being able to take it easy, lie on the floor and get lost in the rythm and crescendos of the music. Now that music has become immensely portable, we seem to take it for granted.

Once the flashbacks stopped, I began to get ready for the day, thankful for that little “movement” making me remember a different time when I didn’t need to be powered by caffeine.

When have you done a movement or motion that reminded you of something completely different than what you were doing?