Saturday, March 24, 2012

it's bridesmaid time again

My lovely friend Alicia, whose moustache romance I chronicled in this post, is getting married in May. This means I am honored by once again donning my bridesmaid hat [Tangent: This is only time number 4. I am by no means auditioning for 27 Dresses 2: Electric Boogaloo. I love a theme party and weddings are just about the greatest theme party there is, so it is in no way a chore....its like rolling VIP with people I love.] The bride- to-be is taking a relaxed approach to her nuptuals and as a nice twist, we bridesmaids get to wear whatever the hell we want...with the stipulation that it is blue and not too fancy. This seemed easy enough, right? But why was it so stressful. I had never considered how nerve wracking it would be to have choose my own ensemble that would be chronicled in someone's family album for decades.

Given that time was running out before her ceremony in May, I took to the internet. Because I have zero boobage and am built like an Olsen twin [Tangent: Not even a svelte Olsen twin an Olsen twin during their straight to VHS detective series.], I usually have more luck finding dresses in the Juniors department. Unfortunately, I don't share the kind of trend chasing aesthetic that most 17 year olds strive for. [Tangent: Can you blame me? I'm pushing I would say that is understandable to feel like I can't pull off certain looks. And trust I rock a lot of them. Jeggings are my best friend.] 

It also seems that the "looks" for Spring 2012 are "early 90's prostitute" or "C&C Music Factory backup dancer" which made it very hard to find something that would be appropriate at a religious rite.

As the days of search have gone by, I have been sending Alicia pictures of some of the looks in my size available that would fit her stipulation of "blue and not too fancy."

Unfortunately, the theme for the wedding is not Kelly I had all but given up. On a whim, however, I googled "juniors dresses" and fell upon a site called the 1015 store, where everything was either $10 or $15. As can be assumed with things at this price point, most of the dresses were blatant clubwear/"feelin' on ya booty" kinds of frocks [Tangent: Usually featuring one, but not limited to one of the following: faux leather, fringe, faux fur, laces, cut outs or the ever rare pink zebra print.]. However, one rose from the spadex ashes, striking me as totally perfect, so I ordered it fully anticipating a dirty dishrag held together with used dental floss to arrive on my doorstep, wreaking of meth lab. [Tangent: My apologies, but if you had been on the dress quest I had, you would feel similarly dejected. The $15 price tag had me both excited and nervous]

Happily, the dress arrived at my address last weekend. I tentatively opened it and was actually really cute.  Potentially extremely flammable, but you can't have anything. [Tangent: Anyway, maybe I could have my own Katniss Everdeen fire dress moment.] And unlike most bridesmaid dresses, I'll wear this again.

Thursday, March 22, 2012

zombie! zombie! zombie-eeee-eeeee!

photo courtesy of my friend Binkley. That's me as a zombie. I am not really a zombie.

I hate being left out...its probably the worst feeling ever for me. This probably stems from always having to be the score keeper during gym class or something, but I wont get all Karl Jung on you readers. Because of this, I try to stay in the loop of what people are talking about. Lately it seems all my friends have been caught up in Walking Dead hysteria. So many cryptic facebook statuses and internet memes that I don't understand- its infuriating. I finally put my foot down and decided I wanted in on the jokes. Like what is "pulling a shane?" I needed to know. TO NETFLIX!

yes...there is a whole tumblr of walking dead memes:

Thankfully season 1 was only 6 episodes so I have been able to knock it out fairly quickly. Also, as you know I am a lover of dystopian end of the world stuff and have a very high gross out tolerance, so this just seemed like my perfect cup of zombie tea. [Tangent: I am not sure why I have been so hesitant...I feel like part of me doesn't want to get too wrapped up in the zombie fad. I mean first zombies...what mythical superhuman being is gonna be foisted upon us next. Fingers crossed its the unicorn.] So far I am really enjoying the series and it is only reinforcing my belief that I would make the worst zombie Apocalypse survivor ever ever. [Tangent: This is not to be confused with being the "worst zombie ever", which is something that I have reflected on before.]. After being almost done with Season 1, I can go ahead and confirm: If the US is being overtaken my the undead, go ahead and throw me out for bait because I will be worthless to your cause. 

1. I need electricity-
I don't even go to Bonnaroo because I feel I cannot go three days without an outlet with with to plug my wheelchair charger or my breathing treatment an infinite number of days squatting in a forrest to keep away from "the walkies" is out of the question. 

2. I can't run
This should not be newsworthy, but I feel there is a lot of running involved in keeping the human race human. Unless you are prepared to yoda pack me to outrun the seemingly slow shufflin' fellows with the massive oozing wounds, then just count me out. 

3. I don't do guns
They freak me out. Yeah...2nd amendment...yadda yadda. If you want guns, go for it, just keep them away from me. I hate them [Tangent: Maybe I was Abe Lincoln in a past life. That would also explain my love of equality and beards.] Between the loud noise and the recoil from a shot, they just seem like a bad idea for me. I would surely seize up and cry. 

I realize the surest way to kill the walking dead is a shot to the noggin, but I would be much more effective with some sort of other weapon. If couldn't be an ax or a rake, because those are kind of cumbersome for someone of my below average arm strength. What about a ninja throwing star or one of those deadly mortal kombat fans the chick had in the second game? If those were readily available, I would consider trying to fight for the cause.

Wednesday, March 21, 2012

"pullover! no, it's a cardigan...but thanks for asking."

 Sure, I drive an autobot who is fancy and pretty and raises and lowers and operates like an Arcade game, but lately my sassy minivan has been causing me much strife. Because I have been too busy cursing her high maintainence tendencies under my breath, I semi-forgot how lucky I am to have her in my life. [Tangent: My sweet car is getting older (she's 4) and is needing the kinds of tweaks that come with age, which would be fine if she was your everyday automotive- but she's not.  Because she is worth more than my life and cannot be driven by anyone but me, 99% of mechanics are scared shitless to change her oil or her battery or do any small semingly minute repairs to her. The things that should be easy are made expoentially harder, so I just ignore them and hope they will go away. Such is life. C'est La Vie.]

Sunday, not coincidentally the day after St. Patty's, was not one of those days. Driving to spend a sunny afternoon with my honey, I got a blaring blue reminder of exactly how lucky I am. I was driving through downtown Brentwood [Tangent: Where I am usually my most dilligent when it comes to my adherance to my Tennessee Driver's Handbook given the lack of actual crime in the area and the over abundant law force.] when caught in the median by a yellow light turning red, so I proceeded through the light because it was kinda too late to stop.

I however completely missed the cop car camoflaging itself behind a Ford Taurus when I was making this hasty decision to bend the law [Tangent: I WILL NOT say break because I was just choosing the lesser of two evils.].  He turned around and followed me. I tried to pretend that he just sporadically decided that he wanted something at the Shell station, but I knew the sirens tolled for me. I also told myself, " are not getting your first ticket today." [Tangent: I like to pretend that if you say it that it will be true. Kinda like The Secret, but slightly less delusional. ]

I pulled into the Harris Teeter parking lot and awkwardly parked. Sunglasses perched on my head and happiest face ever plastered across my mug, "Hi officer! How are you today?" He was clearly caught off guard by my optimism and my robot car interior, but went on to compose himself.

Captain states-the-obvious went on to tell me that that I had indeed run the red light and inform me that my tags had been expired since September [Tangent: Yeah...about that...remember when I mentioned earlier that my car is a pain in the ass to get repairs on. Well, what happened was... in September, I went to go get my emissions tested, but failed miserably because my check engine light was on. I gave up because I was broke and not a mechanical genius.] Double fail. I suck at life...or at least the regulatory driving part of life.

However, as is my life motto "Honesty is the best policy." I told the copper that very scenario and even offered to show him the failed emissions test. He fact, he didn't even ask to see my license or registration. [Tangent: If pop culture has taught me anything, that request comes standard, right? For all he knows, he could have been letting an escaped child rapist go. What a terrible thing to have on your conscious. Oh, well.] He simply requested that I get some new tags and stop running red lights. I shook his hand and agreed. I was halfway tempted to pinkie promise, but tried to act mature in the situation.

So for driving record remains sparkling clean! Thanks robot car, I am 99% sure that without you, I would not be so lucky. As my friend Courtney always says, "People are scared of the wheelchair." Well, they are apparently also scared of the robot car.

Friday, March 16, 2012

welcome to the 21st century, kimmie

I consider myself semi tech savvy. I admit admit things like "jailbreaking a droid" still baffle my noggin, but dammit, I have a blog- I at least should have mastered the interweb. WRONG! Occasionally, just when I feel like I am getting my footing, some big reminder smacks me in the face that I know absolutely nothing.

Not too long ago, one such reminder was posted on my Facebook's timeline [Tangent: Still getting used to referring to it as a timeline.]:

My bone to pick today is the dreaded web acronym [Tangent: Wackronym?] You know the ones: LOL, FTW, BRB etc. Despite seeing and hearing these phrases everywhere, I am generally too embarassed or don't care enough to I usually just make something up or draw my own conclusions. [Tangent: Although I had seen NSFW, meaning allegedly Not Safe For Work, I kinda assumed it was a hardcore band I was not familiar with MXPX of NOFX. To avoid seeming out of the loop- I generally just smile and nod.] I wish I could say this was the only one I had to look up on Urban Dictionary, it is not. I am an old old woman, so do it more often that I would like to admit. 

actual definition: Fresh to death as in "lookin' FTD in head to toe Ed Hardy" [<---blech]
kimmie definition: a florist who makes lovely and overpriced sunny sentiments bouquets

[Tangent: I sincerely wondered why so any 17 year olds were oddly obsessed with floral arranging...]

actual definition: Shaking my head (ex: "The coat I bought at Old Navy had a sucked on Dum Dum in the pocket. It was root beer. SMH.")
Kimmie definition: shut my hole? 

[Tangent: I seriously couldn't fathom what SMH stood for...I still am not sure how to use it appropriately. The example I just came up with may be way off base.]

It's not just things in the tech universe that have me all wonky. I have recently come to another shameful epiphany. These two things are not the same. 

Sure, when they are side my side...the logo for Browning [Tangent: Which is apparently an outdoor company...But how would I know that?] and the logo for the Dave Matthews Band do no look THAT similar. But in my defense, they don't look THAT dissimilar, especially when you are driving or seeing it from a distance.

 I cannot express to you how many times I saw the deer head logo before A). I realized it was indeed a deer and not some abstract Kokapelli and B.) That it had nothing to do with the "Ants Marching" singer.  [Tangent: Also, in defense of my stupidity, it's not 1999, so the number of DMB dancer logos on the backs of cars has diminished considerably.] It happened semi regularly, I would roll up behind a beat up Ford with what I now have determined is a Browning sticker [Tangent: Many times positioned above some vaguely racist stab at Obama and one of those "witty" Ford pees on Chevy stickers.] and think, "huh...that doesn't seem like a Dave Matthews fan."

I think its safe to assume that knowing all the words to "The Bartman" and being able to quote the entire seizure scene from Steel Magnolias is taking up precious brain space that should be allotted to deductive reasoning. Oh well.

Wednesday, March 14, 2012

facing my childhood trauma...with pizza

As a child, I was a bit of a puss...scared of anything and everything that had the least amount of creepiness to it. As my mom has informed me, if it was ugly and not festooned with puppies and glitter and strawberries- I didn't want to even look at it. [Tangent: That girl has grown into the woman addicted to a show on the SyFy network about special effects monster makeup. Go figure.]  The characters of Showbiz Pizza definitely fell under this umbrella of things that made me scream like I was a victim of stranger danger. I mean can you blame me...

I remember distinctly being at my brother's birthday, likely circa 1988, and burying my head in my mother's sweater for the entirety of the party to avoid watching the permagrinning anthropromorphic robot band, the Rockafire Explosion, on stage. At one point, I distinctly remember "Man in the Mirror" coming through the mouth of some wolflike puppetman, so momentarily perking up thinking maybe everything would be OK...only this is what the spotlight began shining on...

let me introduce you to Fats Geronimo...the source of many a nightmare
As soon as his eerie eyes flashed open mid chorus, I was gone. I was hysterically crying in minutes. At this time, a likely disgruntled employee in the Billy Bob costume lumbered out to make nice with the kiddies and offer hugs. He saw me crying, and clearly thought I needed a hug. BACK OFF, JUGBAND BEAR!

Billy Bob clearly has a knife to their backs.
 My mom saw my sheer terror [Tangent: And was likely incredibly embarrassed that her young daughter was such a tremendous pain in the ass.] and took me to an empty bathroom stall for the remainder of the party, a place where we could be safe from smiling woodland creatures who seemed to be suppressing a lot of murderous rage.

Fast forward about 20 years, I get an excited text from my gingerry gentleman friend telling me that the Rockafire Explosion Movie is up on Netflix. [Tangent: Like many things that traumatized me as a child, I have had come to embrace them as an adult. It's my penance for underappreciating them at their height by watching them through clenched fingers. I would never say I am obsessed, at all...but I do get a big kick out of things like this.] I don't care if you are performing a heart transplant at this very moment, I implore you to drop your scalpel and add this to your netflix queue NOW.

Sure the characters are a little rapey, and not even the animatronics [Tangent: Although I can easily picture Dook Larue hanging out in a windowless van]...I am talking about the 31 year old part time skate center DJ who has spent his life on a custom Rockafire Setup to showcase in his backyard shed  [Tangent: Yes, the guy walking in the Billy Bob suit at the beginning of the above trailer is a mere 2 years older than me. Yikes. Mountain Dew should really sue him for endorsing their brand so much in the movie as being "the only liquid i drink." He has nary a tooth in his noggin.] and the inventor of the the robo-band who looks like he would make a fantastic Star Search magician [Tangent: Even though he would likely only earn 2 and quarter stars.].

I don't want to give too much away, because I feel it is must watch may also toss you headlong into the world of Netflix impulse watching. You know the feeling. After watching a streaming video, the wiley bastard that is Netflix will say, "If you liked'll love..." [Tangent: It is especially strong if you watch a lot of their documentaries.] Minutes later you find yourself marathon watching the following titles:

Strictly Background - A movie all about film extras

Being Elmo- the story of the voice and personality behind Sesame Street's favorite red monster

For the Love of Dolly- 5 strangers explain their Dolly Parton obsession

I Think We're Alone Now - focuses on two individuals obsessed with 1980s pop star Tiffany: an "intersexual" and a 50-year-old man with Asperger's syndrome.

It's a slippery slope...and I have been down it. Night Folks...may this haunt your dreams...

Tuesday, March 13, 2012

gallbladders suck.

Disclaimer: I realize it has been a solid week since I blogged about watching the Mumfords rock and ralph the Ryman. That kind of lag in writing is inexcusable, but I would like to plead my case.

Friday afternoon was swimming along as usual, looking forward to a busy weekend and making a mental list of things to do once I was off the clock: Go to grocery and buy something to whip together so I can appear domestic for an A.R.E Potluck and grab a bottle of wine for a bridal shower. Seemed simple enough, however my seemingly healthy lunch of a Jimmy Johns turkey, avocado and cucumber hoagie was about to bite me in the ass. [Tangent: Yes, you are reading this inner fatty boombatty was actually taking a day off. Well, not entirely, because the following was my shameful facebook status minutes after cramming it in my pie hole...]

Minutes later, that old familiar feeling started [Tangent: I've been over it before.]....that churning and burning that meant I had about a ten minute window before the shit hit the fan in my abdominal cavity. I alerted my supervisor that I was cutting out and pulled into my driveway just as I started feeling as if my intestines were being twisted out through my belly button like spaghetti on a sadist's fork. [Tangent: Oh yeah, by the way...this may get graphic. I seriously felt like I may be giving birth to quintuplet narwhal babies.]
this is what I felt was happening in my stomach.
Coming in the doorway, I threw my visiting brother the other half of my Jimmy John's sandwich [Tangent: My scientific mind took over...I needed Mikey to be the control variable in this experiment of "what the hell is wrong with me?"] and heading straight to my bed to assume the most comfortable position: obviously fetal clench spooning a heating pad. After about 45 minutes of some decidedly unsexy moans and feedback from my Primary Care Physician [AKA my sister-in-law who is a Doctor in California and who is my medical consult on all things. It's very cost effective.], we concluded it sounded like a gallbladder issue so I was heading to the ER.

The emergency room in the largest hospital in a metropolitan city is apparently a hoppin' place to be on a late Friday afternoon. I  reckon if I hadn't been so busy being "that girl who is crying and rocking by herself in a public place," I may have played "ugly tattoo bingo" or "name that language being spoken" with my concerned parents/chaperones in sanity. Instead I was just focusing on how the hell I was going to be a single parent to four baby narwhals.

The pain started to die down a bit and all I wanted to do was lay down. I was minutes away from clearing the abandoned Burger King bags and half drank 20 ounce Coca-Colas off a nearby table so I could have somewhere to curl back into a ball like a hedgehog. Thankfully a kindly nurse intervened and  called me back and told me to go back to CH-2; H stood for hallway.  [Tangent: To be more specific the hallway area right by the nurse's station and staring directly across from the community bathroom so I looked like a perv whenever anyone in a hospital gown hobbled by to give a urine sample. Oh, did I mention that I was also one hallway stretcher over from a drunk who snored considerably? Twas blissful.]

I laid there all evening until about 2 AM...intermittently getting a morphine boost, an EKG, an ultrasound or a threat of a hallway pelvic exam. [Tangent: Perhaps they confused this with an I Didn't Know I was Pregnant scenario. It's not. ] They finally concluded after seeing little rocky fellas in my belly that I had symptomatic gallstones and I had a gallbladder attack, which I have probably had in smaller doses before.  In the midst of my morphine and exhaustian induced haze, I was moved  into an available room where I wouldn't have to serve as hall monitor. I had no swelling and no fever, so the pain was not my gallbladder trying to rupture, therefore they didn't have to yank it from me in dramatic Grey's Anatomy style. It was simply these little bastards trying to shove themselves through bile ducts. 

this is what they look like. Yikes. Like I have been eating out of an aquarium.

I woke up comparatively rejuvinated and felt about 3/4 of the way back to normal, so they released me after I had drank some broth from a straw. I wasn't gonna get my gallbladder out immediately...I could buy myself some time. But how could I keep the narwahl births at bay until then?  To the internwebz I went!

It looked pretty bleak. All I could see was:

Foods to eat:  
flax seed

Food not to eat:  
Fowl (turkey, chicken)
Dairy (milk, cheese, cream)
Gluten (wheat, barley, rye, spelt, kamut, etc.)
Oranges, grapefruit
Trans fats,
Hydrogenated, partially-hydrogenated oils
Fried Foods
Saturated fats
Red meats
Spicy foods
Ice cream
Black tea
Alcohol, beer, wine, liqueur
Fruit juice
Carbonated water
Tap water
Cabbage, cauliflower
Colas and all sodas
Oats (for some people)
Avoid all artificial sweeteners, sugar, preservatives, refined and bleached foods (like white flour)
My inner fatty, with the mayonaise on her computer mouse was crying a bit. However there was light at the end of the tunnel. One study show coffee drinkers are significantly less likely to suffer from gallstone attacks. [Tangent: I really didn't give a damn if it was John Hopkins University or Dunkin Donuts that commissioned the study...I was onboard.] Guess who is gonna be a bad Catholic. Bye bye Lenten promise, my Gallbladder wants some effin' coffee. [Tangent: It's a good thing I am a terrible Catholic to start with.]

Wednesday, March 7, 2012

mumford & voms

Last night's Mumford & Sons concert at the Ryman was not exactly what I expected, but will not be erased from my memory for quite some time....for better or for worse.  We trapsed in with the most assorted fans ever: frat bros and elderly people and 4-year-olds [Tangent: BTW- how pissed would you be if you didn't get a ticket to a sold out show because a toddler got it. Yeah, I know. That kid is much cooler than I ever was.] My favorite were the Mumfordians (?) who decided to dress like the band:

I couldn't even count the number of bow ties, vests, suspenders, pork pie hats and Dapper Dan hairdos that graced the pews of the Ryman last night. [Tangent: My fella, who sometimes dresses like a dandy anyway, said he consciously avoided these items when getting dressed because he didn't wanna look like "that guy." I respect him all the more for this decision.] It was unsettling. Jamie kinda thought they were hoping to understudy, like maybe if something went down...someone would tap them on the shoulder and say, "hey kid, now's your time to shine."  My theory was that maybe they were the band...and that they would scurry down out of the audience and musically take the stage, kinda like the beginning of CATS. None of these theories proved correct; besides, the band wasn't even dressed very Mumfordly. How embarrassing for those people!

The show was something I have been extremely excited about given that I was seeing a band that has seen me through some hard times in the past couple years. Sometimes I need help feeling feelings and Mumford is the key to unlocking my black heart. Plus, I would be seeing them in my home church, the Ryman....a place that always makes me 8 shades of happy and peaceful. My expectations were that some spiritual stuff was about to go down. [Tangent: I imagined it would be akin to reading 8 Chicken Soup for The Soul books minus the suicidal urges that follow reading too much of that kind of thing.]

There were some definite bright spots [Tangent: At least that I could see from behind the couple in front of us who kept making out and the "woo-hoo girls" who refused to sit down even though most in their section were seated. My wheelchair has a fancy dancy elevator feature so I could raise up and see most of the stage over their heads, but the woman next to me must have missed the entire show. Be considerate concert going folks.] They had a serious moment with their "off the mics" version of Timshel which made me cry. Yes, I was that girl who got ruined her mascara when she heard: 

And it will steal your innocence
But it will not steal your substance

On the other side of the coin, this performance made my heart happy. I was Garfunkel'd my it, you could say.

About this time, things started to detour into apeshit crazytown. Frontman, Marcus forgot his words a few times in a couple songs and abandoned Thistle and Weeds altogether after the first verse. Because he made a joke of it [Tangent: If I recall he said something like, "I bet Hank Williams never forgot the fuckin' words."] and because he's British, I tried to see this sort of thing as charming. However, the denouement of the evening happened soon after when after a coughing spell, Mr. Mumford was forced off the stage to upchuck, while the band strummed on in confusion. After a minute of this, the stage tech came to inform them that a break was needed. Lights up. Five minute break. Return of Marcus. No explanation. Audience befuddled.

Maybe they should have asked one of the Mumford wannabes in the balcony to step to the plate because I could tell that whatever occurred during that break had taken a lot outta the fella. The rest seemed a little meh and there was no encore....understandably so. [Tangent: I am only assuming they had saved some of their big numbers like Sigh No More for the encore and since that never happened, I never saw it. :( ] Get that man some Gatorade.

I hate to say this, I just don't know if they were completely ready for the enormity of this 3 night stint. It would be interesting to see them under different circumstances now that the bar has been lowered slightly and with a couple more albums under their suspenders. In the meantime, I did get a sweet tshirt to commemorate the puke that took the Ryman by storm.

Monday, March 5, 2012

dr dog...not a doctor or a dog...discuss.

Saturday night, I began what has been lamely deemed by me "Music March," because I have a bunch of shows coming up that I am quite excited about. To start it off, I spent the evening with two bearded gingers [Tangent: My #1 ginger, Jamie, and my gingerry friend/brother from another mother, Brandon] and Dr. Dog. I started listening to Dr. Dog about  a year and a half ago and have been long awaiting seeing them live. [Tangent: By the way, to clear up any early confusion- the band has nothing to do with their title. It's not like its a medical professional in a furry suit...although that would be fun to watch perform. This is also about the 5th time Furry-ism has been addressed in the last week by myself or someone I associate with.]
There was no disappointment on my end with their performance. Dr. Dog kept me completely awestruck for two hours straight hours. The set was ridiculous: a faux fireplace, random lion's heads on a coat rack,  stained glass pictures of pizzas being made and thrift store lamps that lit up rythmically with the music. This seems haphazard, but it was seemingly logical within the context of the stage show. I was promised awesome and awesome was droves. Here's a little taste....that I stole from the youtubes.

As much as the stage was captivating my attention, the shenanigans going on in the audience were equally amusing. The median age was about 25, so I felt super geriatric. This was almost as bad as the Vampire Weekend concert...leading me to believe that maybe I am too old for this shit. Either that or I need to start going to see Rick Springfield perform at the Wildhorse. [Tangent: Don't get me wrong. I love that all these young folk are listening to quality music, I just hate that not many in my age bracket were. Maybe they were there, but were sitting in the balcony so they could judge from a distance and protect their hearing.] Occasionally, I would do a double take, thinking, "why does that youngster have a beer?" and then my friend reminded me that it is quite possible to have been born after 1990 and legally be able to consume alcohol. As I picked up the shattered fragments of my exploded mind, I settled into the fact that I am old and sad, and decided I would just never be one to don what I call "Pizza Hut sunglasses."  I am OK with it. [Tangent: I am not sure if this is even true, but I think at some point in my childhood, Pizza Hut gave away plastic sunglasses with eon sides as a promotional gimmick- hence "Pizza Hut sunglasses." Now we're on the same page.]

Then, there was the guy in front of me, putting every other drunken Dr. Dog to shame. His ardent fist pumps to the beat hit 3 different people in the face while he was in my periphery. [Tangent: These actions led to a number of kerfuffles that got at least one other person kicked out...and got the helpful but firm security to intervene on a number of occasions. He was a golden subject for a people watcher such as myself.] He knew every word and may or may not have come alone, but made total use of that "dance like no one's watching" adage.  I respected his commitment to making himself a total spectacle for the sake of his art. I took nary a photo or video at the show, except for the 1.30 video I took of this gentleman's self ass grabbing and "flashdancery." Jamie kept saying he was waiting for a bucket of water to drop at any moment. I will warn you the quality is terrible. It's dark and you have to cock your head to the left at a 90 degree angle, because I am not yet so savvy at this video upload nonsense...yet.

Also, it would be interesting to note that one of the vocalists in Dr. Dog is a ginger and the drunkard shimmier in front of me was redheaded as well. It was a step away from this:

Friday, March 2, 2012

sugar high

this encapsulates how I felt yesterday!
Yesterday, betwixt the stack of Bath & Body Works coupons and random bills, I got the extremely rare piece of fun mail! When I spied the mystery package with my name on it, I scoured my memory to see if I had impulsively bought something online...its been known to happen.

Luckily, my bank account was spared. My lovely friend, Amber, had for no particular reason ordered me a ridiculous, yet amazingly thoughtful gift to satisfy my inner fat kid and lover of 90s nostalgia. [Tangent: Have I mentioned how much I love gifts for no reason...especially from sweet friends that are on the opposite side of the planet?] In the pretty blue box, possibly as exciting as one from Tiffany's, was the following:

Yeah...I know... that's a lot of sugar..and not just sweets, but straight up lickable diabeetus. [Tangent: ...that is in NO way a complaint! If anything, I was impressed and overwhelmed. I'm in no way embarassed that me and Wilford Brimley will probably have matching BFF tats in the near future.]

 As I pilfered through childhood delicacies like Ring Pops, War Heads and the ever-elusive Nerd Rope [Tangent: .... which answers the age-old question, "what would it taste like if you encrusted a gummi licorice substance with nerds?"], digging for the ginormous box of Runts to share with my fella, who for some bizarre reason likes banana ones, I became nostalgic.  The blood glucose levels skyrocketed and I was flooded with memories of going to town pouches of Fun Dip at the ballpark or the Skate Center or at the pool in the summertime, all the while probably listening to Kiss From A Rose. 

Despite having just about everything in that box, there were a couple other items that weren't in there that should have been:

I couldn't find an actual photo of the Thumb-sucker, but I loved these. So disturbing in retrospect.

Unfortunately, my palette has gotten slightly more advanced since the days of Pop Rocks and Coke experiments. After a quarter box of Runts, I started getting decided the rest of these treats would have to wait till another day....maybe by then I could acquire a dusty can of Crystal Pepsi or Josta.

In the meantime I will leave you with this awkward youtube find of a girl reenacting this scene from Empire Records in her bedroom:

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