If I had a leather jacket.

        Whether I am walking down the street or watching a movie, I always find myself comparing my boring life to the one I know that girl with the tight leather jacket is living. My mornings consist of one normal cup of coffee with too much sugar and not enough creamer. My days involve “working”, going to school, then I am off to play with my nephew at my sister’s house. I won’t say there is anything boring or normal about my nephew because he is the cutest baby I know. I also know that he will grow up to cure cancer or to become a professional baseball player or something amazing like that. He is legit awesome, no questions asked.  But as soon as the kid hits the hay, a bottle of wine is broke out and my sister and I proceed to watch Glee. Don’t judge. Okay, judge. I judge myself every time I catch myself downloading the latest covers and singing along with them. Why must I do these things to myself? If I had a leather jacket, my life would be totally different.

The cow jumped over the moon?

             Sitting in class, I became amused. My teacher said some things that left me confused. She told me a story of a lion and a mouse, then another about a gingerbread house. There was one about an elephant and a cookie too. She then threw in one about tying your shoe. I began to protest and scream real loud, “these stories aren’t true! No way! No how!” My teacher pointed her finger to a nearby chair and when I didn’t budge, she gave me “THE STARE”. I finally sat down, so she went about her way and continued these silly stories for the rest of the day. There was one about a caterpillar eating the world. There was one about moving to Australia, he was just a boy! She told a story of a fish with rainbow scales, then one of a duckling, and one about bells. She moved on to stories from Dr. Seuss and that’s when I couldn’t hold it. I had to break loose! So I raised my voice and called her a liar. I said, “These stories aren’t true, you should be fired.” She didn’t break into tears or fuss at me. She simply smiled and said, “That may be, but they come from minds creative and wise, from people who know how to live fun lives. If you close your eyes and let your mind go free then maybe you, too, can see what they see.” So…I closed my eyes and tried to let my mind go “free” but I just couldn’t do it. I cried, “What does this mean?” My teacher patted my head and said, “That’s okay, this is exactly why we must read.” Reading allows our minds to go to new worlds we could never imagine. With reading, anyone can make anything happen! 

What to do when a big girl needs help.

            Every night I lay in my bed and close my eyes to see the day ahead–But I hear the creaking, I hear the scratching, the whispers are creeping, and my mood is lacking. I want to cry and I want to yelp. What to do when a big girl needs help? I could hide under the blanket with all limbs inside. I could hold my breath, but then I might die. I rack my brain with things to do and then I decide to call for the crew! I reach for my phone to give Teddy D. a call. He’ll be right over and he’s bringing the ball. Mrs. Moo Moo’s on board to put an end to the noise; she’s in the chest with all of my other toys. Three is not enough for the plan I have made so I whistle for Jimmy, LewLew and Jade.

                We stretch out the map of my great big old house and with a red magic marker I put X’s all about. We take a breath for courage then set out on our way. With flash lights in hand we eliminate the grays as best as we can. I tried to stay close to all of my friends, but I fell behind every now and again. I stubbed my toe on every corner I took and once on a lap. It swayed and it shook. We reached the fountain where I like to make wishes, I usually wish there was no such thing as dishes—but not tonight, I’d like to keep going. This mission’s important and I have no pennies worth throwing. We pass the front door, the garage one too, and that’s when I notice we’ve lost LewLew. We all turn around but decide to keep on walking. We know LewLew is tough because she comes from Milwaukee.

                We’ve come upon the kitchen and the cabinets are open. I look at Mrs. Moo Moo, she’s got a plan for this one. No one can reach the cabinets so high. We need a ladder or stairs of some kind. With Jimmy on bottom then Jade and Teddy D, Mrs. Moo Moo’s on top when she cries out to me, “There’s nothing up here, your cabinets are not disturbed. They were simply left open by your cousin named Bird.

                So, we move right along to our next destination. We pass by the plants and my dad’s work station. When we reach the back door I turn the nob. The door doesn’t open, “We need the key,” Teddy D. says with a sob. I tell him to look at me, that he better straighten up this jigs not over and I have the key. We look out the door to find nothing buy grass, I’m growing disappointed because too much time has passed.

                With no time to waste we move it along to find our third base. We go down the hall and the noise is growing louder so we scrunch in a ball and all walk together. We see a light flashing and more scared we become. Should we go into the living room or turn and run? – But we’ve come too far to give up this mission, “we will finish this now,” is my final decision.

                So, we all straighten up and got in a line and all walked in only to find…The TV is on and the volume is up, spread out on the couch, LewLew says, “Sup?” My furry continues to grow as I haul my toys to bed, LewLew in tow. I climb under the blanket and rest my head on my pillow. With my eyes not yet closed my anger dissolves and I thank all my toys for getting involved. We all say, “Goodnight,” and turn off the lamp. –But as I’m falling asleep my dad comes in saying, “Good morning, Champ!”              

But I am a girl girl girl.

Now, my last post was a list of why I should have been born a man. I should clarify that I do not in any form or fashion wish I were I guy. The following are my top reasons why being a girl is awesome.

          1) Emotions are so much fun.

          2) I can totally pee while standing up, if done right. Though, hovering and  DNA have really given me great calf muscles/

          3) No guy could get away with an over-the-shoulder Coach satchel. NO GUY

          4) Periods suck but I don't know one single man who has gotten out of class or work because their was a party in their panties and their Pikachu was losing.

          5) Flip flops.

          6) Bikinis.

          7) Peach Margaritas.

          8) Girls rule boys drool.

She's the man.

For the past 20 years, I have been a female. This is something that I do not, in the near and far future, intend to change. However, I would like to argue why I, Beyoncé, Amanda Bynes, and most other females would make a much better man than most other males I know. Thus, I present to you the top reasons I should have been born a man:
                1) Female pant pockets are way too small to hold ANYTHING.

                        2)  Peeing while standing is so convenient (hovering hurts).

                                  3) Purses suck and make you look weak.

                                 4) Peeing while standing up looks like so much fun.

                        5) God made dirt and dirt don’t hurt…men.

                        6) Hugging is gross

                                     7) Peeing while standing up would prevent so many unplanned pregnancies. ß More for other girls.

Moo.

I’ve never been the type of person to think of urination but lately my mind has been consumed with the thought of it.  This sounds strange and gross, I know, but I have yet to get to the best part… I’ve been thinking of cow pee.

It all started this morning as I was driving to work and got stopped at a red light. While Outside Villanova played through my iPod, I looked over and saw a cow not 10 feet from my car staring at me. Because of some strange urge, I looked down and saw what was pee coming out of this cows “downstairs mix up.” I instantly looked away out of respect but my head slowly turned back towards Edward, the cow. How could he stand there so vulnerable peeing like that? How could he stare at me as he peed like that? Why was I watching Edward pee? I cannot tell you the answer to any of these questions. Thank you for reading this insanely strange and never relevant to anything in life story. Bye.

Something peculiar.

On a rather warm November afternoon, I sat outside my sister’s home and watched her neighbors go about their everyday lives. Through the windows of the home directly across the street from where I sat, I watched a woman by the name of Patti play fetch with her oversized puppy.  The teenage boy who lives to the right of my sister arrived home, went inside, and then came back out with a lit cigarette. We shared a moment as he sat on the steps of his home and I on the steps of my sister’s home.  I gazed at him and he across the street with a look of content then confusion.

Following his gaze, I found a woman about the age of 20 standing at the top of home converted into apartments. She had a punk-ish look about her as she hurriedly stomped down the stairs to the apartment’s shared mail box. She took out what seemed to be a few envelopes and a magazine then threw them to the ground in frustration. She then climbed into her white Jeep Rangler and speed away as fast as she could in mid shift. Seconds after she fled the mail throwing scene, a white Neon slowly pulled in front of the house converted apartments and proceeded to parallel park for five minutes. Normally, this would not be too strange but seeing as there were no other cars in sight it should not have been that difficult to creep to a stop. Finally, after another minute or so a woman in her mid-50’s wobbled out of the car and up to the shared mailbox where she leaned over to retrieve the previously thrown mail. Halfway through her ascent up she threw the mail back down then went inside her apartment.

I looked over for my moment-sharing-teenage –boy-friend and found that he had left.  There was no one there to share this peculiar yet totally normal incident with and all of a sudden I felt unconnected with the rest of the human population. It was almost as though I was a blade of grass waving in the wind waiting to be cut down in preparation for winter. But…I am not a blade of grass; I am a human and I have a blog. 

An open letter to Winter.

Winter,

I do not like you. You are that annoying neighborhood kid who threw pinecones at me whilst I rode my bike to the park and that I avoided at all costs. Alas, my mother and your Mother Nature were tight so we were forced to play nice. Though I shared my Easy Bake Oven, Ferbie, Tamagotchis, Floam, and all of my other toys with you, I still do not like you. We will not make snow angels together. I will not push you on a sled I do not own. I do not like you BUT I will tolerate you. I will layer myself in sweaters, cardigans, coats, scarves, gloves, boots, and earmuffs then give you a friendly wave. Take this wave and tolerate me back. Please do not push my car into a ditch. Remember that time when we were 8 and I drove you around in my battery operated red Jeep? Please do not push my friends’ cars into ditches. Remember how we invited you to sit at our lunch table when no one else did? Please do not over stay your tolerated period of time. It is your time to shine, yes, but Spring deserves to make a comeback. I welcome tolerate you in my life for the next few months so please tolerate me back.

Kelsey

Confession: I have an irrational fear of the dark.

I have never entered a darkened room and thought, “There’s no way a serial killer is hiding in here.” That’s just not something that ever crosses my mind. Instead, I walk in knowing that there is a serial killer hiding in the darkest corner of the room and I proclaim, “Wow, my back sure does hurt from all that Tiquando but I think I could go another round or seven.”

Because the dark is such a haunting place, I do not sleep at night. Well, I sleep but I do not fall asleep with all of the lights off. Whether it is the glow of the TV or the flashlight on my phone, there is always some sort of God sent light that shines on every corner of my room making sure that nobody has snuck by while I blinked…30 minutes ago.

I have done these things since I was a baby and cannot remember a time when they haven’t come in handy. The dark and public bathrooms are scary places and one should not enter without some sort of plan of escape.  I had to figure out all of my plans younger than most but that is because my sister told me a retired basketball player was hiding in little girls’ closets waiting. She never told me what these men were waiting for but after What Lies Beneath, I could only imagine. Also, Edward watched Bella sleep and now she is a vampire. I don’t want to be a vampire. Screw the dark and take up imaginary Tiquando classes.

Stay tuned for my list of Potential Serial Killer Hiding Places.

"Tamiha was here"

     Never once have I gone to use the restroom in a public facility then thought, “Oh, somebody has GOT to know about this!” This past Summer, I went camping and was forced to use the public restroom located on the camp site. Unlike my boyfriend, Mother Nature hates me and has made it impossible for me to pee standing up and have it go unnoticed. Sure it may have helped to keep the raccoons away and for a split second would have kept my legs warm but that is gross and I am a classy lady.

     Thus, each time I had to pee I had to find my flip flops, trek to the restroom, and then wait for an empty stall. It never failed that each time I ended up in the same stall and every time I closed the door I was greeted by my friend Tamiha. She had been there, apparently. Though I found it disturbing that this girl had found it necessary to mark her territory on the bathroom door at Turkey Run State Park, I couldn’t keep my mind from wondering what she had been doing. Was it in the middle of a “doo doo bomb” in which she felt compelled to share her existence with the rest of us or had she made a separate trip to the bathroom with this idea in mind?

     Either way, I felt I had been betrayed by this amateur graffiti artist. The feeling reminded me of the one I had after the last session of Lost. To put it into an acronym, “WTF?!” Like the oversized polar bears roaming around on the island of Lost, I knew Tamiha had been in that bathroom stall but by the end of my trip I still didn’t know why. 

Friday Night: One Woman Show

Friday night:

10:30, two glasses of wine, my dog is ignoring me, and Facebook is open. I would say that I don’t have a problem but this is the second night in a row that I find myself in this ever so lonely situation. Yes, I could call my boyfriend, friends, or sisters…but, I HAVE FACEBOOK! So, now I will proceed to molest its face off.

Act 1: “HOMEGIRL HAS A BABY?!”

I have found this to be a question I ask my computer screen and myself on a daily basis. Though it has become a part of my routine, I find myself appalled at the number of unwed peers I have with children. I am 19.

Act 2: “HOMEGIRL HAS TWO BABIES?!”

I have nothing more to say on this topic..

Act 3: “REACHING OUT.”

After thoroughly stalking people I never talk to, I have decided to reach out to them. I tried this once on a girl I went to high school with. I commented on her status and she quickly followed up by deleting my post. To be fair, she was trying to be inspirational in saying, "Don’t worry about people from your past - there’s a reason they didn’t make it to your future..." I guess, “Shit just got real” wasn’t the type of response she was looking for.

Act 4: “Making no sense.”

Things have become boring, so, I proceed to ask my best friend via Wall Post, “Why is ‘poop’ such a funny word?” I am still awaiting her response, but in the mean time I would like to raise another question that makes no sense to me, “What does ‘GOP’ stand for?” To be honest, I don’t really care but I feel as though I should. And also, I never found Fun Dip to be fun. It was just sticky, gross, and never had enough of the Blue Berry flavor. Hey Fun Dip, NOBODY LIKES GRAPE!

My Original Lifetime Movie.

               My life is nothing like a Lifetime movie. I don’t have a stalker, I’m not a 17 year old stripper, I’ve never made a pregnancy pact, and I most defiantly am not “A divorced mother approaching her 40^th birthday that takes a vacation to Hawaii and soon finds herself in an unexpected romance with a much younger man.” I bet you could never guess the title of that movie—Flirting With Forty—yup.

                It’s not that I hate my life, but for once I would like to have an adventure. What if I want to find my long lost imaginary friend and marry him? What if I want to lead a double life in a huge house in Canada? What if I want to form a relationship with a male prostitute and later be blackmailed because of it and lose my chances at becoming the Supreme Court judge? Okay, maybe not that last one…or any of the others for that matter.

 All I am asking for is a little adventure or at least the chance to take my average life and make into a movie. With that being said, the title of my Original Lifetime Movie would be—Young and Bored. I’m not entirely sure what the climax of the plot would be, all I know is that the ending scene would show me with a witty smirk on my face reading a self-help book titled- How To Make Friends And Keep Them. Also, during the end credits Sarah McLaughlin would whale “In the Arms of an Angel”.

If Lifetime doesn’t pick up my movie rights, I’ll shoot for HBO. In that case, I’d be able to portray myself as a nudist who uses far too many curse words. The title of that movie would be – Nakie and Don’t Care. Expect the screen play for that second one within the year.

Grown Up Problems.

                I never thought the day would come when I would refer to myself as a grownup. Then it did. Fast-forward eight years and now my mom refers to me as a grownup. More accurately she calls me, “My grown up daughter who dwells in my basement.” I mean, honestly? I’m not THAT grownup. She thinks it’s funny, I do not.

                I know that in the eye of the law I was considered an adult on my eighteenth birthday. However, whilst petting my beagle and nursing a mug of hot chocolate I couldn’t help but wonder why my mom woke up one day and thought of me as an adult. I suddenly remembered that I needed to transfer money between my MULTIPLE bank accounts to make sure that I wouldn’t overdraft when my car insurance company so nicely, automatically, retrieved my payment. I then said, out loud for all to hear, “I can’t wait to see what my car insurance will be with all my deductibles!” Grown up problems…

                Who would have thought that the little girl eating a butter sandwich on white bread with all the crust cut off would one day be allowed to use the toaster, draw her own bath water, pay bills, and eat multi-grain bread by the loaf? To quote my older sister I sign off with, “We’re adults now, and we like to eat interesting things.” 

Reality sucks when your best friend lives a thousand miles away.

               Ever since I was but a wee child, I have been terrible at making and keeping friends. This being said, I have, however, always had a best friend. It’s not my fault that 90% of them went bat shit crazy and now have multiple children and have left me and my beagle in the dust. When I was young I was able to keep friends by allowing them to cut off my curly blonde locks and gluing them to their Barbie dolls. Looking back, that plan was phenomenal, but I just don’t see anyone taking a half bald college student with five-year-old “best friends” seriously. 

                Before I hurt any feelings, I should report that I currently have a best friend, Ashley. Like most well developed relationships, Ashley and I bonded over our hatred for pleather, high school, oversized jewelry, clogs, and driving past semi-trucks. We have shared many great memories together including the time we almost, kind of, not really, ran over and potentially, hopefully not, killed a man-eating beast…or dog. To be honest, she is the best friend I have ever had and has not once judged me on my love of/addiction to TV.

                Six months ago, I packed up my Ford Focus and moved to North West Indiana. One thousand miles away from home, I have never needed my best friend more. Sure, she is only a phone call away, but I feel as though we can’t form those same awkward memories we once were so easily able to obtain. You can’t accidently squirt taco sauce on the ceiling of your best friend’s parent’s bedroom through a cell phone conversation. To be blunt, she is the shit and reality sucks when your best friend lives a thousand miles away. 

This is because we can.

Confession: I have an irrational fear of public bathrooms.

Confession: I have an irrational fear of public bathrooms. Upon entering said bathrooms, I find myself checking underneath each stall for unexpected guests of a horror story variety. I then follow up with a second check by opening each door to make sure there aren’t any sneaky murderers standing on top of the toilet seats waiting to pounce on me in my most vulnerable position.  This could happen. In fact, I’ve seen it happen.  In 1996, a young high school student named Sydney entered her schools bathroom to take care of business. Whilst washing her hands she heard a man whisper her name. Immediately, she dropped to the ground and scanned for feet in the stalls. No one was visible, so she collected herself and stood to leave. Mistake! All of a sudden a man in a mask steps off of a toilet seat and emerges from a stall. The masked man proceeds to chase Sydney with a knife. She got away, but I cannot imagine that I would be as lucky.

Okay, so the story may sound familiar to you because it is from the movie Scream. This movie came out when I was four years old, and I saw it for the first time when I was six. You may be thinking, “What kind of parent subjects their six year old child to a film filled with violence and sex?” To answer your question: mine. And I thank them for that. If I hadn’t seen Scream or witnessed Sydney getting attacked in a public bathroom I would be just like the rest of you, carelessly entering bathrooms. When and if I ever die, I want it to be an amazing story not, “Young Woman Enters Public Bathroom but Never Leaves. Vampire? Maybe.”. I’m pretty sure that’s what the headline of every major newspaper would read if I do get murdered while taking a pee break during the next Twilight movie.

Leftover Bruschetta.

When it started, I cannot say. How it started, I cannot say. All I know is, this morning I woke up and quit my job. Luckily, said job involved me taking dirty dishes off of lavishly decorated tables into a messy contaminated kitchen where they would be washed and then filled to the brim with some sort of Italian sauce and pasta. On the weekends, I was granted the privilege to step away from bussing tables and instead construct and plate hundreds of tiny salads accompanied with a variety of dressings. This means it was an easily replaceable job. As a matter of fact, two minutes after quitting I was hired elsewhere. Where? I will be my Father’s secretary at the business he owns. I cannot tell you what his job entails. No, it’s not because I would have to kill you afterwards. It’s because I have no clue what the man does. Sometimes he takes phone calls and sometimes he is “busy” (playing Farmville).  He believes that I will be learning about the family business and acquiring knowledge of the business world. I can’t say that isn’t true. I very well may learn a few things, all the while listening to Pandora in the background. Already, this job seems more satisfying and I haven’t even started yet.

The problem with bussing tables was that I was looked at and spoken to like I was the leftover Bruschetta that I would later scrape into the garbage can. I did my best to blend in and not make myself noticeable to the owners of this fancy little Italian restaurant. Obviously, I was unsuccessful. It was probably my ill ironed shirt and my unmistakably lack of enthusiasm that made them zoom in on all my mistakes. These are just some of the things that these oh-so-kind business owners taught me during my three month work period as their bitch.

1.       A towel should never be referred to as a “rag.” Doing so, apparently, makes you seem uneducated and unprivileged. Though, I will argue that I use TOWELS to dry my body after showering and a RAG to clean the countertops in my kitchen at home. Do I need to reiterate the fact that I bused tables? I was not a professional body dryer, in which case, I would use a TOWEL.

2.       Always leave the back of your shirt un-tucked. This will allow you the pleasure of having a fifty-something year old Italian woman shoving her hand down the back of your pants to “get that for you”. This was a real satisfying experience for me. I would recommend that this happen at every work place. It really gives you a new perspective to the Boss/Worker relationship.

3.       When sweeping outdoors, you want to make sure to include the flower beds. You wouldn’t want to miss out on all the fun dirt action going on there. Once, I missed doing this. Don’t worry, my boss showed me how it was done. It appeared that I liked sweeping flower beds so much I was given the chance to continue doing so off the clock. I swore to myself that I would make this my new hobby. I am sorry to say that since that magical October night I have not participated in said activity. That will change tonight. Good thing it snowed two days ago, this will be fun and rewarding on a whole new level.

4.       Never ask a customer, “Sir, are you still working on your dinner or would you like for me to box it for you?” Always say, “Sir, are you enjoying your meal...” I’m unaware what is supposed to follow this eloquent first part of the question. I will leave it to your own judgment. Go with what seems comfortable. I would, however, not end it with, “…or does it taste like shit?” That just doesn’t seem acceptable to me. Then again, I don’t own a restaurant. So, give it a whirl and see what happens.

There is plenty more that I learned during my time as a busser, I just don’t have the interest in sharing about them any longer. I have found these tidbits to be enough to please myself and feel as though they won’t matter by tomorrow. When that happens, my point will be proven. I will forget my time as a busser as bussing will forget me; I pray. All that I have left to say is directed to my ex-bosses. Taste the Italian dressing at the salad bar. Oops.