It's what you said...

In 20 years…I won’t remember what you bought me, I’ll remember what you said to me. Money isn’t everything. As a child, it may sometimes seem as though having the “perfect this” or the “exact that” is the answer to all your problems. The thinking is “I’ll be good enough when I have the latest video game/toy/entertainment system ect.” In looking back, I couldn’t tell you exactly what toys I actually got, or what purchases my mom sacrificially retrieved so I could feel cool at school. Nope. I mean I’m sure I got lots of toys and stuffed animals as a child, but the specifics are a blur. What my mother SAID to me, on the other hand, is clear as glass. See the thing is, as we grow up the things we tend to remember most about our parents are the lessons they taught us and the way they treated us, not the toys and tricks they bought us. As I write this, I am trying to remember the coolest present I ever got for my birthday from either of my parents…besides the obvious: car at 16, blah,blah,blah….nothing really jumps to mind. But ask me to tell what my parents have taught me about work ethic and humility and slightly more than a zillion thoughts come to mind. As parents, there must be an overwhelmingly strong urge to want to give your child the best of everything and anything--- and on the reverse side, a sinking feeling when your are not possibly able to do so. At this point, it is more important than ever to remember: children grow, and they outgrow things. But lessons? No, those are for life. Presents and gifts are nice, but those things are secondary, icing on the cake. The good stuff, the cream of the crop? Those can’t be found on a store shelf. They don’t have a price tag. And even if they did, it’d be ridiculously difficult to afford them.

The Locker Room

In case it's been a while since you've suffered through high school gym class, let me take you on a stroll through memory lane. Fortunately for me, my afternoon gym conquest was nothing short of a bad VH1 reality TV show. Upon completing what seemed like an endless run on the terrormill, I limped into the suana for some pore-cleansing hell. As neurotic as I am, I always bring reading material to give the impression to my fellow sweaters that I am reading, while in actuality, I am just posing so to avoid lame small talk. Rude? Maybe, but at least its subtle rudeness. Unlike the sweaty beheamoth next to me. This lady was a talkerrrrrrrrrrr. Judging by her lack of social skills, I'm guessing she's probably the cliche'd crazy cat woman, who's only sort of social contact occurs by accosting innocent strangers, just trying to get their sweat on (me). Anyways, not 5 minutes had passed before she inquired, "Whatcha readin'?" While temped to respond with "No Engles" I reluctantly held up my December "Vogue" and smiled (I mean, hell, I was reading VOGUE, and NOT the Spanish version). Only for her to reply with an eager, "Cool!!" and scootch up next to me. Did I mention we were in a SUANA. You know, the insanely small wooden hot boxes that serve as the equivalent as a human microwave. Ah, this pesky buttinsky wasn't giving up easily. I knew at this precise moment my sauna time was going to have to be cut short. This sauna wasn't big enough for the both of us. And let's face it, given my exhausted, hungry, and sweaty state of being---it is not totally unforseeable that I might do something crazy, like say...mistake her thick arm for a chicken wing and take a heaping bite. Due to her ridiculously close proximity, I wasn't sure how I could discreetly move away without blatently offending her. So I bailed. "Oh, w" I thought to myself. I washed my face and began to unload my locker so I could change into my comfy sweats for the drive home, when who appeared with her stuff (I kid you not) in the locker RIGHT beneath mine. To fully understand how improbable this is, let me inform you of the plethora of available lockers. probably close to two hundred. And Talkers-MaGee chose the locker which was directly under mine. Now I was certain. I was indeed, being "punk'd". If only....but no, no Ashton popping out from around the corner with a big smile and camera crew. Instead, the talkative sweat-er was again angling for some more "girl-talk" as she tried to compliment me on my Dooney and Bourke gym bag. I should have gone the "no engles" route. Upon thanking her and cramming my stuff into my bag as haphazardly as I could, sorta like the way I would if had just woken up in a strange guys bed after one two many shots of vodka the night before, I jammed my feet into my shoes and prayed that I didnt leave anything behind. Just as I was about to grab the last of my things, I noticed her leaning over the bench half naked while her ginormous SWEATY boob dangled above my bag (cringe, gasp!) . In sheer horror, I looked up--which she must have erroneously interpreted as a sign of friendship--when she squealed, "It so crassy". Um okay, The contraction is "it'S". New Rule this year: sentences MUST HAVE VERBS! No verb, no sentence! and in the word is cLassy. LLLLLLLLLLLLL. I wasn't sure if I should send her the dry cleaning bill now or later. But upon realizing that this would likely lead to further interaction in some minor way, I opted to suck it up and high-tail it the hell out of ther. Moral of the story: No Engles, lo siento.

Are We 'Googling' Ourselves to Death?

Today I had the staunch realization that I not only have (what I’ll) hypochondriac tendencies, but also a disordered relationship with Google. Let me explain. Upon my favorite afternoon pastime of farting around on the internet, I engaged in a little search engine action by thinking up any slight symptom or ailment of recent….and entering into the search query. Before long, I was completely convinced that I indeed suffer from anything and everything…From arachnophobia to zelophobia. I had it, and I had it badddddddddd. “Wait, Wait, WAIT!” my mind clamored, “This is just another one of my loon behaviors that makes absolutely no sense, but I still do it anyways.” If left alone, I could google myself right into the grave. Before long, I got to thinking, is “googling” your symptoms something I alone am guilty of? Or are there others like me? How many other people out there seek google as a first response to medical questions? I wonder if there is something empowering about having the capability to play patient AND doctor? Well, Google makes it possible. At the click of a mouse and a bit of typing, it is possible to find answers to anything! True, not all credible. But either way, it’s feedback. We know the credibility of the internet. It’s not news, but we goole-goaltend anyway. I guess it boils down to one thing: What DID we do before the internet?

Hate is My Mother Fucking Fuel

Push me down, I’ll bounce back higher. Tell me I can’t, watch me do it faster, better, stronger. It’s just the way I am. Defeating doubt, is my high. I love to stake a claim against all odds and then beat it beyond reality. I’m an underdog junkie, and if I could mainline my anger, I’d have more syringes than an AIDS clinic . One most-unfortunate fight has caused me to look the offending asshole in the eye, and vow for vengence to be mine. Sure, you won this one. Good job, nice work. But I’m a war kinda gal. If I lose battle every now and then, so be it. But you better believe my name is what’s going down in history under the victor title. I am doer. I just don’t have it in me to go down without a fight. A look at my childhood will quickly illuminate my penchant for coming out on top. My mother will be the first one to tell you that my “last-word” tendencies, FAR exceeded that of normal children. I didn’t just need the last word, I needed the satisfaction of knowing that the offending party was aware that they had been upstaged. The petty “We both know that you LOST” feeling. Mmmmmhhhh. It’s kinda sick, and a little disturbing how good egotistical winning feels. Yea, yea, yea, there is always the question of when people get hurt, does anyone really win? Um, I’d being lying if I said no. On the larger scale, it’s wrong and I know it. I’ll pay for it in the long run. But right now…put it on my tab. He fucked with the wrong person, one too many times. If it’s gotta be this way, then pitch it to me. I’ll swing away EVERY time. True, our relationship is going to take a hit. It will likely take tears, tissues, and time. But that’s ok. Those things I’ve got. What I don’t have? Is patience. I’m not down to pave your walkway with my heart. I’ve done that. You don’t care, you exceed the speed limit and throw cigarette butts out your window. Fuck him. In all fairness, I’m sure if he knew beforehand that our mild fight would escalate into world-war proportions he may have reconsidered his words. A day late, and a dollar short. No going back now. This ship has sailed, next stop: “Apology not Accepted.”

Keepin it Classy

Today we ventured out to my grandmother’s favorite discount warehouse: walmart. Quickly, I realized that this superstore is merely a front for a “social slaughterhouse”. Where else can you find children over the age of 10, still sucking their thumbs, or ladies named “ L’Shawn” sporting 3 inch acrylic nails, each nail containing a letter of everyone’s favorite explitive that rhymes with “Luck”, Oh L’Shawn, I would hug you, except the pistol tat on your neck…it kinda scares me. Walmart is prime real estate for wedgie watching. If you’ve never seen grown adults shamelessly pick their asses, this is the spot. Its like some sort of white-trash rite of passage. Not to be all hoity toighty, but where I’m from, we pick our asses in private. We keep that shit on the DOWN LOW. Oh, no, not at walmart. That sort of display is commonplace! You know what else is commonplace? Um, eating while shopping. I’m not talking about munching food court-purchased popcorn and Icees. I’m talking like full on opening bags of chips AND SALSA!!! While in the store! I wish I was kidding here. I actually saw a family eating a bag of chips and dipping them into a jar of salsa in their cart...And in case you’re wondering where the drinks were to wash it down? They had several beverages in tow. I’m just surprised little Tommy wasn’t doing kegstands from the mini Heiniken. No this family must have been confused. See the way it works is: First PAY for the food, then bag it, bring it HOME, and THEN consume. I’m not even going to imagine the double-dipping that must have been going on. But really, I could probably have looked the other way if they had been discreetly snacking on their fritos, instead of heaving their hands into the chip bag and dunking the innocent corn chips into a sea of salsa, before sloshing it down their throats. Oh Walmart, you classy joint you! All hope was officially lost when we hit the bike aisle. I narrowly missed getting into a head-on collision with an unaccompanied minor who was free-wheelin, needless to say without a helmet, on an unpaid bicycle. This adorable little convict-in-training, was lucky enough to veer left as I swerved my grandmother’s wheelchair to the right., narrowly avoiding an ambulance ride to the hospital Close call. Not to worry though, this small episode of road rage certainly wouldn’t have been complete had I not heard him call me a bitch under his breath before he pedaled the 10-speed down the next aisle. I can die happy. Wedgie picking, snacking, and biking aside, Walmart is a great place to spend the afternoon…if you’re HIGH! Otherwise, avoid the social-abyss, and head to somewhere a little more worthwhile. A pawn shop for example. Odds are you’ll be a lot safer.

When in doubt...dip it in ranch.

Day 1 in Syracuse can officially be classified...as OVER. Not to sound hostile here, but I'm a little miffed that THIS is what I am taking VACATION days from work for. Um, this isn't club med. True, I've flown out of state, put the US postal service on notice to hold my mail ( December's "Vogue" and "Self" BETTER be waiting for me upon return or heads will roll), and even packed a suitcase...but this sure as shit does NOT qualify as vacation. Aside from having my life micromanaged by my overly-efficient father for the next 5 days, I am also subjected to the loving and constant call of duty to change my grandmother's adult underpants (read: diapers). Cosmo's and Martini's? Not quite. No, instead of skanking around in my bikini on a beach where "Jose" blows a whistle while simultaneously shovels tequila down my throat, I got the distinct pleasure of applying deoderant to one very unflexible senior citizen. Who would have guessed the whole "getting dressed" part of the day becomes such an event when you get old? This probably makes sense when you take into consideration the fact that your TEETH aren't necessarily in your mouth upon sunrise. Ah, I digress. Anyways, these mandated "vacation" days mean no work, which isn't necessarily a bad thing, until I remember it also means no money. Shit. And THAT is a bad thing. So let me get this straight: I will have to seriously downsize spending this month in order to compensate for time spent changing diapers and applying Tussy. (Not sure what "Tussy" is?...google it and check your gag reflexes). I'm getting screwed. On the upside, it DOES mean free dining out. And believe me, I make sure to get even. Filet mignon, shrimp appetizers, and double vodka soda's please! If this is the biggest perk I can milk "family time" for, then my dad can foot the bill. Ugh, I'm totally out of creative mojo. I'm going to go to bed and pat myself on the back for behaving entirely within the limits of the law, while on "vacation". I guess there's a first for everything.

Orange “My-Shit-Doesn’t-Stink” County

You, with Louis Vuitton carryon luggage, wearing an obnoxiously bright velour jumpsuit with “Juicy” sprawled across your lipo’d ass…Drop the act. Yea, this whole “I’m too rich/hot/important…whatever” business isn’t cute. It certainly doesn’t make me look at you and think, “wow, I want to be her.” No, it makes me think, “That lady watches to much Bravo TV and I hope to God, I NEVER end up a minion serving in her poser hell.” Even worse? When these botox’d sacks of skin wear sunglasses…in an AIRPORT. What are you? The fucking unibomber? A celebrity? Neither? Well then take of the oversized Channels, honey. You don’t need them. I’m pretty sure you can remove the shades while inside the baggage terminal, the paparrazi have bigger fish to fry. Oh, and “adding-bling” to your cell phone was cool like 5 years ago. Take off the rhinestones. If you’re using a phone capable of wi-fi and high-tech digital imaging, then you’re phone doesn’t need sparkly decorations in the form of crystal rhinestones. Grow up. And what’s with the fake tan smell? Don’t get me wrong here, it’s California, sunshine and tanning go together like Lindsey Lohan and a bag of blow. But the smell? Really? I thought Lorea’l solved that problem like two summers ago! Nobody even makes the stinky stuff anymore!! Which begs the question of exactly how much self-tanner must be applied in order to generate such a stench? Lay off the faux glow. Another thing? What the hell do you keep in your big-ass purse? Or is the whole “purse” thing just a ruse, because you think carrying a PARACHUTE is “tres” chic? I got news for you: #1) Your not that important, we know that your bag is empty save for a phone, lipstick, and a wallet of maxed out credit cards. #2) If you’re not a mom, downsize your bag. You don’t need a minivan of surface area stowed beneath your arm, to display designer logos. Cheap, not chic. It’s an accessory, not an appliance. Lastly, Orange-County clowns, lose the phony zen books, which describe philosophy you either #1) don’t understand or #2) blatently ignore. Yes, yes, it is so cool to be all Buddhist spiritual and vegan. But really, when you’re a walking hypocrisy to everything discussed in that “trippy” little book, it kinda makes me want to call Paris Hilton and send her you’re your audition tape for an untapped MTV reality series. So let’s drop the act Orange County. Yes, Fox may have made a television show and dubbed it after your namesake, but if that’s the going rate for “cool” I’m moving to the valley. See ya in Lancaster bitches.