With all of this hullabaloo (noun: an uproar or fuss) going on about holiday travel, I thought I’d climb on to my proverbial soap box and give my proverbial 2¢. Maybe it’s because I don’t have to travel for the holidays, but I don’t understand why people hate going to the airport / being groped at the airport so much; so someone wants to give your inner thighs a rubdown - enjoy it and give thanks! When did people get so protective of their "junk", anyways? Prude, prude, prude. I personally love airports, and to some people that makes me an odd bird. If only they understood my airport routine, they’d think I was a pretty cool... bird.
STEPHANY POBRISLO’S AIRPORT ROUTINE:
• Arrive at DIA > 2 hours early (3 for international flights)
• Arrive at gate in approximately 19 minutes
• Read novel for 7 minutes
• Get grossed out by someone sleeping at gate
• Seek airport bar
• Order wine
• Watch obscure football game that has no relevance to my life
• Order more wine
• Establish relationship with airport bar cronies
• Witness two disheveled parents, with 4 ginger babies in tow, walk up to bar and order Jaeger shots, throw them back, and miserably exit bar
• Laugh with airport bar cronies at disheveled parents’ expense, savor taste of having inside joke with new friends
• Bid airport bar cronies adieu; feel overwhelming sadness for fleeting friendship
• Arrive back at gate to take part in degrading, counter-intuitive boarding procedure that is Southwest Airlines
Southwest’s boarding system truly is a whole different animal (to borrow a slogan from their wittier, superior competitor). It’s basically a Caste System in a contemporary setting, and your position in society boils down to your check-in performance 24 hours before flight time.
The elite A Group is reserved for the upper echelon of society; those with poor time-management skills and/or dislike for basic human rights need not apply. The A-Groupers are undoubtedly arriving at the airport an hour early today to participate in the protests; they opt-out of fondling, and they opt-out of fun. They’re the people with their liquids in baggies before they leave for the airport; the type that pack a nice turkey on whole wheat for the airport because they’d rather starve than eat at McDonald’s with the rest of the bourgeoisie. They are uptight, self-righteous aristocrats that enjoy nice aisle seats near the front of the plane while still maintaining comfortable distance from the lavatories. You hate them, unless you are one, in which case you hate everyone else.
But what if, you ask, you’re packing your bags the night before your trip, applying the lyrics from TSwift’s newest album to your current love life, and you realize that you forgot to check in for your flight? You had the best intentions, but quite frankly, “Back to December” is just so goddamn relevant that you spaced. Are you doomed? Should you just cancel your flight and adult-sob in bed all weekend watching a Teen Mom marathon? The answer is, no. Don’t get me wrong, you’ve definitely screwed up, and you will pay to some extent, but chances are, you’ll still get into the average, mundane B Group. B-Groupers are, in a word, unremarkable; they’re simple folk, who enjoy life’s little pleasures, like reclining their seats or treating themselves to a complimentary soft drink because their diets don’t allow them to Do the Dew very often, but heck! they're on vacation! There’s nothing particularly bad to say about the B Group, but then again, there’s nothing great to say about them either. They sound depressing, but I haven’t even begun to describe the C Group yet.
Glance towards the back of the plane and you’ll see a lot of flannel PJ bottoms and tear-away Adidas pants. You’ll smell weird smells that are reminiscent of day 4 on that godforsaken Carnival cruise. You might catch a glimpse of Ke$ha. You’d be willing to stand in line at the bathroom at the front of the plane for 20 minutes, pretending to “stretch your legs”, just to avoid going to the bathroom back there, with those people. The back of the plane is like Family Dollar on Black Friday– you don't go if you don't have to. Look, I know you’ve probably been in the C Group before, but I’d be willing to bet an $11 glass of airport Chardonnay that it was a mistake you vowed never to repeat.
The bottom line is, travel is supposed to be FUN - don't let a little unsolicited fondling ruin your day. Have some dranks, listen to some TSwift tunes and throw Skittles at the gate sleepers (what?). Do I smell hot dog salad coming from the back of the plane? Feels like a good time to stretch my legs....
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Monday, September 13, 2010
Built-In Underwear
Ahh yes. The weather is getting colder and the days are getting short—just kidding. I’m not writing another weather-related blog. As much as I know you’re all dying for a flower pot update (deader than ever) and to hear more about what’s in store for the Crock-Pot this Winter (Meat Extravaganza 2010/2011), I’ve resolved to challenge myself creatively and write about something different.
In fact, challenging myself has been a recurring theme as of late, and not just to see how many Chardonnays I can order before happy hour ends or how many items I can buy for under $20 at TJ Maxx. Rather, said challenges are significant life-improvers. The most noteworthy challenge is detailed below.
A couple of weeks ago, in a fit of athletic ambition and self-confidence, I signed myself up for the Denver Rock ‘n Roll Half Marathon.
“13 miles”, I thought? “I ran 3 the other day and felt pretty good”.
• Don’t NOT eat before a run, or you might faint, which is way worse than prematurely throwing up.
• Road bikers are the enemy. With their “Holier than Thou” attitudes and stupid fire lens Oakleys, they will yell obscenities at you and try to make you feel like an inferior athlete; you’re not. There are lots and lots of fat bikers.
• The proverbial “runner’s high” exists only when drugs are consumed before the run begins. It’s my experience that the euphoric feeling doesn’t arrive until 10 minutes after the run is over and I’m starfishing on the carpet under the air conditioning vent.
• If a country song comes onto your iPod in the middle of the run, you have approximately 3.4 seconds to turn it off before the sad lyrics and overall depressing vibe infect your pace and ruin everything.
• Passing someone is really cool, but only if you can keep the pace up. A surefire way to make an arch nemesis on the trail is to pass them and then let them pass you back. If this happens, all bets are off and you’ll end up pulling your groin to keep up with a stranger whose athleticism you underestimated. If you can’t hang, don’t pass.
So with the big race day approaching next month, it’s time to tighten up those built-ins and turn up the techno. I’m also looking for someone to shuttle me from the finish line directly to a bar; let me know if anyone has a wheelbarrow. Road bikers need not apply unless you have a rickshaw attached, in which case I will pick the farthest bar away and enjoy the delicious irony of making you a runner’s slave. Who's inferior now?
In fact, challenging myself has been a recurring theme as of late, and not just to see how many Chardonnays I can order before happy hour ends or how many items I can buy for under $20 at TJ Maxx. Rather, said challenges are significant life-improvers. The most noteworthy challenge is detailed below.
A couple of weeks ago, in a fit of athletic ambition and self-confidence, I signed myself up for the Denver Rock ‘n Roll Half Marathon.
“13 miles”, I thought? “I ran 3 the other day and felt pretty good”.
And just like that, I paid my $92 registration fee with the same enthusiasm I have when I pay my Xcel bill. Not until the next day did I understand the magnitude of what I had done. 13 miles is 10 miles more than three, you hotshot. You ran cross country seven years ago in high school—big wow. But alas, the commemorative XS men’s t-shirt had been reserved, and I knew there was no turning back. The next logical move would have been to head straight to the park and run until I threw up to determine my athletic threshold. I chose instead to make a beeline for Sports Authority where I spent entirely too much money on name brand running wear. I figured if I was going to be pounding the pavement for the foreseeable future, I might as well look like a babe while doing it. Feeling pleased with my selections, I went home and pulled on a pair of my new shorts. That’s when I felt something that stopped me dead in my tracks: Built. In. Underwear. What’s up with that? Why does Nike feel so strongly about full-butt coverage that they literally sew underwear into their merchandise? As far as I’m concerned, Nike has no business underneath my Dri-FITS. No business at all.
Important lessons learned while training:
• Don’t eat too soon before a run, or you might throw up before you reach your threshold, which can be really confusing.
Important lessons learned while training:
• Don’t eat too soon before a run, or you might throw up before you reach your threshold, which can be really confusing.
• Don’t NOT eat before a run, or you might faint, which is way worse than prematurely throwing up.
• Road bikers are the enemy. With their “Holier than Thou” attitudes and stupid fire lens Oakleys, they will yell obscenities at you and try to make you feel like an inferior athlete; you’re not. There are lots and lots of fat bikers.
• The proverbial “runner’s high” exists only when drugs are consumed before the run begins. It’s my experience that the euphoric feeling doesn’t arrive until 10 minutes after the run is over and I’m starfishing on the carpet under the air conditioning vent.
• If a country song comes onto your iPod in the middle of the run, you have approximately 3.4 seconds to turn it off before the sad lyrics and overall depressing vibe infect your pace and ruin everything.
• Passing someone is really cool, but only if you can keep the pace up. A surefire way to make an arch nemesis on the trail is to pass them and then let them pass you back. If this happens, all bets are off and you’ll end up pulling your groin to keep up with a stranger whose athleticism you underestimated. If you can’t hang, don’t pass.
So with the big race day approaching next month, it’s time to tighten up those built-ins and turn up the techno. I’m also looking for someone to shuttle me from the finish line directly to a bar; let me know if anyone has a wheelbarrow. Road bikers need not apply unless you have a rickshaw attached, in which case I will pick the farthest bar away and enjoy the delicious irony of making you a runner’s slave. Who's inferior now?
Friday, July 16, 2010
Heat Wave
Heat wave. Day 4.
Denver has been hotter than Hades. (Contrary to prior belief, the saying isn’t “Hotter than Haiti”, which accidentally slipped out after the earthquake and prompted looks of disgust from everyone around me. “Too soon”, they said.) Suffice it to say that it’s hotter than two cats fighting in a wool sock—that seems pretty safe.
It’s tough to get jazzed about the day when there’s a story on the morning news about “heat safety” and how to avoid heat exhaustion. The normally upbeat weatherwoman appears lethargic, scared. Well, Kathy Sabine, you don’t have to warn me twice—once I got heat exhaustion at basketball camp and then ate a spoiled Lunchable that had been sitting in the sun all day, so I simultaneously had heat stroke and food poisoning. You better believe I learned something about heat safety that day. And a 4-foot-tall little girl has no business being at basketball camp to begin with.
My flowers are dead again, in case you were wondering. The pot on my balcony is officially a place where beautiful flowers go to die. It is so depressing. I often whisper “I’m sorry” before leaving for work, but it doesn’t feel like enough, especially because the pots on the balcony below are abounding with healthy petunias. (I get it, 6E, gardening is your thing. You’re a green thumb.) My mom, always the optimist, suggested that we plant a nice “hearty house plant” in the pot, but I don’t have the stomach. I simply cannot kill again.
Sometimes, on my lunch break, I go and lay out on my parents deck because it is close to the office, and I refuse to allow something silly like a job prevent me from getting an irresistible sun-kissed glow. This was a delightful summer routine in June. Recently though, I feel lucky to make it out of those lunch hours alive. I oil up and read my book and convince myself that “this is the life”, but then sweat drips into my eyes and bugs get stuck in the oil and all I want is to be back at my desk crunching numbers.
I have what feels like a life-or-death struggle every day after work because my black car with black leather seats feels more like a Cherokee sweat lodge than a fuel-efficient Jetta. I try to prepare by wearing a power skirt that can be hiked up in the car, but the seats burn my legs and I whimper for the first 5 minutes of my commute home. No! Don’t tell me—yes, another chap stick has melted into the cap. By this point, I’m parched beyond belief, but the only water bottle in sight has been boiling in the car all day, and taking a sip would surely kill me. The AC takes forever to get cold, and hot air blows on me like an unforgiving Sahara wind. Now I’m in survival mode. I put the Jetta in sport, lay on the accelerator and avoid the I-25 like the plague. An icy Perrier and a cold compress await me at home, and this keeps me forging ahead.
Not to mention what this heat wave is doing to my workout routine. A run in the park? I’ll faint. Hot yoga? Get real. Expending any extra energy in this environment can’t be healthy anyways, especially because I drink one cup of coffee in the morning and am automatically dehydrated for the remainder of the day. All I want to do after work is eat snow cones in my underwear while a hot ass spritzes me with Evian upon demand. Is that so much to ask?
I know what some of you are thinking: “Add some humidity and then you’ll know what hot is!!!” or “Spend a summer in Louisiana and then we’ll talk, honey!!!” To that I say, shut up. This isn’t a competition; this is man vs. wild, and last time I checked, we’re all humans. Now, be a doll and fetch me a Zima—it’s gonna be another scorcher.
Denver has been hotter than Hades. (Contrary to prior belief, the saying isn’t “Hotter than Haiti”, which accidentally slipped out after the earthquake and prompted looks of disgust from everyone around me. “Too soon”, they said.) Suffice it to say that it’s hotter than two cats fighting in a wool sock—that seems pretty safe.
It’s tough to get jazzed about the day when there’s a story on the morning news about “heat safety” and how to avoid heat exhaustion. The normally upbeat weatherwoman appears lethargic, scared. Well, Kathy Sabine, you don’t have to warn me twice—once I got heat exhaustion at basketball camp and then ate a spoiled Lunchable that had been sitting in the sun all day, so I simultaneously had heat stroke and food poisoning. You better believe I learned something about heat safety that day. And a 4-foot-tall little girl has no business being at basketball camp to begin with.
My flowers are dead again, in case you were wondering. The pot on my balcony is officially a place where beautiful flowers go to die. It is so depressing. I often whisper “I’m sorry” before leaving for work, but it doesn’t feel like enough, especially because the pots on the balcony below are abounding with healthy petunias. (I get it, 6E, gardening is your thing. You’re a green thumb.) My mom, always the optimist, suggested that we plant a nice “hearty house plant” in the pot, but I don’t have the stomach. I simply cannot kill again.
Sometimes, on my lunch break, I go and lay out on my parents deck because it is close to the office, and I refuse to allow something silly like a job prevent me from getting an irresistible sun-kissed glow. This was a delightful summer routine in June. Recently though, I feel lucky to make it out of those lunch hours alive. I oil up and read my book and convince myself that “this is the life”, but then sweat drips into my eyes and bugs get stuck in the oil and all I want is to be back at my desk crunching numbers.
I have what feels like a life-or-death struggle every day after work because my black car with black leather seats feels more like a Cherokee sweat lodge than a fuel-efficient Jetta. I try to prepare by wearing a power skirt that can be hiked up in the car, but the seats burn my legs and I whimper for the first 5 minutes of my commute home. No! Don’t tell me—yes, another chap stick has melted into the cap. By this point, I’m parched beyond belief, but the only water bottle in sight has been boiling in the car all day, and taking a sip would surely kill me. The AC takes forever to get cold, and hot air blows on me like an unforgiving Sahara wind. Now I’m in survival mode. I put the Jetta in sport, lay on the accelerator and avoid the I-25 like the plague. An icy Perrier and a cold compress await me at home, and this keeps me forging ahead.
Not to mention what this heat wave is doing to my workout routine. A run in the park? I’ll faint. Hot yoga? Get real. Expending any extra energy in this environment can’t be healthy anyways, especially because I drink one cup of coffee in the morning and am automatically dehydrated for the remainder of the day. All I want to do after work is eat snow cones in my underwear while a hot ass spritzes me with Evian upon demand. Is that so much to ask?
I know what some of you are thinking: “Add some humidity and then you’ll know what hot is!!!” or “Spend a summer in Louisiana and then we’ll talk, honey!!!” To that I say, shut up. This isn’t a competition; this is man vs. wild, and last time I checked, we’re all humans. Now, be a doll and fetch me a Zima—it’s gonna be another scorcher.
Monday, May 3, 2010
24" of Hot Dog
It seems like just yesterday that I was singing the praises of the cold fronts descending upon Colorado; how nice it was to pull on a sweater and jeans and just ooze in front of the fire with a nice cup of spiced cider. Now, it’s May, and I literally hate sweaters. I hate jeans. I want to throw the sweaters and jeans into the fire and bail. In fact, come May, I start dressing for summer even if it’s in blatant disregard for the weather. Snowstorms in May do not deserve to be dignified with a response, especially when we’ve waited patiently all winter to pull on a slutty romper and hit the town. Just yesterday, I went for a run in the rain, which turned into sleet halfway through. But since it was May, I kept convincing myself how “fun” the run was and how “pretty” the day was and how “happy” I was to be outside. Two can play at this game, Colorado spring.
All of the rules change when it starts to get warm. Otter Pops and Slurpees become their own food group. Kenny Chesney plays on repeat and no one objects. Joining an adult’s sports league and slugging beers on a work night is not only acceptable, but expected. You ride your bike places, not only because it’s trendy and athletic, but because the black leather seats in your car get so goddamn hot that you’d do anything to feel a bit of a breeze. After-work happy hours on the patio become obligatory (“Order another marg, DO IT!!”) and high-intensity workouts are mandatory (“Your beach bod is your business, I’m taking another lap!!!”) You don’t judge a girl at the bar who’s still in her swimsuit, because she’s been at the pool all day and she parties and she’s cool. And even if you hate baseball, you don’t turn down an opportunity to go to a game because you can eat 24 inches of hot dog without apology.
Warm weather is not without its own set of challenges, however. Last Spring, I was thrilled to have my own little patio and high on the idea of planting some beautiful flowers to really brighten it up. I spent one glorious afternoon at the hardware store, happy to have the excuse to go. (I love hardware stores so much that I’d go and just peruse if it was socially acceptable.) I lugged the giant bag of soil and enormous terracotta planters up to my 7th floor apartment and placed each flower with love and tenderness. I showered them with a healthy dose of Miracle Grow, and swept the residual soil onto the patio below (oops), quite pleased with myself. I went above and beyond for this project, and within a week, the entire planter was DEAD. I was crushed! Open any inspirational calendar and you’ll find a picture of a flower growing through the concrete in Harlem, but somehow the fertile soils of my patio just weren’t good enough. What ingrates, I gave them EVERYTHING! I’ve had a whole year to change my strategy, and I plan to try my luck as a green thumb again in the coming weeks. Who wants to go to the hardware store? Anyone? That’s alright, I’d rather go alone.
As soon as it stops sleeting, I’m hitting the links… hard. I recently became the proud owner of a new set of golf clubs. This wouldn’t be noteworthy if I hadn’t spent the last two summers golfing with only three clubs and a haggard bag I bought at a garage sale. Now the pressure’s really on to improve my game—I can no longer justify throwing my ball out of the sand and onto the green because I “don’t have a sand wedge”. Come to think of it, I may have done myself a serious disservice with this new acquisition. I’m also looking forward to fly fishing with my Dad; nothing like pulling on a pair of skin-tight waders and spending the day untangling your line from the branch behind you that you didn’t see. Oh well, maybe it will teach me patience for my golf game; lord knows I’ll need it.
So ‘tis the season to toss all of your winter gear into the fire, or for a less dramatic approach, simply store it. Order that third marg, wear your swimsuit to the bar, measure the meat you eat in inches; anything goes! And if you’re like me and you accidentally murder a pot of plants, just remind yourself they were just a bunch of bitch ass pansies… literally.
All of the rules change when it starts to get warm. Otter Pops and Slurpees become their own food group. Kenny Chesney plays on repeat and no one objects. Joining an adult’s sports league and slugging beers on a work night is not only acceptable, but expected. You ride your bike places, not only because it’s trendy and athletic, but because the black leather seats in your car get so goddamn hot that you’d do anything to feel a bit of a breeze. After-work happy hours on the patio become obligatory (“Order another marg, DO IT!!”) and high-intensity workouts are mandatory (“Your beach bod is your business, I’m taking another lap!!!”) You don’t judge a girl at the bar who’s still in her swimsuit, because she’s been at the pool all day and she parties and she’s cool. And even if you hate baseball, you don’t turn down an opportunity to go to a game because you can eat 24 inches of hot dog without apology.
Warm weather is not without its own set of challenges, however. Last Spring, I was thrilled to have my own little patio and high on the idea of planting some beautiful flowers to really brighten it up. I spent one glorious afternoon at the hardware store, happy to have the excuse to go. (I love hardware stores so much that I’d go and just peruse if it was socially acceptable.) I lugged the giant bag of soil and enormous terracotta planters up to my 7th floor apartment and placed each flower with love and tenderness. I showered them with a healthy dose of Miracle Grow, and swept the residual soil onto the patio below (oops), quite pleased with myself. I went above and beyond for this project, and within a week, the entire planter was DEAD. I was crushed! Open any inspirational calendar and you’ll find a picture of a flower growing through the concrete in Harlem, but somehow the fertile soils of my patio just weren’t good enough. What ingrates, I gave them EVERYTHING! I’ve had a whole year to change my strategy, and I plan to try my luck as a green thumb again in the coming weeks. Who wants to go to the hardware store? Anyone? That’s alright, I’d rather go alone.
As soon as it stops sleeting, I’m hitting the links… hard. I recently became the proud owner of a new set of golf clubs. This wouldn’t be noteworthy if I hadn’t spent the last two summers golfing with only three clubs and a haggard bag I bought at a garage sale. Now the pressure’s really on to improve my game—I can no longer justify throwing my ball out of the sand and onto the green because I “don’t have a sand wedge”. Come to think of it, I may have done myself a serious disservice with this new acquisition. I’m also looking forward to fly fishing with my Dad; nothing like pulling on a pair of skin-tight waders and spending the day untangling your line from the branch behind you that you didn’t see. Oh well, maybe it will teach me patience for my golf game; lord knows I’ll need it.
So ‘tis the season to toss all of your winter gear into the fire, or for a less dramatic approach, simply store it. Order that third marg, wear your swimsuit to the bar, measure the meat you eat in inches; anything goes! And if you’re like me and you accidentally murder a pot of plants, just remind yourself they were just a bunch of bitch ass pansies… literally.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
ROCK BOTTOM
Years ago, in a little town called New Orleans, I decided to sample the local cultural flavor and have my tarot cards read. I found myself waiting in line at a quintessential voodoo shop, mindlessly fingering a shrunken head and shaking a jar of what appeared to be a pickled pig fetus. I momentarily questioned my judgment but then resolved to have an open mind—I mean, how bad could my fortune be? When my name was finally called, I walked through a curtain of beads and sat down across from a 90 year-old bald woman with cataracts. The room smelled like burning hair. She had me cut the deck and select eight cards. “No pressure”, she wheezed, “just eight little cards to define your future”. I handed her my selection with a fair amount of confidence, expecting to hear something pleasant like, “You will marry your best friend” or “You’ve selected the card of eternal wisdom” Instead, she swallowed hard, shook her bald head, and regretfully informed me that I had chosen the ROCK BOTTOM card. “I’m sorry..?” She elaborated, “The rock bottom card conjures up images of misery, illness, poverty…” it must have been obvious that I was on the verge of throwing up because she stopped listing off what else “rock bottom” could entail and cheerfully added that I had also selected cards that foretold a future of great wisdom and motherhood and eternal love. It didn’t matter though. It was too late. Nothing matters once you’ve chosen the “rock bottom” card. I paid my $40 (easily the most depressing money I’ve ever spent), and resolved that the words “rock bottom” were never to be spoken aloud, convinced that if I ignored the disturbing reading it would be as if it never happened. I swore off cataracts and tarot cards forever. That is, until last Monday.
I was minding my own business, heading to TJ Maxx on my lunch break like any hard-working American gal would, when I spotted a glossy, purple card wedged under my wiper. The first thing I saw was an anime angel sitting on a rock with a glowing bird in her hand. Upon further inspection, it was not just a card, but rather an invitation; an invitation to a “new spiritual journey for a better tomorrow”. Oh, no, I thought, already anticipating what I would find on the back. I nervously glanced around to see if any other cars had the invitation—no, only mine. Unable to stop myself, I flipped the card over, and there it was: “EXPERIENCE THE MYSTICAL TAROT CARDS, OR THE PERSONAL TOUCH OF PALM READING”. It then listed off some other services; among the more intriguing were Angel Soulmate Readings, Clairvoyant Readings and Past Lives. “Iiiiinteresting,” I thought, feeling myself become seduced, but I quickly caught myself. No. Not again. Not after what happened last time. Throw that cursed card away and get to TJ, you Maxxinista, you! I couldn’t throw it away though. It was too eerie that I was being singled-out and beckoned in this way. Could the universe be speaking to me?? Besides, I still had too many questions: the card only had a phone number-- no name. Who is this tarot card phantom? It boasted they had been “nominated by the National Astrological Association as Denver’s Top Psychic Advisor”, but did they win?? Did the inclusion of the anime graphics imply Asian involvement? Overwhelmed, I threw the card in my bag and went to clear my mind in the bedding section of TJ Maxx.
Wednesday 10:25:00—two days later and I am still staring at the card. It stares back, alluring me with its vibrant shades of violet and infinite mystical possibilities. I weigh my options. I could call and hear some awful news, just like last time. (The words “rock bottom” resonate in my ears, and I shudder.) Then there’s a chance I got the card for a reason, and if I don’t call, something awful will actually happen. I decide acting is better than react—Oh, who am I kidding? I am drunk with the magical possibilities. I pick up the phone, dial. A woman answers, and I hear a small child throwing a tantrum in the background.
“Who is this?” I ask in a small voice, waiting with baited breath to hear the answer.
“This is Pam”, she answers with an irritated tone. “Who is this?” It sounds like she may be doing dishes.
“Umm, I got a flyer on my car. Where are you?”
“Off of Colfax and Kipling” she says.
And just like that, the magic is gone. The stars are not aligning. I have not been chosen by the universe. This isn’t some mystical Asian tarot phantom summoning me to divulge the details of my destiny; this is just some mundane soccer mom on Colfax doing dishes and preying on spiritually-vulnerable people like me. “Shame on you” I whisper, and I hang up the phone.
Who actually falls for that stuff anyways?
I was minding my own business, heading to TJ Maxx on my lunch break like any hard-working American gal would, when I spotted a glossy, purple card wedged under my wiper. The first thing I saw was an anime angel sitting on a rock with a glowing bird in her hand. Upon further inspection, it was not just a card, but rather an invitation; an invitation to a “new spiritual journey for a better tomorrow”. Oh, no, I thought, already anticipating what I would find on the back. I nervously glanced around to see if any other cars had the invitation—no, only mine. Unable to stop myself, I flipped the card over, and there it was: “EXPERIENCE THE MYSTICAL TAROT CARDS, OR THE PERSONAL TOUCH OF PALM READING”. It then listed off some other services; among the more intriguing were Angel Soulmate Readings, Clairvoyant Readings and Past Lives. “Iiiiinteresting,” I thought, feeling myself become seduced, but I quickly caught myself. No. Not again. Not after what happened last time. Throw that cursed card away and get to TJ, you Maxxinista, you! I couldn’t throw it away though. It was too eerie that I was being singled-out and beckoned in this way. Could the universe be speaking to me?? Besides, I still had too many questions: the card only had a phone number-- no name. Who is this tarot card phantom? It boasted they had been “nominated by the National Astrological Association as Denver’s Top Psychic Advisor”, but did they win?? Did the inclusion of the anime graphics imply Asian involvement? Overwhelmed, I threw the card in my bag and went to clear my mind in the bedding section of TJ Maxx.
Wednesday 10:25:00—two days later and I am still staring at the card. It stares back, alluring me with its vibrant shades of violet and infinite mystical possibilities. I weigh my options. I could call and hear some awful news, just like last time. (The words “rock bottom” resonate in my ears, and I shudder.) Then there’s a chance I got the card for a reason, and if I don’t call, something awful will actually happen. I decide acting is better than react—Oh, who am I kidding? I am drunk with the magical possibilities. I pick up the phone, dial. A woman answers, and I hear a small child throwing a tantrum in the background.
“Who is this?” I ask in a small voice, waiting with baited breath to hear the answer.
“This is Pam”, she answers with an irritated tone. “Who is this?” It sounds like she may be doing dishes.
“Umm, I got a flyer on my car. Where are you?”
“Off of Colfax and Kipling” she says.
And just like that, the magic is gone. The stars are not aligning. I have not been chosen by the universe. This isn’t some mystical Asian tarot phantom summoning me to divulge the details of my destiny; this is just some mundane soccer mom on Colfax doing dishes and preying on spiritually-vulnerable people like me. “Shame on you” I whisper, and I hang up the phone.
Who actually falls for that stuff anyways?
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Working On My Avatar Butt
Going to the movies used to be fun, until recently when all you see in the previews are little sneak-peeks of the world ending. The previews just make you want to end it now because, guess what? Tomorrow looks horrible. Humans being farmed for blood, meteors crashing into earth, biochemical warfare… Jodie Foster is going to make a killing in the next few years playing her standard frantic roles. I, personally, am kind of an old-fashioned gal. What if I just want to see a Rom-Com and not something that brings back that familiar feeling of Y2K panic? I’ve burned a hole in my When Harry Met Sally DVD. Get to work, Jennifer and Julia! Get off your ass, Cameron, and give me a mindlessly stupid love story. If movie previews are any indication of what’s to come, the future is exceedingly frightening and I don’t wanna go.
Two nights ago I saw Avatar, which was a surprising move for someone who normally hates all things futuristic and/or Sci-Fi. But let me tell ya: It was amazing. So amazing in fact that I’m now blogging about Avatar, which is by far the nerdiest thing I have EVER done. I will say this: it helped me on a very personal level. My new year’s resolution is now officially to get my butt as tight as an Avatar’s. The problem with Avatar, aside from granting Michelle Rodriguez yet another opportunity to wear a soiled wife beater in the jungle and use dykie one-liners while doing so, was that it made me hate humans. Here you have Pandora, a utopian indiglo forest on a faraway planet, flowing with a network of the positive energy of all living things and inhabited by docile, gentle creatures. And what do the humans do? Bomb the shit out of it. Blow it to smithereens. (Side note: I would hope that by the year 2154 we’d have something cooler to scream in battle than “GET SOME!!!”) It’s no big secret that humans are inherently greedy, but if they could stand to ruin a place like Pandora, Earth doesn’t have a fighting chance.
I am afraid for my own personal success in the future, because I am already struggling with today’s technological challenges. For example: Redbox. Redbox has just bent me over and had me. It all started one evening when I was feeling particularly techy and decided to rent a movie from a Redbox outside of a 7-11. I ran into my first challenge when I was unable to figure out how to get a synopsis of the available movies, and was thus left with just the title and the cast. After much deliberation, I chose something with a pleasant title and an array of Hollywood’s finest. Long story short, it turned out to be a horror movie that I watched alone in the dark and had nightmares about for a whole week. So that was killer. Three weeks passed before I remembered I had to return the stupid thing, and there began the real trail of tears. I went to one 7-11 and three McDonalds in one day, an afternoon that would be completely inexcusable under any other circumstances, trying to return the movie. All Redboxes were full. I then sat on hold with Redbox Customer Service for 30 minutes, listening to their recording that said, “Did you know you can return your movie to any Redbox location? Now that’s convenience with a capital ‘C’!!!” No, that’s an infuriating lie. When I finally got a representative, I told him flat-out that I would not be paying any fees because of the emotional trauma that my afternoon of McDonalds hopping had caused me, and he waived the charges. Victorious, except that I still have yet to return the movie. See?? I’m hopeless. If I’m expected to wrangle a pterodactyl and ride it bareback anytime soon, I’m doomed.
Luckily for people like me, there is still a semblance of normalcy in the world. I still have the option of making my deposits with a teller at the bank and having human interaction. I can still read a newspaper, go hiking without seeing anything man-made for miles, and travel to parts of the world untainted by “progress” and the problems that go with it. Those things are important to me. And as for next time I decide to rent a movie from Redbox? I’ll just let my Avatar handle that.
Two nights ago I saw Avatar, which was a surprising move for someone who normally hates all things futuristic and/or Sci-Fi. But let me tell ya: It was amazing. So amazing in fact that I’m now blogging about Avatar, which is by far the nerdiest thing I have EVER done. I will say this: it helped me on a very personal level. My new year’s resolution is now officially to get my butt as tight as an Avatar’s. The problem with Avatar, aside from granting Michelle Rodriguez yet another opportunity to wear a soiled wife beater in the jungle and use dykie one-liners while doing so, was that it made me hate humans. Here you have Pandora, a utopian indiglo forest on a faraway planet, flowing with a network of the positive energy of all living things and inhabited by docile, gentle creatures. And what do the humans do? Bomb the shit out of it. Blow it to smithereens. (Side note: I would hope that by the year 2154 we’d have something cooler to scream in battle than “GET SOME!!!”) It’s no big secret that humans are inherently greedy, but if they could stand to ruin a place like Pandora, Earth doesn’t have a fighting chance.
I am afraid for my own personal success in the future, because I am already struggling with today’s technological challenges. For example: Redbox. Redbox has just bent me over and had me. It all started one evening when I was feeling particularly techy and decided to rent a movie from a Redbox outside of a 7-11. I ran into my first challenge when I was unable to figure out how to get a synopsis of the available movies, and was thus left with just the title and the cast. After much deliberation, I chose something with a pleasant title and an array of Hollywood’s finest. Long story short, it turned out to be a horror movie that I watched alone in the dark and had nightmares about for a whole week. So that was killer. Three weeks passed before I remembered I had to return the stupid thing, and there began the real trail of tears. I went to one 7-11 and three McDonalds in one day, an afternoon that would be completely inexcusable under any other circumstances, trying to return the movie. All Redboxes were full. I then sat on hold with Redbox Customer Service for 30 minutes, listening to their recording that said, “Did you know you can return your movie to any Redbox location? Now that’s convenience with a capital ‘C’!!!” No, that’s an infuriating lie. When I finally got a representative, I told him flat-out that I would not be paying any fees because of the emotional trauma that my afternoon of McDonalds hopping had caused me, and he waived the charges. Victorious, except that I still have yet to return the movie. See?? I’m hopeless. If I’m expected to wrangle a pterodactyl and ride it bareback anytime soon, I’m doomed.
Luckily for people like me, there is still a semblance of normalcy in the world. I still have the option of making my deposits with a teller at the bank and having human interaction. I can still read a newspaper, go hiking without seeing anything man-made for miles, and travel to parts of the world untainted by “progress” and the problems that go with it. Those things are important to me. And as for next time I decide to rent a movie from Redbox? I’ll just let my Avatar handle that.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Can we not call it "Tom the Turkey" this year?
My two favorite holidays are the 4th of July and Thanksgiving; 4th of July because you can wear an American flag thong bathing suit and chase vodka shots with Otter Pops, and Thanksgiving for more meaningful reasons.
Here’s what I know about Thanksgiving: I know that I can go out in Denver on a Wednesday night and know every person downtown. I know I’ll run into people I went to kindergarten with and people I haven’t seen since high school. I know that I’ll inevitably get carried away taking shots at the bar with long lost friends and wake up hung over on Thanksgiving morning, but I’ll somehow find the resolve to go running in the park behind my parents’ house with my mom.
I know that my dad will almost persuade me to go waterskiing with him and his friends on Thanksgiving morning, but I’ll always chicken out at the last minute. I know that we’ll turn on the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade while we’re cooking, even though we all hate it. (There’s nothing creepier than a giant Charlie Brown float. Period.) I know that I’ll lose my enthusiasm for peeling potatoes after the third one but I’ll have to do at least 30, and my hand will be sore from using this weird potato masher we have, and I’ll use at least a box of butter before I’m finished, but it’s OK because mashed potatoes are a Thanksgiving staple and the people are depending on me for god’s sake!!
I know that my grandparents will show up two hours early—in earlier years, it was so that we could all go for a bike ride, but now it’s mainly because they’re too excited to wait until 4:00. I know I love cooking with my grandma(s) and can’t imagine a Thanksgiving without them. I know Courtney gets to make the gravy because I always help my dad carve the turkey. I know someone will inevitably personify the turkey, calling him “Tom Turkey”, and I’ll roll my eyes, because why is that necessary? I know no one really likes dark meat. I know that people will always take some sweet potatoes for courtesy’s sake, but they don’t hold a candle to the mashed potatoes. (“By all means, get seconds! I made enough to feed an army!”) And I know people WILL get seconds because Thanksgiving is the one day people go hog wild and don’t feel bad about it. (The average American consumes 4500 calories and 229 grams of fat on Thanksgiving. 215 of them are from my mashed potatoes. You’re welcome.)
I know everyone ends up in the kitchen, no matter how many hors d’ourves we put out to lure them into the family room. I know that on this one day, everyone likes football, or at least pretends to. (This year, Orton better power through that pansy-ass ankle injury and show me something. We’re on a slippery slope here Kyle, don’t let us down.) I know that we’ll drink Bloody Mary’s to start, but we’ll blow through several bottles of wine as the night progresses. (People say it’s the L-tryptophan in the turkey that makes everyone tired—it’s obviously the 8 glasses of wine. Also, people never know how to pronounce L-tryptophan. It’s el-trip-teh-fan. Again, you’re welcome.)
Mostly, I know how easy it is to take things for granted. It’s so easy to get caught up in trivial things and forget to count your blessings. So between the best mashed potatoes you’ve ever had (“Please, stop thanking me, I know they’re good but I hardly did anything, really!”) and the questionable side dish (“Jamie, this pheasant side dish is… different!”), I always pause to think about two things: how truly fortunate I am, and how truly excited I am for leftovers.
HAPPY THANKSGIVING!
Here’s what I know about Thanksgiving: I know that I can go out in Denver on a Wednesday night and know every person downtown. I know I’ll run into people I went to kindergarten with and people I haven’t seen since high school. I know that I’ll inevitably get carried away taking shots at the bar with long lost friends and wake up hung over on Thanksgiving morning, but I’ll somehow find the resolve to go running in the park behind my parents’ house with my mom.
I know that my dad will almost persuade me to go waterskiing with him and his friends on Thanksgiving morning, but I’ll always chicken out at the last minute. I know that we’ll turn on the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade while we’re cooking, even though we all hate it. (There’s nothing creepier than a giant Charlie Brown float. Period.) I know that I’ll lose my enthusiasm for peeling potatoes after the third one but I’ll have to do at least 30, and my hand will be sore from using this weird potato masher we have, and I’ll use at least a box of butter before I’m finished, but it’s OK because mashed potatoes are a Thanksgiving staple and the people are depending on me for god’s sake!!
I know that my grandparents will show up two hours early—in earlier years, it was so that we could all go for a bike ride, but now it’s mainly because they’re too excited to wait until 4:00. I know I love cooking with my grandma(s) and can’t imagine a Thanksgiving without them. I know Courtney gets to make the gravy because I always help my dad carve the turkey. I know someone will inevitably personify the turkey, calling him “Tom Turkey”, and I’ll roll my eyes, because why is that necessary? I know no one really likes dark meat. I know that people will always take some sweet potatoes for courtesy’s sake, but they don’t hold a candle to the mashed potatoes. (“By all means, get seconds! I made enough to feed an army!”) And I know people WILL get seconds because Thanksgiving is the one day people go hog wild and don’t feel bad about it. (The average American consumes 4500 calories and 229 grams of fat on Thanksgiving. 215 of them are from my mashed potatoes. You’re welcome.)
I know everyone ends up in the kitchen, no matter how many hors d’ourves we put out to lure them into the family room. I know that on this one day, everyone likes football, or at least pretends to. (This year, Orton better power through that pansy-ass ankle injury and show me something. We’re on a slippery slope here Kyle, don’t let us down.) I know that we’ll drink Bloody Mary’s to start, but we’ll blow through several bottles of wine as the night progresses. (People say it’s the L-tryptophan in the turkey that makes everyone tired—it’s obviously the 8 glasses of wine. Also, people never know how to pronounce L-tryptophan. It’s el-trip-teh-fan. Again, you’re welcome.)
Mostly, I know how easy it is to take things for granted. It’s so easy to get caught up in trivial things and forget to count your blessings. So between the best mashed potatoes you’ve ever had (“Please, stop thanking me, I know they’re good but I hardly did anything, really!”) and the questionable side dish (“Jamie, this pheasant side dish is… different!”), I always pause to think about two things: how truly fortunate I am, and how truly excited I am for leftovers.
HAPPY THANKSGIVING!
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