Sunday, November 29, 2009
Monday, November 23, 2009
Just sayin'. Or honkin'. Or cursin'.
Friday, November 20, 2009
As a young, naive second grader myself, I was mesmerized by Squanto's life. In his biography we learned about how Squanto feasted on corn meal to survive the cold winters. To teach us more about what this kind of existence meant, my teacher Mrs. Brown decided to bring cornmeal for us to munch on as we read one morning.
Naturally my fellow students spit and spat and ranted and raved at being forced to taste such a chalky and unfulfilling substance. Of course, being the ultimate people pleaser/brown-noser/teacher's pet, I was delighted to demonstrate my ability to fake fondness over anything. As such, I devoured my own serving of cornmeal as well as helped myself to the many leftovers around me. Before we had finished chapter six, yours truly had consumed no less than a pound of the dried corn granules.
Needless to say, my stomach struggled to process the equivalent of a bushel and a peck (with no hug around the neck) of cornbread muffins. Not a Thanksgiving goes by now that I don't thank Squanto for his mighty contribution to American civilization and my own digestive fortitude.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
You see, readers, I have an absurdly large noggin. The poor thing is ginorm. Unfortunately, Frost 'N Tip employs the use of a cap through which to pull your locks. The chapeau is "one size fits all," in name, but not in reality. Each highlighting session becomes a battle between myself and the cap. If it isn't popping off, it's ripping or stretching, and all around not fitting. In fact, as it so happens, one times while struggling to secure the cap in place, I tied it tightly under my chin to insure a proper fit. After pulling the hair through the necessary holes, Little applied the peroxide mix. Suddenly I started feeling a smidge woozy and promptly passed out.
What we'll do for the price of beauty! Perhaps Queen Bee has the answer. I may just need to shift from my blackout-inducing 'do dye to something a bit more 7th grade and questionable.
Monday, November 16, 2009
One of my favorite gifts I have ever bestowed upon a loved one, though, happened to be received by my sweet crustacean pal, Lobster. Generally our gifts are seafood-themed, but in my heart, I knew one gift that would complete her life. A Tamagotchi. Do you ladies remember these fun toys? If not, I will refresh your memory. According to experts:
"Tamagotchi is a tiny pet from cyberspace who needs your love to survive and grow. If you take good care of your Tamagotchi pet, it will slowly grow bigger, healthier, and more beautiful every day. Bit if you neglect your little cyber creature, your Tamagotchi may grow up to be mean or ugly. How old will your Tamagotchi be when it returns to its home planet? What kind of virtual caretaker will you be?"
Not convinced about them? Tamagotchi are straight up, amazing. They fit on your keychain and alert you to all of their needs... when they need to eat, defecate, play and cuddle. I was thrilled to present this slice of Japanese heaven to my Lobsterita for her 21st birthday. Needless to say, her exuberance was as full of zeal as mine.
But only for a short while. As it happens, Tamagotchi are needy and high maintenance. While my darling Lobs napped, Tamagotchi chirped. It needed food. It needed love. It needed play time. And while she is many things, Lobster is not patient when it's naptime. Unequipped with a silence button, the 'gotchi was incessant. In sheer frustration, the Pinching One threw it against a nearby wall in one last attempt to find slumber. She was successful as the Tamagotchi died a slow, miserable, digital death.
So perhaps my gift was unsuccessful, but it's the thought that counts, correct?
Thursday, November 12, 2009
However, nothing on this earth beats running into one of those exercise buds at the grocery store on a normal day, because no matter what you have on, they will fawn and gush over how pretty you look. Because you see, when people see me working out, they see me at my ultimate lowest level of attractiveness, and anything else is an improvement.
I discovered this phenomenon to be the case waaay back in high school. Unlike many of the other girls who spent the week before prom primping and getting beautified, I slummed it. Understand, that I never, ever, ever dressed down for school (I was that kid who dressed up on exam days). I wore a ponytail every single day leading up to the event, jeans, nastiness... then on the day of the actual prom, my pretty-quotient was upped extraordinarily thanks to what my peers had to compare it to for the week leading up to the big day.
A lot of trouble to go to? Maybe, but strategy is half the battle, my friends, and that part I have nailed down tight.
Don't forget to submit questions for my sister to answer! Questions like, "Is your sister the most amazing person on the planet?" or "How in the world do you live with someone so perfect?" are perfectably acceptable.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
What do you do at work that you know you shouldn't?
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Growing up, Sis, Brother and I were avid fans of all things NERF. We had rifles, darts, cannons, and my personal favorite, the crossbow. We routinely engaged each other in all out NERF wars and American Gladiator-style blitzes.
It wasn't long until I became a master archer of all arrows foam and yellow. As such, I decided that I should try and hone this enviable craft into a life skill. My opportunity came my final semester of college. I still needed one more PE credit, and my eyes lit up when I discovered that I could take archery. I had lofty dreams of Robin Hood-sized proportions. I believed wholeheartedly that my divine talent on the NERF bow would easily propel me to prodigy status.
Unfortunately, my dreams of grandeur were crushed before they fully had a chance to blossom. To call me a bad archer would be an understatement. Abysmal would be more accurate. I could not shoot a straight arrow to save my life. Over the target, under the target, short of the target... anywhere but where it should have flown. My "professor" encouraged me to switch from being letter graded to pass/fail. I had to eat a whopping amount of pride (and broken dreams), but I made the change.
Despite my best efforts I never really improved. For our final class, we had a mock deer hunt. An avid bow hunter himself, our instructor brought in homemade deer sausage and jerky and each time we hit one of the deer targets we got to go eat some of it (surprisingly good, Bambi). Of course, as expected, I got nowhere close. Taking pity on me, he changed the rules to be whenever you took a shot you could come eat.
I have accepted the fact that I may never be a true bow hunter, but that doesn't mean the NERF crossbow has been put to rest. So if ever you're in my neighborhood, beware of the high-flying yellow arrows.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Without further ado, please enjoy my sister's spin on step-grandparents.
After waking up from a dream Monday night in which I was Cinderella (I was a Disney princess, naturally), I was reminded of the "special" dynamic in our family that has been created due to the addition of step-grandparents. Although, we are extremely blessed that Little Mama and Daddy have been happily married for 28 years, our grandparents divorced when I was 2. Several years later, Grandmother found a new husband for my precious Daddy to call his old man (just kidding about this part), we'll refer to him as Mr. Dyke (yes, I'm serious) and Papaw found a new squeeze as well, June (affectionately known in our household as June Bug).
After Grandmother formally became a Dyke (a favorite joke between me and Big Sis)... without sending us a wedding invitation, I'll have you know (can you say shotgun wedding?), the first tricky step-grandparent hurdle we tried to get over was how to address our new step-grandfather, seeing as no one felt comfortable calling him Papa, Papaw, Pops, etc. Although Grandmother insisted we call him by his first name, my dear, sweet Big Sis began to call him Mr. Dyke. As for June Bug, it was never really decided what to call her to her face. Since she entered the family, we don't really address her by name at all. In fact, my favorite little June Bug has never even visited our house with Papaw. While this is probably due to the fact that she doesn't want to lug her oxygen tank (cough, cough.. emphysema) over the mountains from Tennessee, it is by no means a reflection of how much she wants to "get to know" us. In fact, while Big Sis and I were in Knoxville for the UT/UGA game staying with Juniper and "her man"--yes, she referred to my Papaw as "her man"-- she made it very clear to us that she wanted to get closer with "the girls" and that we were welcome to stay any time. Yes, that is very nice of you, thanks. But no, I am not going to come visit Papaw and paint nails and have pillow talk with you, step-grandmother.
In contrast, step-grandfather Mr. Dyke has more than made it known that he will always like the Dyke children and grandchildren better than my precious family. In fact, when it came time for my wonderful Sis to graduate from college, Grandmother and Mr. Step-Grandfather made the trip to come. What an inconvenience it must have been for Mr. Dyke, because at the post-graduation lunch, he told my Sis that he had been to several graduations already and was frankly too tired from them to want to be there. I'm sorry, what?! It is perfectly feasible that this could've been one of his many...attempted jokes. However, it seems to me that trying to balance a "blended family" beginning in your 70's is just too tough a task for those too faint of heart.
Frankly, I'm still anxiously awaiting the day when I can meet my new step-aunts, uncles, and cousins, and I know Daddy can't wait to play ball on the holidays with his new step-siblings...
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
I spent a significant amount of time in Madame P's office yesterday afternoon deciding what my career path might look like, and coming to the realization that perhaps my future isn't with my current company. We discussed the fact that I'm not feeling passionate about or connected to what I do anymore (and as such have completely detached myself), and that I'm feeling a yearning for a more purposeful career. I know how I would like for that to manifest itself, and so does Madame P; however, I'm being humbled and broken once again as the Lord reminds me that His timing is sovereign and by trying to create plans on my own and force opportunities, I am essentially telling God that I don't trust Him. Jeremiah 29:11 is my life verse for a reason, my friends. I am so blessed beyond anything I deserve.
In another PD&PB news, not everything is heavy and sullen in my life. In fact, I spent a lovely lunch hour sweating alongside a very large woman who insisted on working out in a t-shirt, her underwear and a shower cap (we were on cardio machines in the women's locker room, so I guess she had some justification... maybe?!). She was very intimidating, and I would have gotten a picture had I not been afraid that she would break me if she saw.